Kind of weird, but today’s the first day I’m really alone since I was in my car driving here. I drove M. to the airport for Linuxworld Canada, where he is a featured speaker!

Since I’m all about self-sufficiency, it’s kind of a strange and foreign thing to be contemplating that tonight I’ll be eating dinner alone and, of course, sleeping alone. My god, I’ve eased right into middle-class domesticity.

Although, what with not worrying about what M. wants to do tonight, I believe I will be heading into the big city of SF for an open mike that is show up, sign up and get on stage. I haven’t performed anything since my last show in Boston (other than my frightfully natural performance as a hausfrau waiting for the man to return daily from his toils).

Generally, I love the impulse buy. Any new junk food or interestingly packaged tasty treat, and I’m on it.

I veritably whined for a day when M. stopped me from buying a package of ice cream novelty treats at Costco. I wanted it, because it contained 48 separate treats of four different varieties. M. didn’t want it, because it contained 48 separate treats of four different varieties. Sometimes he’s frustratingly reasonable.

So, anyway, today I was all by myself at Safeway, with my own money, my own debit card, my own membership in the “Safeway Club” o’ savings. Nothing and no one could have stopped me from buying whatever grocery my heart fancied. (Well, the weight or size could have stopped me given I was on my spiffy, cool new bike.)

However, I did not buy the Grapple. I wanted to, out of curiousity. But, I wasn’t four bucks worth of curious.

Seriously, though, what the fuck are the people at Get Fit Foods thinking?

There PR bullshit actually says:
“With childhood obesity increasing at alarming rates, Grāppleâ„¢ brand apples could go a long way to improving the eating habits of children and introducing them to more produce.”

Because, yeah, most leading nutritionists would say, the best fucking way to fight poor diet and eating habits is to increase the chemical additives in normally tasty food and make it seem more like candy.

It kind of reminds me of when I was a kid and there was something called “I hate peas” on the market. Or some name like that. Basically, it was a frozen french fry with pea puree blended in there that you baked in your oven. The theory being kids would get MORE nutrition and variety than if they just ate regular fries.

I comprehend that logic. Disguise some kind of good food with a slightly not good food.

If you have a fat kid, though, “bathing” an apple in a chemical solution of “grape flavor” is a great lesson in balance. (Of course, the website doesn’t actually mention “chemicals,” but food design ain’t farming.)

Here’s a quick idea, I’m just blue-skying off the top of my head here, so it may seem fucking nuts, but, you know, bear with me, here’s my idea. Say your kid, whose weight is up there (and you, the no doubt slim, health-conscious adult in the kid’s life, can’t figure out why), say that kid enjoys the crunchy, juicy texture of apples but hankers for the sweet sugar of a tasty grape. Why don’t you make a fucking fruit salad?

Cheaper than the 4 Grapples for >$4 and less shitty all around.

I forgot to mention in regard to the job that called me — I swear to fucking god that the chick on the phone said I would be interviewing with Ilsa Lund. I almost laughed and asked whether she was still in touch with Rick, but I stopped myself and acted professional.

Unrelatedly, never dig right into the sweetness of a fresh mango without checking first if you own any dental floss. Damn fiber.

With one phone call, I may have just lost my rights to whine and play “Woe is me.”

At the end of the past week, I was bemoaning how no one seemed to be contacting me back from the passel of Craig’s List job postings I answered. I figured since I was mostly responding to only ads for which I was actually qualified and I have in truth spent the last decade or two grinding away getting those qualifications, someone should nibble on my inquiries. Sweat was starting to bead over the silence and underwhelming interest.

However, today, the old streak might be ending and a new one, swollen with employment possibilities may have begun.

At moments of weakness and fear, I have contemplated the wisdom of chucking away completely a 15-year career. Sure it sucked and all, and some of the key players made me feel shittier about myself than years of dickhead boyfriends, but, you know, it was like a job that I could, like, do.

