Just a Small Town Girl?

San Francisco isn’t the only place outside of Southern California that I’ve lived. For about nine months at the turn of the century I lived in Ashland, Oregon. I was a college freshman, convinced that I knew everything about the world. I spent my days in the dorms, surrounding myself with young women who will forever be a part of me. Most of whom have faded from my life; only a handful am I even in contact with through social media.

I cherish those days. Even then I knew that they were fleeting.

Long story short, I got in a car accident, I moved home, I met some people who are still monumental parts of my being.

I don’t know who I would have been had I stayed there, but that’s okay. My life has never been about the ordinary and I don’t regret for a minute the path that I’ve taken.

But that’s not what this is about. This is about Ashland.

I am very fortunate in that my dad lives in this town. I discovered the school through him and have  the opportunity to visit the town that I briefly knew as home. However while I’ve visited a handful of times over the past ten years there was something unique about my visit this month. Since leaving college, this was the first time that I’ve come up in my own car.

My memories of Ashland exist like a slideshow, snapshots of images that stir something inside of me. There are the railroad tracks I drove over my first evening there, a moment that forever created a connection between myself and the girl next door. There’s the movie theatre that I remember standing outside of, waiting to get in to see Scream 3. There’s the Food 4 Less just up the freeway where we got Backstreet Boy necklaces out of a toy machine. 

I refuse to believe that we weren't
the coolest girls on campus

I went off on my own this trip, leaving behind my family while I just wandered through the town. I walked through the park, always one of my favorite parts of Ashland. I looked at the stages for the Shakespeare festival and wondered why I didn’t take advantage of the theatre when I lived in town. Isn’t that why I went there in the first place? I walked by the Starbucks where I used to get hot caramel ciders, browsed through my old favorite stores, and grabbed lunch at a small café I remember loving. I even drank Lithia Water, spring water that was legendary at the college. Older students told us that it tasted like blood. Only the bravest freshman came close. At eighteen I wasn’t very brave.

I like to think San Francisco toughened me up

It’s not like going back to Orange County. Orange County is huge, and I stumble across memories without even trying. I lived there since I was an infant, moving from city to city. I grew up in a wealthy beach community and last year was in an area known to locals as Garbage Grove. I had friends all over, and to this day accidently find places that were since forgotten to me. 

I went here as a child and never forgot it.
Two or so years ago, I accidentally drove by it on my way home from work. 

But Ashland is little and I spent the bulk of my time on campus. The memories are all of a girl that I once was, someone who had her entire life in front of her.

I love the big city. I love the adventures. I love that eight months in and I feel like I barely know San Francisco. I love the crowds, the diversity, and that I can hop on a train and find something new to explore. But if I ever went back to small town life, Ashland would be the place. 

I Remember Everything

Brenda, all the way

I'm a lover of teen television. Hell my first full length graduate school paper was on the topic. As other enthusiasts of the genre know there are some big questions that get debated to this day. Brenda or Kelly? Will Rayanne ever stay sober? How many Hellmouths are there? And of course, at the end of the day who should Joey Potter be with?

Childhood soulmate Dawson or Class Clown Pacey?

The moment that caused me to throw a chair because I couldn't wait three weeks for the next episode.
Ah, college Maile.

Joey and Pacey quickly became one of my all time favorite television relationships. The seeds were planted in season one with a brief flirtation. Of course we weren't supposed to root for these two blue collar kids. Joey belonged with her oblivious friend Dawson. She sang a song for him, damnit! The blond haired hussy (academy award nominee Michelle Williams) didn't deserve him. Feisty Joey was his dream girl. He just didn't know it. 

Fun fact, if you google "Dawson and Joey"
you get more pictures of Joey and Pacey kissing.

And then season one ended. Dawson and Joey got together. Now what?

As anyone who has ever watched tv can imagine, the couple broke up before season two was over. Joey wanted more out of life to be Dawson's girlfriend, then she dated a homosexual and then he came out and right when things were about to work out between our main couple, Dawson ruined Joey's relationship with her convict father causing Joey to say that she'd never forgive Dawson. 

When season three opens Dawson asks his best friend Pacey to keep an eye on Joey. Despite brief moments of true friendship, Joey and Pacey have always had a bit of an antagonistic relationship. He tells jokes, she takes life too seriously. His family is in law, her family is in trouble with the law. He's a slacker, she's driven. But both of their hearts are broken. 

Enough foreshadowing for the entire audience.

Throughout the season they spend more and more time together. He considers a friends with benefits relationship with the aforementioned blonde hussy. She dates some other guy. He watches her sleep. He talks with his brother about feeling butterflies. He falls in love. Joey remains oblivious. 

And then he kisses her. And the WB doesn't air another episode for three weeks. After the commercials all showed that he would kiss her. 

Yes, I'm still bitter. I threw a chair in anger. You don't recover from that. 

Season three ends with the two of them together, breaking the heart of Dawson as well as Pacey's ex girlfriend. They date through the entirety of season four, fighting and kissing constantly. They break up by the season's end and Joey predictably runs into Dawson's arms. I booed.

This afternoon I watched one of my favorite episodes of the series. Season six, Joey and Pacey are just friends and spend the night locked in K-Mart. It's essentially a bottle episode that shows why these two worked as a super couple. The two argue, laugh, eat, and end the episode kissing. It's brilliant. 

