I Hope You Have a Big Trunk, Cuz I’m Puttin’ My Bike In It. Well, I Have a Bag, What Can You Fit In There? Answer: EVERYTHING.
30 Jan 2012 Leave a Comment
in Crossing It Off, New Adventures, Round the World Tags: #rtw2012, adventure, Auckland, backpacking, New Zealand, Polynesian Spa, round the world, san francisco, sooner, taupo bungy, travel, travel advice, Waitomo Caves
So hey how ya doin’? I’ve just been the busiest little bee (I really wish there was some notation that I could put around sentences to key you in to the fact that as I’m typing this I am talking typing in an accent) this week … trying to get all my stuff ready to leave, packing, and planning my first set of adventures. Gotta say, planning is definitely the most fun, until you have to start making decisions—total buzzkill right thurr. Anywho, when I finally decided on a game plan for New Zealand (I will share in a minute, let me tell you this AWESOME story first, jeez), it was a momentous occasion to which I celebrated by sending a little texty-poo to my lil LoLo (Laura). This is how that conversation went:
Me: I have decided that I am going to go bungy jumping the first day I’m in NZ!!!!!!!!!!!
Laura: Did you see that video of the girl who did it and her cord snapped?!? I’m sure you’ll be fine …
Heart stops beating. THE HORROR! I’m sure she meant well ……………… just kidding. She didn’t. Aren’t you so glad I told you that story?! Okay … onto my adventures in planning.
After a short counsel with a good friend and super informative travel guide (thanks JRay!), I decided there is too much to see in New Zealand in the short time I will be there to have to work around bus schedules and all that type of shit. I like to go at my own pace, and my pace of choice is obvs fucking lightening speed—I didn’t get rejected from ZipCar for no reason (mostly because they’re assholes, but partially because I have more speeding tickets than, like, everyone I know … combined)! Thus, I rented a car … and will be driving on the left side of the road all over North Island. When I land at 5:00 a.m. on Feb 1, I’ll be picking up my rental car and beebopping down to Waitomo Glowworm Caves to do some Black Water Rafting at 9:00 a.m. After that, I’m gonna scoot on over to Taupo Lake and do some bungy jumping at Taupo Bungy!!! THEN I’m going to (insert stupid synonym for go) to Rotorua and visit the Polynesian Spa and check out that area and get some sleepy sleep. And that’s the first day 
. On the second day … ha! Who are we kidding, I haven’t planned that far in advance. Maybe some sailing? Swimming with dolphins? Lying on the beach? Who knows … but I’m sure it will be fucking glorious!!
I totes prom to keep you up to date though, fa sho!
Moving on … before I can hike my happy little ass all over the world, I have to pack. Which, I am happy to report, I fucking did. Look, look, looky at all this crap I put in my bag:
HOLLAAAAAAAAAA!!! Three things I would like to address … because I am sure some of you are maybe thinking possibly about them (works every time, 70% of the time.) Or the alternative and probably more acurate: none of you are thinking about these things, in which case, I really just want to point them out to you:
1. Jewelry? Jeeeeweelryyyy? Jewelry. Yes. I packed jewelry, no I didn’t pack valuable jewelry. How else do you expect me to make a white t-shirt work for 10 weeks? … JEWELRY, that’s how.
2. This is one of the times in my life I am so glad I have gravity resistant breasticles … 5 bras, 1 snack-size ziplock bag. Boom!
3. You can follow my progress on my travels with this SWEET ASS GPS tracking device I got (CLICK HERE TO SEE WHERE I AM)… My Spot Connect pairs with my iPhone via bluetooth (hey! There is a use for this technology) and allows me to send messages to people even if I have zero cell reception, sends satellite transmissions every 10 minutes so my parents can worry a little less knowing they can stalk me via satellite whenever they want, and—AND—it has a nifty little SOS button and if you push it, it’s like a Bond movie from what I hear … sirens, helicopters, they FIND you! So in response to “OMG have you seen Taken? Hostel? Sanctum?” Yes. No. No. But it’s fiiiiine because I have a Spot Connect with an SOS button! Wha whaaaa! And mace, I brought mace too.
