Back in Brooklyn

It’s good to be back. Although it’s strange to say “back,” because it feels like I never left. I’m in my old place. But it feels like my current place, only some strange girl’s stuff is in my room. And I have to keep reminding myself that I actually have another apartment in San Francisco.

I really love it here. And I love it in San Fran too. Ah, to be bicoastal.

Here is my visual representation of what I would like my life to be:

Diary Thursdays are back

Yesterday I retrieved my big Tub o’ Journals from my mom’s basement.



It was not easy to find as I’d disguised it inside of boxes inside of boxes for fear that someone would find it and read all my most private musings. Because I’m sure that’s exactly what my mom wants to find out now – how I was feeling in 9th grade. There are, including all my mini-travel journals, exactly 29 books in this tub. Let the cringe fest begin. Here is today’s selection:

February 14th, 1991, 13 (almost 14) years old After dad dropped off at mom’s house his afternoon, I walked the dogs up to Codornices Park to see if my friends were still hanging out there. They were, including Peter. Now, let me explain Peter. He’s kind of a hippy and sometimes weird, but very friendly. He can act like a little kid, but he’s usually very sophisticated (he’s 15). He is usually very funny, but can be serious, especially when talking about war or violence (he is a very strong pacifist). He’s very sweet and nice and I like him a whole lot. The problem is that he’s really popular, which is intimidating me ‘cause he’s like way out of my league. I never get a chance to talk really talk to him alone ‘cause he’s always surrounded by people. But today I talked to him for 2 minutes with no one around. We didn’t say anything interesting, but that’s the first time he’s shown any interest in me what so ever. Actually, he wrote me a note a few days ago. He took out a piece of paper at school and said “Okay, anyone who wants me to write them a note, sign here.” So I did, along with 15 other people. So he wrote me a 6 sentence note. It was a nice note though, so I wrote him a 1 ½ page note. I was supposed to give it to him today but I got scared. I really don’t know what of. Something like, “Maybe he really hates me and my note is too long.” I like to pretend he like-likes me, but really there’s no possible way he could. I don’t know why I just wrote two pages about Peter, it’s not like I’m totally sprung off him, I’m just in that sort of mood. Maybe ‘cause it’s Valentines Day.

Or maybe ‘cause he showed interest in my for a whole two minutes.

"I just want to dance at your wedding"

I wonder how many girls are lucky enough to be asked by their grandma at Christmas dinner when they are going to join the J-Date already. I think I may be the only one. Lucky me.

I guess Grandma didn't read my old post about Jew2539.

Why doesn't everyone ride one?

On my commute home yesterday, there was a huge back up on Market Street. All the buses and streetcars throughout the Financial District were stopped for some reason, which meant all the cars were stuck. And the mobs of Muni commuters were quickly multiplying on the sidewalks.

Do you know what problems this causes for bicyclists like me?

Absolutely none. Never have I felt happier on my two-wheeled freedom-mobile. San Francisco’s other bicyclists and I sped past the lines of angry cars and pedestrians, laughing to each other (with no glass or steel to block our conversation) about how glad we were to be on bikes. With all the cars stuck blocks behind us, we had every lane to ourselves.

I took my favorite detour down Grove Street, past City Hall with its Christmas tree, in and out of the lit trees in the square, past the symphony and the Opera House, past the ballet with its colorful nutcrackers, while I thought about I lucky I am to be on a bike in San Francisco.

Dressed for radio

Today I directed a radio spot. All by myself. For the very first time.

It was fun, and I think it went well. But I just can’t shake that feeling that they will soon find out that I’m totally faking it? All of it. That I really have no idea what I’m doing.

Does that feeling ever go away? I kind of think not.

Perhaps I would’ve felt more confident if I didn’t decide that morning to wear a shirt with a pea-sized hole in the left nipple.* A hole that I put there myself the other night when I was showing Molly my fun trick of using Mighty Magnets to create a fake silver nipple that dances.

And they trust me to direct a radio spot.

*I know, I know. You're all sick of reading about holes in my clothes. This is the last post I promise, until I buy some new clothes.

