What is it about shopping...

... that makes getting your heart broken - whether it's just a little, like the brief but slightly painful heart-squeeze you feel when you wake up and realize that "He's just not that into you." - or a lot, like the physically painful sensation that devours your heart during a messy, soul crushing divorce - easier to bear somehow?

I think it's the personal attention you get from the salespeople. I mean, yeah - of course I know full well that it's their job to fawn and fuss over me when I'm in the dressing room, but when you're low and feeling unwanted, you'll eat every little bit of that right up and beg for more. More sizes, more colors, more accessories - anything to keep it going until your self esteem's band-aid is replaced with a fresh one.

And if they're commission, the ego stroking, confidence boosting Salesperson Standards like "Of course your butt doesn't look big in those jeans!! Honey, if I were a straight man, I'd do you right here on the floor, your butt looks so hot! Like, JLo-Booty Hot! You should buy a pair in every color!" can restore enough of your confidence to actually wear them out in public... just a test run to see if he's right.

So, what do you do when you get your heart nicked?

Hit the Nordie's Half-Yearly Shoe Sale, of course! I'm off to the mall...

Scripps to Purchase Internet Search Engine Shopzilla for $525 Million

Fuck.

It figures.

That's fine. I don't want to retire right now anyway.

I *could* have, however, have gotten over my deep seated hatred of LA rather nicely with a couple mill in the works.

*sigh*. I always miss the good stuff.

My LA Wingmen! 

My job kicks ASS!

Wow. When's the last time you hear anything *close* to that coming outta my mouth?

Can't remember the last time I had such a blast at my job -- while actually doing my job... cool people, amazing opportunities (like, just about anywhere in the States for sure -- and when the dogs get their international canine passports, the world is my oyster) and the best desk in the building.

Once again, Life Is Good (despite the sexy boy occasionally making me slightly batty, but I digress).

Finally I'm learning to want what I have and actually appreciate it when I've got it. It's only taken, like, a gazillion tears, (at least!) four bouts with a completely broken heart, thousands of angry shouting matches with countless innocent bystanders and innumerable painful lessons.

Like Lisa Simpson who keeps yelling "Ouch! Quit it!" over and over again when Bart keeps hitting her.

I hope this epiphany doesn't simply mean I'm getting old. Cuz I'd be oh so happy (and completely willing!!) to trade in some of that hard-earned wisdom for as many "Good Parking Karma" points, "Hail Mary's" & "Our Father's" it would take to shave up to 10 years off my age (or at least my driver's license.)

Oh! The things I'd completely fuck up again...

Bay Area home prices set new record

"The median price of single-family houses sold in the nine Bay Area counties rose to a record $622,000 in April, up nearly 20 percent from a year earlier."

I remember when the median price for a 900 sf shoebox with a postage stamp sized yard was "only" half a million dollars.

Can someone please explain to me how home prices keep going up while the number of people with jobs keeps going down? I mean, sure... I can totally understand how people who get laid off might want to get into real estate investments (I know I did when I got laid off... your natural reaction is to look for stability in an industry with growth potential... everyone's gotta live somewhere, right?) but I don't understand where they're getting the money to keep buying more and more expensive home if they're not working.

The logical conclusion being that the entire Bay Area is mortgaging their children's college education and eventually the bubble will burst and bottom falls out.

Random things I need in no particular order.

• Cheap monthly parking anywhere downtown SJ.
• An automated, efficient way to productionalize the whole data conversion workflow. In particular, the extraction & capture of metadata from images where there is none provided or if present, may be inconsistent or non-standard. Solving a challenge like this requires sophisticated technology applying layout and document analysis algorithms invented and developed by scary-smart people. People smart enough to know their technology should be - no, must be - able to learn from a programmed set of assumptions and organically increase it's own program intelligence learning through fine-tuning the logic and rule sets as the data it receives evolves and existing assumptions no longer compute. It must provide a standardized output that is compliant with emerging standards in order to provide any downstream value where it matters most: relevant, consistent and successful search results. Doing so makes users come back and advertisers see clear returns on their investment. Chicken feeds egg. Egg feeds chicken. Everyone goes home fat and happy.
• A new bed & dresser to replace the "significantly water damaged" I formerly loved to death until Public Storage had a roofing issue. Upside? PS insurance company buys me new stuff.
• A salon visit to trim, wax and paint various areas of my body.

