I went into the big city of San Francisco all by myself. And I didn’t get lost or mugged or accosted or nothing.

Actually, I took the BART train in from San Bruno, so I kind of got a little teeny bit lost since I was aiming for South San Francisco. As I was taking the train in, I realized that I now live further out of the swinging metropolitan area than when I lived at Pat’s in Braintree.

M. really has made me a suburbanite. I might have to make him suffer for that crime.

Although, cruising down 280 or north on the 101 in a convertible sure as fucking hell makes the bitter, suburban pill a tad tastier. At least it’s not a Boston suburb with the prospect of a job north of where I live with a commute of slush and snow.

I’m feeling a bit better about the job thang. I went to a recruiter today, and I decided to be nothing but honest and straightforward on my hope for a slackerish gig. Once I was talking and realizing that in my old job I never, ever, ever worked a mere 40 hours a week (too often it was 60+), it sounded quite normal that I wouldn’t want that again.

He seemed pretty hip to the notion of a 40-hour gig (or less in my fantasy) in a comfortable environment without brain and body-cracking stress.

Man, when I think of my last job, I just bum out with the realization that the director was some kind of manipulator in a freakish, bad boyfriend, mental torture kind of way. Out here again in the real world, I remember kick ass writing skills and fucking aptitude for computers out my ass are saleable quantities. She wasn’t doing me a favor keeping me employed like she played.

Argh. I’m having an interview today with a recruitment company that called me right back after I responded to a Craig’s list ad.

I’m nervous, since I haven’t interviewed in a long while. And, I have not fucking idea what to wear.

I suppose there are worse problems to have, but I’m spending the next little while wallowing in my own.

In regard to my Brady Bunch problem, a story illustrative of my mother’s humor and cruelty:

As an adult, I was visiting Pat and was in a separate room from her, no doubt toiling at some task she had waiting for me. From the living room she excitedly called, “Denise, there’s a Brady Bunch reunion special or something on…”

I came into the room to join her, and as I crossed the threshold, ZAP, the television was turned off via her remote.

Gleefully, Pat informed me she had been waiting to do that for decades. She hated that show, hated that I needed to always watch it and had harbored a 20+ year, anti-Brady grudge unquenched until that moment.

She killed herself laughing at me, while refusing to turn the TV back on.

In regard to job searching:

A couple of things have come up and a couple of interviews will be happening this week. I face them with mixed fucking feelings. If only I had been born dripping with gold and silver rather than cotton and tinfoil.

In regard to job fields:

A logical place to get a job might be biotech, which would be hip to some of my administrative skills but have the cash on hand that non-profits do not. However, I inwardly clench every time I consider working with scientists again.

One story that keeps sticking in my mind is the day the Division Chief happily told me that my name had come up in a lunchtime conversation. Apparently the institute’s power elite were bemoaning their lack of interested, interesting administrative support and found themselves evaluating whether there were any “intellectuals” among the administrative staff.

I was lauded, it seems, and had gained a reputation for what exactly I don’t know. Perhaps my mad reading comprehension skills and all that book learning?

I think the story was meant to flatter me, not piss me the fuck off at the audacious arrogance of the scientists I “served.”

In regard to feminism in this post-modern age:

Somebody out there might ask does Dee-Rob do laundry for menfolk?

The answer is “yes.”

However, she spends the fluff and fold time rationalizing the importance of partnership in a mutually giving and caring relationship and tells herself she is participating in that development. She also tells herself that actual employment will likely hault the laundry train, while M. and she then add to the local economy by hiring an immigrant to make their whites whiter.

Oh, and it’s a good day when you check the mail and there’s something from both of your favorite young men in Massachusetts.

While looking for a shot of the Brady House, I found this guy’s site.

Amusing, if not creepy, video.

San Jose is flat. It is quite flat, especially in comparison to the rolling hills and dales of most of the Bay Area. But, I’m learning what words like “valley” and “canyon” actually mean in a land where elevation is more than just the slightly over sea-level grade of much of New England.

It’s flatness is incredibly appealing to my slow, low-slung, non-athletic self, and I have been yearning to get a bike.

At the same time, I wander streets that have a disturbing familiarity to me. Disturbing, because they are a life-size reminder of my serious, fucking never missed an episode, “Brady Bunch” addiction. (Maybe not as disturbing as my friend Deb’s family, who collectively rule in B. Bunch trivia.)