I know I said I wanted to address three things, but I’m going to quickly justify one other thing that I packed … because I know some of you are still scoffing at the fact that I brought five pairs of shoes. They’re small. And flat. I did refrain from packing boots and heels, go me! Let’s give credit where credit is due.
Check it:
And then in the green bag are my truly essential items: passport, phone, computer, chargers, adapters, etc.
SO! Looks like I am alllll ready to go! My flight leaves at 7:00 p.m. tonight and I can’t friggen wait!! If you have any travel advice, words of wisdom, or anything else you would like to share, leave it in the comments!!
Like my page on Facebook to keep in the loop!
Ode to Tarahumara’s: My Favorite Mexican Food in the WWW
13 Aug 2010 7 Comments
in Food! Yum, Oklahoma Memories, Random Tags: best Mexican food in the world, food, margarita, mexican food, Norman, Oklahoma, sooner, Tarahumara's
Whole. Wide. World. In case you were wondering.
I was just talking with my friend Taylor about how much I miss and adore Oklahoma Mexican food, and Tarahumara’s Mexican Café in particular. Adore is probably the understatement of the century.
Any time I left Norman for a long period of time, Tarahumara’s was my first stop when I got back. Case in point: Went to China, went straight from the airport to Tarahumara’s; Went to Italy, Taylor picked me up from the airport and we met everyone at Tarahumara’s; Was gone for the summer, Tarahumara’s; Haven’t been there in three days, Tarahumara’s.
It was a glorious thing. A god damn gift from above.
But now I live in California, and Californians think that queso is just … cheese. PA-LEASE! You gotta get yourself to Oklahoma for some OkieMex. That shit’s where it’s at, fa real, yo.
Anyway, this reminiscent conversation with Taylor evoked some strong emotions, and I couldn’t hold them in as hard as I tried.
So here it is:
Ode to Tarahumara’s
Oh Tarahumara’s Mexican Café, how I love you so.
I have been missing you so much, and I think it’s starting to show.
My pants fit a little looser now, and my fat intake is down,
All because my favorite Mexican food is in another town.
Why do you have to be so far away from me?
All I want are some of your chicken enchiladas—smothered in cream cheese.
Mexican food here in California just isn’t the same,
What’s that I hear? It’s your chips and queso calling my name.
Mexican food here is a tiny tortilla sprinkled with cilantro,
Give me my rice and beans and a side of sour cream sauce, pronto!
Don’t forget my margarita, you know how to make it just right.
Have another you ask? Why, I think I just might.
Served up in a nice big chilled glass.
Two or three of those will knock me on my ass.
We part ways with a lime-sherbert mint,
A fully belly, and a smile of fulfillment.
I know one day that we will meet again,
Maybe when I come back to town for a football game, that I’m sure the Sooners will win.
Keep your chin up Tarahumara’s, keep your chips crispy, and your sour cream sauce creamy,
For even though I have moved away, I have not moved on, and I still think you’re dreamy.
A Moving Van, A Tiny Dog, And A Ton Of Shit.
03 Jul 2010 5 Comments
in The Haight Tags: expert, lola, moving, moving van, new apartment, nikki, nikkideterding, san francisco, san francisco sooner, sooner
The perfect equation for moving usually looks something like this:
1 girl to give orders + 2 dudes to lift heavy slash all shit + 1 moving truck = a successful move.
Well, I am no math whiz, and I never claimed to be (actually … that is completely false, I have many times claimed to be good at math, but that is neither here nor there) but my equation went more like this:
1 girl + 1 tiny ass dog + 1 rented rape … er, uh, … I mean moving … van = surprisingly successful—and sweaty—move.
As you know (or don’t … where have you been?!), I recently found a new apartment in Haight, which is super awesome and amazingly cute and perfect and all that business. Moving day came this last Sunday and I have to say … maybe I should also consider myself a Moving Expert. I’ll add it to my résumé—if you would like to hire me to tell you how to move your shit in the most efficient manner, I would be more than happy to assist you. I could also consider myself an expert in efficiency. And narcissism. Moving on.
I moved all of my belongings without any help. (You might think that Lola was useful and or helpful in this situation, and if you do, that’s just silly. She weighs 3 pounds … what could she possibly help with?) It only took me 4 hours, including the time it took to pick up and drop back off the van and get lunch. If you’re impressed, I really think that you should be. Check out my new digs:
Before!