Knowing full well that my needs are important to no one but me (which, surprisingly enough, can't be said for Bipolar Barbie… but I digress), I'll happily settle for a salon recommendation, where to find deals on bedroom furniture, cheap SJ parking and/or the names of any people who are so smart they scare you.

Thank God I'm a dog person...

Because Crazy Cat Lady Action Figures are every single woman's boogey man.

And *POOF*! Just like that it's gone...

Lust and infatuation are funny things. One minute the object of your desire is all you can think about for 3 days.

The next minute you're like "Who?".

Next.

Employment! Yessss!

Product Manager. Knight Ridder Digital. San Jose.

Go me! :)

YaGoohoo!gle. Brilliant!

How clever!

How simple!

How useful!

How long will it take the "Cease and Desist" letters to arrive in his mailbox?

Did you just blow your nose in my shower?!

Talked to Josh the other day. again for the first time in a couple of years... things just get so busy that it gets easier to not return a phone call or email because, well, I don't really have a good excuse. Hanging up, I started remembering things (both sweet and sad) about that time in my life.

I miss the memory of us sitting on the beach in San Diego mesmerized by the phosphorescent phenomena of the eerily beautiful, luminescent, softly glowing green tide. I miss the feeling of childlike wonder I felt... when I wasn't so cynical to not see that as inexplicable magic happening just for the two of us to see on that night as we sat so close to each other on the sand.

I miss his enthusiasm and passion for words -- the only man on the planet who could match my own obsession for using "Good Words!"... his eagerness to read to me at night before going to bed. The deepness of his voice & the sexy, confident way he read everything -- from Marquis de Sade to Roget's Thesaurus -- the rumbling timbre in his voice was both hypnotic and electrifying. I'm quite sure neither of us can take a shower without chuckling a little, remembering my admonishment to discontinue his habit of nose blowing in my shower.

My two favorite memories of that time with him and Mr. T (the pictures burned into my brain, almost like a picturebook):

• He & Travis surprising me with breakfast in bed one morning... consisting of 1 frozen waffle with syrup, canned peaches and a daisy picked from god-knows-which neighbor's patio garden.
• Travis jumping up and down on my bed singing the Darth Vader theme from Star Wars, giggling madly when I threatened to tickle him into oblivion.

I'm ecstatic that he and Travis are finally able to live together in NY and excited for Travis' future as a soccer superstar :) Talking to him refreshed my gratitude for his continued love and friendship. No matter how many months or years go by without talking to each other, 10 minutes on the phone and it's like we just spoke yesterday.

My neighbor is cheating on me.

The dogs and I have this normal routine - a walk in the morning and another in the evening that always takes us past the sweet, quiet, gray haired neighbor who seems to be perpetually raking leaves or watering his yard. The same sweet, predictable schedule. He would bestow upon me (and sometimes the dogs) the same slightly shy little smile and wave whenever we walk by. We made a real breakthrough - really bonded - when he started giving me the little wave from afar when I would get home from work in the short walk from my car to my front door.

He *always* says hello when I walk by his yard - and only to me. In all the time I've lived next to him, I've never once heard him say hello or wave to anyone else on the street. Those were just me for me. I was special. Who could blame me for feeling slightly smug? Just a little bit superior to the rest of the neighbors because *I* was the chosen one - who got the quiet old man to smile and wave.