At any rate, Friday nights when the streetlights came on, you would pedal home, ditch the bike on the driveway and make sure you had eaten, adequately washed and put on your PJs to settle in unmolested for the show of shows. (In my case, as the youngest of five, four of whom never succumbed to the Brady aura, in the days before multiple TVs in multiple rooms (and certainly not a large color version), the “unmolested” part was no mean feat.)

Just for an idea on the California ranch look I’m now dwelling within, here’s a screenshot of the Brady’s manse:
. (Note: They put on a fake front window to make the actual split-level ranch (i.e. single story) house look like two stories.)

Here’s my front door:

Not identical, but I think similar enough.

Anyway, so at any age from like 5-10 years old, when the Brady’s ruled Friday nights, I was at the Morrissey’s playing with the “little ones.” (The Morrissey’s ultimately had 12 kids (I think), but it might have been 11 or even 13.)

When there were 10 kids, they were spoken of in subsets with the younger cluster of girls all around my age (before Kerry, who was their “little one”). At various times, I was a member in good standing of the hen partyish evil of both little girl groups led by the slightly older Debbie and the slightly less mature but chronologically equal (or the same grade anyway) Chris. The Morrisseys were the real-life perfect family of patient and understanding non-dysfunction (or so I imagined) I envied beside the TV Bradys.

And, I envied their bikes.

(I should backtrack a bit to explain that the “little ones,” aka “the girls” were lithe and petite and were, in fact, the epitome of tiny, adorable girlness. In other words, they were gymnasts. At least once a week, they even took private gymnastic lessons, as did my big sister.

I, on the other hand, was a behemoth. Slow and massive. At 9 years old, I pretty much peaked at what would be my grown-up height of 5’3″. My weight has always been proportional, and it has never been slight.)

As a big girl, I had a big girl bike suitable to my massive (relatively speaking) girth. For a while, that meant a pink, three-speed Huffy ladies touring bike. It died prematurely left unwisely in a friend’s driveway and crunched by the family beachwagon.

Later I had a very reliable, forest green Raleigh.

Touring bikes, especially ones with speeds before mountain bikes were invented, were fine equipment. Cool and cute they were not, however.

The little girls, the cute tiny Barbie-collecting gymnast types, they had the wonderful cute bikes of the day, Stingrays. Stingrays with banana seats, swaying sissy bars and tassles flying in the breeze from the grips of their ape-grip handlebars.

The cool boys had the green, macho Stingrays. The cute girls, their future suburban wives perhaps, had the pink, glittery ones.

So, today, at 41, sadly, I imagine, I’ve been looking at these bikes:

No doubt, I will ultimately buy something with 27 speeds that is light and flexible enough for M. and me to throw on a rack and roll around Napa or over the Golden Gate or something.

But, for a little while at least, I’m waxing nostalgic for a bike I never owned.

You know that song by Albert Hammond and it never raining in So Cal? I wish it were true and about a larger geographic area, like the whole state. I’m happy to be out of the snow and cold of New England, but I didn’t really consider the rain or the fact that such a fecund state aggravates the piss out of the allergies.

Still and all, walking down the street (or driving in a fab convertible) surrounded by palm trees and mad splashes of flower color ain’t half bad.

(Speaking of Albert Hammond, M. never ceases to amaze me with the depth (or shallowness if you consider importance) of his American pop culture knowledge. The other day I mixed a California-themed playlist for the iPod Mini as we drove up to spend the day in Berkeley. About two notes in, M.’s mumbling “Albert Hammond.” It’s a welcome respite after having dated another guy from not here, who almost had me convinced with his pontifications that all US anything is crap.)

Speaking of M., anyone perusing this BS might notice I haven’t been posting much about the relationship and the living together and all of that ripe with possibility junk. Why? Because ain’t no thing. No big fights about toothpaste tubes and toilet seats and personal space and sturm and drang. Nothing.

It’s cool. I even said to M. the other night that “I’m like, kind of close to like ‘happy’ or ‘content’ or something.” Weird all around and kind of disappointing. I figured I could at least get a couple of hacky relationship jokes for the old stand-up thang.

I hope he feels the same. (Because, of course, in my little head of neuroses he’s seething with unspoken contempt and his sweet smile is just a mask. He says “no,” so I’m working on the rational world and trying to take the smile at face value.)

Other than that, I had a bout with pure, somewhat irrational, angst the last couple of days. Like all good daughters, I blame my mother.