The people who have gotten back to me could be the ultimate antidote to waffling between doing a bit of what I used to and turning my back completely — Consulting at a good pay for part-time hours. Maybe a little bit of grants work wouldn’t kill me.

If everything I’ve learned in the ivy halls could buy me enough time to, I dunno write and shit, maybe it could work. At least until the interview, a chick can dream.

First off, I just got this link from my aunt. Let’s all taunt Tom DeLay, shall we?

Secondly, fun weekend of celebrating M.’s company getting VC funding and his getting estra paycheck funding in turn. During the weekend, I kept thinking to myself, “If I were in Cambridge, I wouldn’t be able to do all of this stuff in one weekend.”

For example, go to a street festival, hear some bands, see some trees and parks and end up on Sunday walking along the ocean and watching people out on the boardwalk. I was basically thinking, how neat that all of these things, a major city, an ocean, parks and scenery were all in basically short driving distances and could be done in one weekend.

I was completely in awe.

Then, I fucking remembered that Massachusetts is smaller, and it’s actually physically closer to do all those things in one day. Hell, as a kid I once did a charity walk that started just south of Boston in Neponset and ended up at the old Paragon Park amusement park at Nantasket Beach.

I guess the novelty is still so overwhelming that I kind of forget reality.

Although, wading in the ocean a bit to feel the salt water on the same weekend as the Boston Marathon created a little cognitive dissonance. I think the only time I might ever have gotten my feet wet at a beach in April was if we ditched high school, started drinking and created retarded dares or drunken acts of bravado.

And, I got to pick up a tiny shell of a sand dollar on the beach at Santa Cruz. M. was singularly unimpressed by my joy at discovering a shell I heretofore could only have found at a beach store.

I guess that would be the down side of living with a guy who grew up in the tropics. He probably could have gotten the coolest shells imaginably and remained unfazed. Darn those natives of paradise and their shell abundance.

So far every weekend I’ve been looking for festivals in the local events listing. I loves me a good collection of booths, trinkets, exhibits and street food.

Last weekends was perhaps the lamest, but it was high in kitsch value. The Vacaville, CA Middle Earth Festival. I was very disappointed that there were not hobbit-costumed midgets everywhere.

My theory on the event is that in some chamber of commerce meeting they were brainstorming on ways to get folks to shop at the many fine stores in Vacaville, which is essentially in Nowhere’s-ville between SF and Sacramento. Being out in a bumfuck area, getting some commerce probably ain’t no small feat. So, the Tolkien dork in town and member of the chamber pipes up with “Let’s all get in costumes and have a festival. All of my LARP buddies are looking for something to do on weekends.”

And, thus a small suburban town of folks walking around in costumes is born.

Today might be the more mainstream Cherry Blossom Fest in SF’s Japantown.

If you ever move some place, getting a bike is key. Not just to make one feel less geriatric and pasty white Northerner, but because it’s the correct speed to simultaneously cover some ground and take a look around.

With a bike, it was easier to see that just block away or so from my front door was a clear view of the Santa Cruz mountains. (I think it’s them anyway. With my sense of direction it could be the fucking Pyrenees and I wouldn’t know.)

And I could take a closer look at the one of the two ice cream men I hear wandering the ‘hood every single fucking day. I’ve actually spotted at least three separate ice cream operations on my street, including your basic ice cream truck, and two street vendors wheeling little refrigerated carts. (It’s hella quaint like I ain’t never seen Back East to see a grown man pushing around a multi-colored, throwback to the ’30s wooden cart every damn day.)

I think the thick concentration of frozen confection vending is due to the proximity of a local park down the street. But what do I know, maybe everywhere here there’s platoons of ice cream men. (You know, instead of the Spanish fantasy of the Golden West with gold in the streets, it could be the shangri-la of creamy treats on every block. It’s all different from Boston here, afterall.)