Imagine my shock when, on this evening's walk I catch him red handed! Cheating on me! He says hello *and* waves to a neighbor ACROSS the STREET! Can you imagine the betrayal I felt? Intimacy shattered and my heart broken with this seemingly innocent act of infidelity.

Those smiles and waves were just for me, dammit!! How could he do this to me? Doesn't he know how hard I worked to get those small signs of affection from him?

I don't think I'll recover.

Oi, I need to find a new job... this is what my life has been reduced to. A drama queen with no drama is worse than an aging drag queen with no lipstick.

Look at me! I'm "Beautiful" & Famous!

So, the other night I'm making out with this chipmunk in the bathroom and I say to myself "Hmmm... he looks more like a badger if you ask me, but who am I to judge? He's pretty hot for a small, furry animal."

Okay, he was really just another extra in a chipmunk costume and we were making out in front of 5 people, 2 cameras, 8 other extras, and a bunch of other people whose actual job function remains a mystery (I mean, what the fuck, exactly, do the "Grip" and "Best Boy" do? Nothing, I can report with confidence, that a "Best Girl" couldn't do better, but I digress... ) but that's the most action I've gotten in, um... a long time.

Why did I end up swapping spit and doing some heavy petting (sorry, couldn't resist.) with Mr. Chipmunk (Badger? Meer Cat? Does it matter?), you ask?

To be a rock star, yo!

Okay, um, not really. I just happened to have *nothing else to do* before moving my ass back to San Francisco, so by total fluke and on a whim, I got picked to be an extra in a Moby video.

I thought "How COOL! I LOVE Moby!!! We can discuss politics, great literature and the state of American Veganism and how ironic it is to be shooting a video consisting of nothing but animal mascots attending a 70's wife-swapping key party while we let our organic tea bags steep over breaks between scenes!" -- until we were informed that Moby will not be filming with us today. "Of course", I think, "Moby doesn't *do* his own videos".

Arriving at the location an hour later than my 4pm call time (Jesus H. Christ, people - the fucking Oscars were over days ago! Must we keep Hollywood Boulevard closed until the Grammys?!), three of us waited over an hour for the shuttle to deliver us from the parking lot of the Hollywood Bowl to the house we'd be making the video at -- an uber retro 70's love palace up in the hills. At least we had entertainment. The crack addict who was completely absorbed in his daily exercise routine kept walking in the same little head-first marching circles without pause made me ponder deep stuff. Wow, dude. Like, crack is bad... mmmmkay?

I joined the rest of the extras outside by the pool and awaited further instruction. Feigning indifference and trying to wipe the sneering distain for all things shallow and celebrity out of my head, I cleverly brought along my New Yorker magazine to make it known to all who glanced my way that I was completely above the whole LA thing. Isn't that just so clever? And utterly retarded? Why on earth I felt the need to impress a bunch of celebrity infatuated, 20-something, hipster-wanna-bees is beyond me, but I forced myself to become completely engrossed in my highbrow reading material while cooly smoking the -- "Shit!" -- Last. Cigarette. I. Had.

The only truly gifted performance that night was my own. My ability to appear calm despite my sudden terror and utter panic at the realization that I AM OUT OF CIGARETTES. AND WE ARE NOWHERE NEAR A 7-11!!! was nothing short of Oscar-worthy brilliance.

So, what did I learn about being a rock star? Oh! So many cool, useful things! Let me share with you now, so you can turn green with envy at my fabulousity. Don't hate me because I'm beautiful.