Crotchless

I’ve finally deduced the reason for the hole in the crotch of EVERY pair of jeans I wear (all two of them). No, it’s not dirty. It’s from riding my bike to work every day. I guess Joe’s Jeans didn’t take that into account when they created their designer jeans.

I guess they figured that the rich asses clad in their fancy pants would be placed gently on the leather seats of their owners' BMWs and Lexuses (Lexi?).

Well fuck you, Joe! Some of us actually care about getting exercise. Some of us want to protect the environment. Some of us wear your jeans and don’t even own a car. And those some of us are being punished by having to show our underwear to the world.

Does anyone know how to sew on a patch? I was thinking of using patches that look like pubic hair, wouldn't that be funny?

Messy

My favorite thing about working in San Francisco, and working as a freelance copywriter specifically, is that I don’t have to get dressed up for work. Specifically, I can wear a fleece. In New York, people don’t even wear fleeces to the store. It’s just not done, as far as I could see. People are too stylish.

Here, people kinda just don’t give a shit. But I think that sometimes I take that a bit too far. Last week I took off my sweater in the office to realize that I was wearing a T-shirt covered in mysterious stains. Combine that with gaping hole in the crotch of my jeans, the black hoody I’ve been wearing for three weeks and my unwashed hair. And I marvel at how I actually walked out of the house like that.

It's a good thing I have roommates or else I probably wouldn't even put on any pants.

Thank you for being a friend

Imagine that someone took all of your most favoritest things, combined them in a fabulous two-hour show, and invited you to sit down and watch with a glass of wine and some friends.

That’s what happened to me last night.

I got to witness a live drag performance of the Golden Girls Christmas episode staged in a beautiful Victorian in Hayes Valley.

The Golden Girls. Drag queens. Christmas. And throw in a gorgeous Victorian. It all seemed to good to be true.

My expectations were extremely high. And I can say with confidence that these four ladies, especially Blanche, surpassed them. I was SO impressed. They performed not one, but two episodes, word for word. And the costumes were amazing.

After the show, Molly and I approached Blanche, awestruck, and asked to take a photo with her. I mean seriously, how awesome is she? Check out the fucking sweater!



I know, you’re so jealous right now.

Private vs. Public

I've been trapped in the office all week. And do you know what happens when I get trapped in the office? I start having long pointless G-chats, like this one:

Jolanka: Didn’t they go to private school or something?

Me: I went to private school through 6th grade.

Jolanka: Ew.

Me: Whatever, don’t be jealous cause I learned my multiplication tables better

Jolanka: Oh, I KNOW I can kick your ass at multiplication!

Me: Try me. I've been tutoring 4th graders all month

Jolanka: 6x12
Slow.
You lose.
Try me.

Me: 72
I did that in my head

Jolanka: Yeah, not impressive, slower than if you were using a calculater.
Try me.

Me: 8x13

Jolanka: NO, under 12 loser.

Me: 9x7

Jolanka: 63

Me: This is retarded. I have work to do.

Jolanka: Ha.
You lose!

Me: I gave you an easier equation, dumb ass.

Copy that “cells”

Last night was another fun return to 7th grade – cells, exponents and 13-year-olds.

As I’m sure you can imagine, in my career as an advertising copywriter, I deal with things like chloroplasts and mitochondrion on a fairly regular basis. So obviously I’m the perfect person to be answering questions like: “What’s the different between smooth endoplasmic reticulum and rough endoplasmic reticulum?”

“Endowhatty reticuhuh?” I don’t think the kids were impressed by my blank stare. This was after I had already called up my sister the math major twice to ask what zero exponents were and what’s the scientific notation 53,000,000 (X0 = 1, and 5.3x109).

But I was able to teach the kids something last night. Something much more useful than knowledge about exponents and cell membranes. Something called Google.

Miracle of lights

Last night I sat in my house feeling like a bad Jew. It was the seventh night of Hanukkah and though I’d spent the weekend buying a Christmas tree with my roommates…



Carrying it home…


And decorating it with the to go menus that people leave on our porch (Yeah, reduce reuse, recycle)…



I had yet to celebrate one night of Hanukkah. It wasn’t my fault; I didn’t have a menorah. I was filled with Hanukkah Guilt instead of Hanukkah Gelt. It’s not like I’m totally denying my roots, I am half Christmas. But the Hanukkah side was definitely feeling neglected.