The two I hear every day cause me to alert like a dog but not in a Pavlovian ice cream lust way. Nope. It’s because one of them has a tinkling little bell (I can hear right now) that sounds exactly like I remember from the reading of the Gospels 10-second warning in a Catholic mass. (For you heathens, they ring bells to signify the importance of the Holy Word, or some such bullshit.)

The other guy, his cart plays the little tune from some kids song that goes like:
Does your hair hang low?
Does it waggle to and fro?
Can you tie it in a knot? BLAH BLAH

You know the one? Every single time that ice cream guy comes by I free associate on Dennis Hopper, morphing him in my head through different psychos, starting with the hippie in “Easy Rider,” who played around to that tune, through to the nitrous oxide mask in “Blue Velvet.” Scary ice cream.

Besides, with a bike I zipped right in and out of the jammed up Post Office parking lot full of folks like me, dragging their heels in handing over some cabbage to the government. But, fuck it, the tons o’ dough I owed the U.S. of A. is en route, and I hope I can just make some more.

I’m pushing hard to remain upbeat about the likelihood of my getting some sort of gainful employment. Today was a mixed day of rejection and hope. I heard from one part-time office manager job I didn’t get. The woman was tres cool about the whole thing as far as letting me down easy goes. Apparently, I was a rocking, hardcore, right up in there, contending #2.

Either this #2 status was completely genuine, and I only did just miss out because of a lack of industry X experience (which I’m choosing to believe). Or, the chick hiring was the best pep-talking liar in the world. Either way, you just got to keep going.

(I’m a tinge regretful, because she seemed just the right kind of low key for me to put behind the last fireball of stress such was my last gig. A key moment that sticks out in our interview because of it’s striking contrast to the “best and the brightest” bullshit I survived in the hallowed ivy halls was one remark.

She said, in regard to my letting her know I was looking for something not overly mentally taxing, because I had my own writing junk to energize, “Yeah, I know what you mean. I drove a bus through graduate school.” And we talked about balance and not burning out with total submersion or spending 70 hour weeks.

I only wish the assholes I’ve worked with in the past could have heard that, you know what, there are people with advanced degrees and intellectual acumen who don’t buy into the ball-busting, shark-swimming bullshit.)

Speaking of past work, a recruiter has been casting my resume on the waters. And, he says, there have been murmurs of “impressive.” Right now, he’s working on something at a company run by an alumni of the very place from which I fled west.

Small fucking world.

Any minute now, I’m also looking to crank up the old comedy calendar again. Yup, I’ve finally gotten off my ass and lined up some performance dates. California, here I fucking am.

All I gotta say today, after working on both mine and M.’s, taxes pretty much fucking suck.

I understand them and their purpose and all, but paying cash to big brother always feels in the emotional realm of overall blowing chunks.

Besides regretting the self-inflicted pain by pretending I’m in shape enough to just ride endlessly, I might regret the little kid-like need to buy a bike anyway.

Tonight, when I’m working on my taxes and remembering I don’t (YET) have a job, a little mature buyer’s remorse might happen.

But, screw it. Sunshine and play, that’s why I moved west.

I am akin to marshmallow, but I’ve moved to an area in which I feel I ought to be physically fit enough to enjoy the outdoors. (Per Wikipedia, and some hype real estate sites, “…San Jose experiences over 300 days a year of full or significant sunshine.” That’s about a hundred more than this site claims for Boston.)

So, delusionally, since I keep forgetting I’m over 40 and have never been athletic, I did go buy a new bike. (Instead of just fantasizing about a Schwinn OC Chopper.)

I didn’t buy something ridiculous and cool looking. I bought something practical and cool looking. It looks something like this:

Fucking sweet!

Got home (after test riding it in an interview suit), yanked it out of my car and realized I’d forgotten part of the lock I bought. Naturally, I figured I’d pedal right back and get it.

Damn, that was a long, long, long three miles up and three miles back.

I blame the wind whipping down the street not my squishy, weak self.