After!
The Economics of Apartment Hunting and the Importance of Wikipedia … and Homeless People. Oh, and The Haight.
29 Jun 2010 8 Comments
in The Haight, Things I Learn from Wikipedia Tags: Apartment Hunting, bum, cheap, cute, Economics, Haight-Ashbury, Homeless people, san francisco, sooner, The Haight, the tenderloin
Apartment hunting is always fun. I think that I am going to be in a perpetual state of movement because I love apartment hunting THAT much. Yes. I want to be a nomad. Constantly in search of the perfect apartment.
I think that’s what homeless people say? Probably. Whatever.
In this hunt for the perfect apartment (and when I say perfect I mean an apartment that has come to rest on what I have determined as the equilibrium between cheap and cute … but maybe still leaning more toward the cheap side, I’m not a perfectionist … I’ll let it do its gangsta lean) I have learned a LOT of valuable lessons. But first, let me point out that when I say cheap I mean: expensive as fuck, in the true sense of the saying. Nobody in SF writes their rent check, smiles, and says, “Yeah, I feel good about that.” I mean cheap *for SF*.
Cheap ≠ Cheap in SF. The two are not synonymous, they are not equal, they are not the same thing. In fact, Cheap in SF is a synonym for Expensive. You get the point.
What is cheap is living in Oklahoma. (And before you start pointing out why it’s expensive to live here and not there and blabber on about the quality of life and all the things to do, let me just stop you and say I know. I’m the one who lived there. You are not pointing out anything new to me. Back to real time) You can pay rent on a god damn castle complete with a moat and albino alligators for what you can get for a spacious two bedroom apartment with a view. Or a cramped two bedroom apartment with a view. Or a shithole with a view of the side of the apartment building next door. That’s a view too. Right … right? Someone define “view”. Actually, on second though. Don’t. That’s *not* the point.
Okay, you might not be able to get a castle for the same price, but Oklahoma would be the first place you could afford a castle. In fact, you can get a bedroom with a private bathroom in a huge apartment with a brand new top of the line kitchen and oh, hey, don’t forget the gym, swimming pool, Jacuzzi, volleyball courts, basketball courts, and FREE (duh) parking for $300 a month. Bills included. That is not a joke. It exists. See?
Back to San Franci$co. I have learned many things whilst apartment hunting but the most important is this: Location, Location, Lofuckingcation.
I would pay $2000 (well not really, but for dramatic effect, just go with it) a month to live in a shoebox in North Beach/Nob Hill/Marina/Russian Hill than pay $300 to live in (Oklahoma) The Tenderloin (and who are we kidding … there is nothing less than $900 per person in The Tenderloin). But of course, I didn’t know this before I went to The Tenderloin.
How did I learn this? I’ll tell you. So, I am perusing Craigslist and I see all these pretty nice apartments that are actually relatively reasonably priced. What’s the deal here? I bet the pictures are really misleading … I bet there are really loud neighbors … Maybe the apartment smells like cat piss. Insert optimistic side—No, I bet the place is great, and this is a good deal. Yeah, I’ll go with that. So I call two leasing agents and set up appointments to go see the apartments the next day. I wonder what The Tenderloin is like? I’ll google it later. All I’m thinking is that its close enough for me to walk to work and not have to take Muni … those bastards … I’ll show them.
Next day. Lunch time. Sunny … well kind of, we are in SF. I embark on my journey. Walking. This is great. As my walk progresses, the scenery slowly begins to change. Suddenly I have found myself right smack in the middle of “Where I DO NOT Want To Be”. Am I lost? Consult Google Maps. (Google is capitalized when it is used as a noun, not capitalized when used as a verb. You’re welcome.) Nope. I am right where I am supposed to be. I feel VERY uncomfortable. I can’t tell if there are more pieces of trash or homeless people littering the sidewalks. The sweet aroma of stale piss and people who haven’t showered … probably ever … starts wafting up to my nostrils. I pass a group of men who are, presumably, up to no good, and one of them mutters, “Little blondie is lost, I think we should show her around.” Another says, “I’ll show her somethin’ alright.” Dear. God. What do I do? Call someone. Nobody will talk to me if I’m on the phone. Right …right?!