One paranoia she drilled into my head enough for it to stick is worry about money. I still have some in the bank, M.’s working and there’s no reason to believe that I am unemployable. Yet, for a bit I’ve been beading up with sweat over my homelessness and empty belly potential. So, I hammered out letter after letter to Craig’s List postings. Cross your fingers for me.

On the good and bad note, I had a Grand Canyon pic blown up into poster size, and it looks good. The downside is now that I’ve framed it, the picture’s such a Kodak moment that it looks like a cookie cutter print that came with the frame. I should be proud, but I’m mildly distracted.

After far too much deliberation and screwing around with Photoshop, I finally determined which picture I would have printed to poster size from my Grand Canyon trek.

I have so many photos from my trip, I could spend days and days and days going through them.

Anyway, here’s the winner (chosen because hopefully the tree in the foreground and the little man on the distant knoll provide some sense of perspective on the almost unfathomable vastness of the Canyon):

So, I checked out another open mike last night down here in the South Bay area. This time at the Rose and Crown in Palo Alto.

Once again, I didn’t perform. Even after so many shows and open mikes, I like to check out the room quietly and unobtrusively before jumping in myself. Mostly, a new room is where the clench of pathologic shyness starts to get me.

I really am such a pussy sometimes. The bartender was friendly, and after seeing me whip out a notebook surmised I might be a comic. Even though he said he would introduce me to the organizer, I didn’t press it, because of the pre- and post-show chaos and the large number of young boys who all clearly knew each other milling about. Passively, I’ll send an email.

The place looked fun enough with a pretty sizeable crowd for a Monday night comedy show at a dinky little English pub. However, unlike the other handful plus shows I’ve checked out so far around SF in the last year of visiting, it was heavily young, white boy dominated. (As was the audience probably because of Stanford.)

I just want to punch myself in the eye socket to counteract the pain of hearing yet another 20-something boy make the same wry observations, have the joke fail and blame anything else besides the joke and his delivery sucking.

(Worse yet, I fear the supportive California, I’m OK-You’re OK, have a nice day vibe here might sometimes be a bad thing in comedy. I observed a little camraderie-type reassurances on some not great shit, when constructive criticism may have been warranted. A lot like the Emerald Isle.)

The weird thing about the show for me, apart from the eerie and painful similarities with your average Boston open mike sausage fest, was the number of comedy doppelgangers. There was a Dan Newbower sort of Jew, doing some similar stuff, but with Max Silvestri’s haircut and sideburns. I literally did a doubletake, when from the corner of my eye I thought I saw Dan Sally.

One of the hosts, half of a funny bass and drum comic duo called Naomi Crystal, had exactly the same sleepy eyes, skinny build and lips pursed in a half-smirk delivery of purely offensive shit as Randy Winn. A semi-attractive, semi-lecherous guy could have been Ben Joplin, especially with the line to Terry Schiavo with a self-grab, “I’ve got your feeding tube right here.”

Perhaps the eeriest was the Andy Ofiesh twin. Jimmy Gunn has a not dissimilar body type and came out as a crappy magician working the same flavor of squirmy uncomfortable, odd character and fucking funny as Andy. Weirder still, later in the show someone yelled to him something about streaking the show, and his dismissal of “not tonight” made me think that the dude had bare-assed a few shows, just like buddy Andy.

Not sure (although I probably will, because I’m a masochist) if I’ll try to do this open mike. Everyone just felt so twenty-ish and testosterone-y. (Of course, the Walsh Brothers Show isn’t exactly devoid of either, and I loved it and did fine there.)

It’s not even 10 a.m., and I’m pretty much up (although unwashed). That reality at that time was pretty rare during the past six months of lollygagging in Boston.

For fun and to assure that AP does not remove such a wonderous site from the web, I’m uncharacteristically uploading a non-Dee-Rob pic.

It’s only salad dressing, but in my mind it’s the final reel in the Pat B. porno.

I’m also posting it in honor of Pat now getting to be Mr. Catholic on Fox News last night along with Sean Hannity. Best line was him telling Sean to “control his women” or some such bullshit as he was grappling with a couple of less wing-nutty Catholics over chicks as priests.

Hannity and Buchanan discussing the conclave and the dead pope and the potential new pope and all the pope-y (OK, papal) stuff just makes me cringe at the American Irish Catholic heritage we all have in common.

RIP to his eminence JPII, Mitch Hedberg, Frank Perdue, Johnnie Cochran and the rest of Terry Schiavo.

That must have been one heck of a chat in line at the gates to heaven.