• It is important not to wear your costume head outside or eat while not completely covered in plastic sheeting unless you want to see the stylist's forehead veins in bas relief as you eat your extra greasy fried chicken. Do *not* attempt to give the stylists a heart attack as they are usually bad-humored with anyone but the "talent" they are fawning over.
• How to not pass out (or worse, die) while encased in a very furry, very stuffy, very HOT mascot costume while having a "dance party" for 5 takes in a row of non-stop booty shaking action
• Actors are called "talent", The Producer is apparently required to suck up to the director *at all times* while spoon feeding the "talent and extras" their acting requirements (aka "motivation") while the camera is rolling in the manner of a kindergarten teacher to her 4 year old ADHD students
• The "crew" (consisting of many people but can be described as mostly acne-prone, dreadlocked surfer dudes wearing headsets in desperate need of Ritalin and/or enthusiastically "ROLLING!" shouting, clipboard-clutching, hipster females just out of college or day jobs at Urban Outfitters) rank above extras (whom, it should be clear at this point, are pretty much pond scum in the biosphere of "the shoot", ranking slightly below peons.) who are fed as an afterthought once all of the aforementioned important people have picked over the food table.
• There are people employed by the entertainment industry whose job title and sole purpose is "Talent Wrangler". Which is a misnomer, since the "Talent" is far too important to be handled by anyone other than their cooing, ass-kissing PA's (Personal Armies of people paid to repeat ad nauseum "Oh my God! You look amaaaaayzing!" and "You were soooooo amaaaaayzing in that scene, darling!" or "Fuck the director, honey, he's a schmuck who doesn't recognize true talent..."). Anyway, the apparent sole function of this overpaid babysitter is to make sure all of the extras are corraled into a holding pen (usually somewhere cold, uncomfortable with folding metal chairs arranged so they sink into the muddiest, buggiest , farthest-from-civilization-or-running-water area that can be found) within a mile radius of the shoot location.

So, would I do it again?

Fuckin-A.

Overheard @ Starbucks...

"I'm cold!", she says, tottering on her 4 inch high stillettos before ducking into Starbucks.

Wow, you think? Regardless of how painfully clear the correlation between your IQ and the size of your 4 inch high stilletto fuck-me shoes may be, I must commend you, Cupcake, for you have mastered the skill of stating the obvious.

I mean, where I come from, wearing the equivalent of two loosely wrapped ace bandages at 9 o'clock at night in any city but Miami (in, like, July) will undoubtably produce goosebumps the size of small tumors.

Apparently she makes a living as "Um, like, a Meeteyourologist?" for a local news station. I find it difficult to believe she can talk and point at the same time.

Hello, my name is Misanthropic Agoraphobe.

Santa Monica. Home of the Homeless. And Freaks. And obnoxious mexican gangbangers, apparently, out for a shopping spree with the hootchie mommas. And crazy people who at first glance appear completely normal -- like college professors even -- before asking you for money. The last time some kid asked me for some spare change I said "I could ask you the same question!" and, I shit you not, he reaches into his pocket and offers up 27 cents. So much for being a smart-ass.

Despite my erroneous assumption that I would finally be able to relax around strangers or out in public by myself (don't ask... I got weird about being stared at for a while -- it got to the point where it was either me becoming a full-on agoraphobe or just walking around with a red-hot poker to stick in their eyeballs. Much to my current angst I chose the former since, well, DUH! LA is just bursting at it's urban sprawled seams with beautiful, perfect, lithe, young, perky blondes a billion times -- no, a quadruple-trillion times [I bet no matter how many zeros that makes, it still doesn't come close to the number of zeros needed to describe our national deficit] more beautiful than anyone would consider me, I still have days where I let it get to me (it's worse here - cuz everyone is staring at everyone else in order to see if they're famous).

Can you all just STOP FUCKING staring please? I'm NOT A FUCKING CELEBRITY. I don't want to talk about the weather, whether or not I've found a wi-fi signal @ Starbucks (duh! If you can't read the 8 million "T-Mobile Wi-Fi Available Here" stickers placed everywhere but up your ass, you've got no hope of navigating the web) or the price of gas in Los Angeles. Just let me go about my business and I won't have to use my red-hot poker.

If your mother never taught you about etiquette (Its IMPOLITE TO STARE), then learn how to be subtle about it so I don't have to seethe with anger as I walk by you. Can't you feel the homicidal "FUCK OFF" I'm mentally sending you in return?