“Hey mom.” Don’t judge me.
I get to the apartment, there is someone waiting to let me in. Dear. God. What have I gotten myself into (I know it’s a sentence ending in a gd preposition … what did I say about that … and HA! by inserting this unnecessary comment, I have succeeded in not ending the sentence with a preposition after all, suck it Word)? At this point I have already firmly decided that I will NOT be living in this neighborhood even if they offer it to me fa FREE. I do a quick tour and tell the guy I’ll think about it, the apartment was okay but like I said, fuck no, and I head to the other apartment.
More catcalls, people ask me for spare change, one guy is throwing up into one trashcan while another is picking aluminum cans out of the next one. Sweet. I get to the next apartment. I buzz the unit I am supposed to be viewing. As I wait I am thinking, why am I even wasting my time? I will NEVER live here. Waiting. Someone taps me on the arm. I jump. I turn around and see that a man in a wheelchair wearing a bike helmet with no teeth has approached me. No reason to be alarmed …
“Scuse me. Do ya hav an exter needle on ya?” What. The. Fuck. Turn promptly and walk away. No, sorry sir, I don’t have a god damn needle. I call Sarah. And as I am walking away as fast as humanly possible with every attention of never returning, I give her a rundown of what just happened. Mid-rant, as I pass a particularly heinous smelling building, something liquid drops from above … and lands … in my mouth. IN MY MOUTH. MY MOUTH. IN. MY. MOOOUTH.
When I return to my office, I go straight to the bathroom and rinse my mouth for ten minutes. But then. Then. Then I google “The Tenderloin”.
The Tenderloin is a high crime neighborhood, particularly violent street crime such as robbery and aggravated assault. Seven of the top ten violent crime plots (out of 665 in the entire city as measured by the San Francisco Police Department) are adjacent plots in the Tenderloin and Sixth and Market area. The neighborhood was considered to be the origination of a notorious Filipino gang Bahala Na Gang or BNG, a gang imported from the Philippines. In the late 1960s to the mid 1970s, the gang was involved in extortion, drug sales, and murder for hire.
Murder for hire. Sweet. Thanks, Wikipedia.
BUT on a positive note. I did get an apartment! And it IS cute! And it’s in The Haight:
The area still maintains its bohemian ambiance, though the effects of gentrification are also apparent and continually changing. The neighborhood remains a thriving center of independent local businesses. It is home to a number of independent restaurants and bars, as well as clothing boutiques, booksellers, head shops, and record stores including Amoeba Music. The cohabitation between throw-backs to the Fifties lounge scene, organic and spiritual New Age ambiance of the Sixties, punk-rock politics and computer culture is one of the neighborhood’s most interesting and endearing aspects socially and artistically.
Awesome. But for real this time.
You Might Not Know It, but AT&T Knows It
22 Jun 2010 6 Comments
in Random Tags: att, customer service, help, internet, san francisco, sooner, the man
Let me give you a little background info. Jordan, Chase, and Greg were roommates. Greg just moved out to go to law school and Zack (my boyfriend) moved in. I am crashing with them until I move into my brand shiny new apartment, which will be soon (fingers … and probably toes if you’re talented … crossed). Anyway, we have been having quite a few of problems with AT&T. When Zack moved in and Greg moved out, which was twenty-two days ago, they did a switch-a-roo with the internet. Greg canceled his account and Zack created a new account and thus, we had internet and the swap was deemed successful. But really what AT&T was doing was luring us into a false sense of security only to pull the rug (or internet, rather) right out from under us. This was a week ago.
From that fateful day, we have embarked upon what one can only now reasonably consider a never-ending journey. All because AT&T is the holder of the answer to one of Greg’s deepest, darkest secrets … that even he doesn’t know the answer to. Crazy right? I’ll explain.
So my three very smart, very resourceful temporary roommates have spent approximately ten hours on the phone with AT&T, bouncing back and forth between departments and people who can’t help us at all. So I’m not exactly sure what their jobs are … unless of course they are employed by AT&T and placed in make-believe departments with fake titles to make you more and more confused as to who you are supposed to talk to in order to get your issues resolved while all the while the real employees of make-believe departments with fake titles are playing this evil interior game where the winners and high scorers are those that can have clients transferred the most while simultaneously not solving their problems (remember because they are employed just to confuse you … they actually don’t know how to solve your problems either) and get bonuses for the amounts of your time that they waste whilst transferring you and not answering your questions (Stop putting green squiggly lines under this sentence, Microsoft Word. I. know it’s a “Long Sentence”, I am the one writing it! Jesus.).