So I hopped on my bike and rode down to Cliff’s Variety Store. Side note about Cliff’s – it’s the best store ever. They have everything. EVERYTHING. From key rings to pizza stones to crown moulding hangers. I knew they would have a lovely selection of menorahs.

I was right.



Happy 8th night of Hanukkah everybody.

O D O D O

I have a new obsession: crossword puzzles. My friend got me started on ‘em a couple weeks ago, and since then I’ve been able to do nothing but. There’s one problem, I’m not very good at them. I went and bought a book of the New York Times EASY crossword puzzles. And they’re still quite challenging, but that’s good, right?

I think my trouble with the puzzles really stems from two deeper issues 1, the fact that I’m seriously the world’s worst speller, so even if I can guess the answer from the clues, I can’t get the letters right. And 2. My D’s look like O’s. So that continually throws me off. Yeah, I’m 30 and I still can’t write my letters.

Last night, Molly gave me a little lesson on how to draw a D. “No Audrey, the curve starts up here.” Sad as that seems, it was actually very helpful. Plus, Molly has perfect curly girl handwriting. Whereas mine looks like a monkey wrote it. While drunk. And on a wooden roller coaster.

The lesson brought me back to when I was first learning to write. It had been on my mind anyway, because some of the kids I tutor are working on their letters, and I can see them making many of the mistakes I recall making – writing letters backwards, adding extra legs to R’s and arms to T’s.

My favorite letter to write when I was little was the E. This was because it was my understanding at the time that the number of arms on an E was optional. One was limited only by mood and how many lines could fit. That’s why my E’s often looked like this:

Or, when I was feeling particularly festive, like this:

Remember that, Mom? My relatives must have loved getting my “Merry Christmas” cards. (Luckily, for my Dad’s side, Happy Hanukkah has no E’s).

Ahhh, kids are dumb.

Finally deep enough for Yoga

It looks like I’ve matured. Or perhaps I just found a teacher and style I like. Or maybe it’s just that the yoga studio is around the corner and I have no job. Whatever it is, I’m finally doing yoga regularly, something I’ve been wanting to do for a while, but could never get into it. Actually, I hated yoga and found it terribly boring.

But that was the old Audrey. The Audrey that would rather do 30 pushups than downward dog (incidentally, neither of these are things I can really do). The new Audrey wakes up in the morning, puts on her Lululemon pants and heads over Yoga Tree two or three times a week to see her favorite teacher.

This teacher doesn’t care that I’m about as flexible as a wooden stool. She doesn’t care that I can barely reach the floor when my legs are straight. She thinks it’s fabulous that I simply made it to her class.

Yesterday, as I floundered to reach my left toes, I told her that my left hamstring is always tighter than my right. She said, “That is so great that you know that about your body.”

And then to the class, “Did you hear that class? Audrey just told me that her left hamstring is tighter than her right – it’s so important to be aware of our bodies like that.”

Okay, so maybe it’s special ed yoga. But maybe that’s just what I needed.

Dog extravaganza

If you know me, then you know that I love dogs. Absolutely adore them. Can’t get enough of them. But, my lifestyle and living situation are such that I can’t actually own a dog, so I’m forced to borrow other people’s.

Last week was a dog extravaganza – I borrowed three other people’s dogs and took them to beautiful spots around San Francisco. Want me to borrow your dog? I promise we’ll have fun.

Auds and Elf



Auds and Monkey



Auds and Cash



And one glamour shot. My dad often takes his subjects to be photographed at the Legion of Honor, so I decided to try the same. I call this one “Legion of Cash.” Or “Cash of Honor.” Not sure which.

Japan photos

Sunset in Kyoto
Originally uploaded by audballz

It took me over two months, but I finally got my Japan photos uploaded. Have a look through them if you're bored and have like, 12 hours to kill.

Mariposa Avenue

The street where I grew up.

The street where I used to ride my big wheels.

The street where I would go trick-or-treating.

The street I used to bury secret treasures under.

The prettiest street in the world.