That didn’t really explain anything. But Zack was told repeatedly by the Emperor’s Overseer of Wrong Turns (fake titles … I knew it) that the account was active in Greg’s name and he couldn’t switch the account to his name because he is not Greg, and oh p.s., the router must not be working if you’re not getting internet, because the account is most definitely active, but you’re not Greg so that’s all I can tell you, except maybe to fix your router. All of this was told to Zack while he was staring at the router that was, in fact, working.
Chase was told by Tiger Woods’ Mistress in the Infidelity Department (one of them works for AT&T … don’t quote me on that though …) that she couldn’t tell him whether or not the account was active because he was also not Greg (something that someone else was at the liberty to tell Zack, someone who is also not Greg … strange) but she could confirm that the router was in fact working, which we knew all along, and that he should either call someone else or have Greg call her because there is nothing that she can tell Chase about the account because he is not Greg, something we also knew, and at this point we are clinging to every piece of information we know to be true.
So why don’t we just have Greg call? Well because he is in Central America, of course. And the only means of communication he has with this country is through Blackberry Messenger.
So Jordan bbms Greg and explains the situation, and Greg responds with: What. The. Fuck. I spent two hours on the phone with them canceling my account and transferring it to Zack’s name. Here take my SSN and call and say you are me.
So with Greg’s life in his hands, Chase phones some random branch … Olive … something or other. What is your name? Greg. What is your address? Hell, apparently. What is your SSN? Nine numbers.
Great, it looks like this is the path we need to be on (the rest of us are literally on the edge of our seats, hoping that this will finally be what cracks the massive AT&T conspiracy … that just maybe we reached a real branch with real employees with real answers to real questions … and we can finally get our sweet, sweet internet back).
One last security question Mr. Greg. Yes? Who is your childhood hero? Blank stares.
Jordan quickly bbms Greg who we can tell is fuming all the way down in Central America: Who is your childhood hero. Greg responds with: I don’t have a fucking childhood hero, what the fuck. I was never asked that question, nor did I give an answer to that question. This is fucking ridiculous. I already canceled my account, I don’t know who the fuck I talked to or why I am still signed up for a fucking account.
Chase (on the phone) responds with: Jordan. Well you got the first letter right, Mr. Greg, but that isn’t the correct answer.
Jordan bbms Greg again: it starts with a “J”.
Greg responds: Jake Peavy?
Is the answer Jake Peavy? No. I’m sorry Mr. Greg, if you can’t answer the question, I can’t give you any account information just in case you aren’t really Greg. Right, I have a pretty firm grasp on that concept … but don’t you think that this is a flawed system … I gave you my SSN, which only the real Greg would know, correct? … but yet you can’t tell me about my account because I don’t have a childhood hero and you think that I do and I don’t know the answer to it but you think you do? Correct. Well, now I am just curious, what is my childhood hero that starts with a “J”? Sir, I can’t tell you the answer to the secret question, then you would know the answer. I AM GREG (but he’s really Chase), I SHOULD KNOW THE ANSWER. I’m sorry Sir, you are going to have to call someone else, there is nothing that I can help you with if you don’t know the answer to your secret question.
Jordan bbms Greg: Jake Peavy isn’t your childhood hero. Just in case you were wondering.
Greg: I don’t have a childhood hero, and that would never be the secret question I would pick. This is fucking ridiculous.
We still don’t know the answer. And we still don’t have internet.
But what we do know is that the NSA gets its information from AT&T, who apparently steals it right out of your thoughts. That’s right. They are the Thought Police (is it 1984, George Orwell?), anything you think will be held against you in a case where you might need to know the answer to get internet but you don’t know the answer because you’re not sure you ever thought it and you’re not sure that if you did think it that you told anyone the answer but you’re 99 percent almost kind of sure you never had a childhood hero. Or did you? Who knows?
AT&T. That’s who.
They said whaaa?!