Yeah, chemistry

But ten years later I can see that I didn't love these characters because of great writing (though the build up to their relationship was fantastic). It's not the amazing acting or complex characterization. It's chemistry. Pure, natural, intense chemistry. Joshua Jackson and Katie Holmes dated for a time, and it shows in their performance. I can believe that these two love to be together and as a viewer, I want to watch them together.

These two lit up the television together. They remain my favorite characters and pairing from the show. Michelle Williams may have been the talent, and I've recently become obsessed with James Van Der Beek (Don't Trust the B in Apartment 23, watch it) but neither of them were the reason that I became obsessed with this show. Neither of them are characters that I fell in love with, and a teenage couple that I still get giddy over. 

Joey and Pacey made television magic, and I will always consider them among the great television couples.

How can you resist?

Thanks for the Memories

Like all parents, my mother is a product of her time. For some this includes conservative values and black and white television. For mine it's rock 'n roll. For many years I was the one with abnormal taste. My mom would want to listen to the radio while I'd only want to blast my showtunes.

Let's get real. I'd still rather blast my showtunes.

I'm not sure if KLOS was always her favorite station, but it's the only one that I remember listening to. As I grew older and my car no longer had a place to blast my beloved Broadway it became my own station of choice. My memories of my mother aren't limited to music. I have memories connected to morning radio and listening about two wacky hosts talking about Elvis.

Mark and Brian.

I didn't listen to them much as I got older. Not because I disliked them or my mother. It's that other thing I disliked.

Mornings.

So not a morning person.

But when I was awake, when I was driving for whatever reason, 95.5 was on the dial.

I just found out that today was their last show. After twenty five years, after being on the radio as long as I can remember, they said goodbye. So from the Bay Area, before I've had a chance to listen to the online show, I just have to say thank you.

Thank you for the laughter. Thank you for letting us into your crazy lives. Hell, thank you for talking about football so much that I chose to follow two amazing teams last season.

If I hadn't moved, would I be listening to the show this morning? Would I have dragged my lazy self out of bed so that I could say goodbye?

I'd like to think so.

Mark, California will miss you. Brian, I look forward to your podcast.

Friendship IS Magic

I love cartoons. They appeal to my optimistic self and the child within. But, like many adults, I talk about how the kids today don't know good stories. How the movies may be amazing, but animated television is lacking. I come from the era of Saturday morning cartoons. I'm a child of the 80's. For many years I have embraced this fact and love the culture of my youth. For example as we speak I'm wearing Care Bear pajamas.

This very image is on my chest

Another thing that many of my close friends know is that I loath remakes of my childhood. I curse at the new Care Bears, the aging of Strawberry Shortcake still annoys me, and don't get me started on the new Smurfs movie. 

I don't know who this guy is.
Seriously, who are you Fakey Smurf?

You can imagine my trepidation when the new My Little Pony series came out. They'd already tried and failed to remake the series years ago. And I love the original movie. The songs can run in my head at any moment. Even now I have vivid memories of discussing the ponies with my cousin and playing with the many different toys.

But the Internet at large became obsessed with the new series. They developed a term. Brony. And the entire series to date is on Netflix. The ponies didn't look quite right, but what the hay. I had some free time, and we needed a break from the Jem/Robotech marathon. 

Bring it on, little ponies!!

The theme song showed promise. It starts with classic My Little Pony music, then quickly shows a voice all its own. I watched the first few episodes. Then the next few. And somewhere along the line, I became hooked. I've since watched the entire series more than once. I've read the tvtropes on the series. I've watched fan made music videos (Enter Sandman was awesome!). I own a Fluttershy t-shirt. 

So I have to wonder, how did this happen? Why did My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic win me over?

First, let me get this out of the way, it is a quality program. The characters are well defined. Each member of the main six (or mane six as the fans call them) is a strong yet flawed character. They're relatable. I not only identify with our socially awkward bookworm heroine (the hilariously named Twilight Sparkle), but most of her new friends. These are well written characters that any girl can look up to, and perhaps more importantly, the female characters are not defined by the men in their lives. These little ponies show that girls can be caring, strong, and independent, quite like Merida from Brave. Even a casual fan can tell you the basic personalities of each pony. I can tell you more about these ponies than any of the ponies from my youth. 

But this show is more than well written characters and strong female ponies. It's also clever. There are the little gags, such as Twilight Sparkle literally standing on a soap box when giving a speech. There are the callbacks, throw away lines that reference previous episodes. The show has continuity! There are the pop culture references, like the Diamond Dogs or the Benny Hillesque chase scenes. Then there's the music. 

The season one finale features a song that is heavily inspired by Ever After from Into the Woods. An original song based on Stephen Sondheim. In a children's cartoon. Not a rewritten version of Ever After. Just inspired by. The song is all about how excited the little ponies are for their big night at the gala. A gala that was first mentioned in the third episode of the series. Continuity! Please note the 20 person choir singing in the chorus. 

It's heartwarming and sincere, with just enough cynicism for the adult viewers. It has an expanded universe involving the background characters. The writers listen to the fans, and show creator Lauren Faust answers questions regularly. (Her resume includes writing for Powerpuff Girls and the new DC short Super Best Friends Forever, very into girl power animation). The show pays tribute to the original series. Faust based the characters on the personalities that she gave to her own toys. The show is written for children while still appealing to adults. It does what some of the great cartoons of our time have done. 

This isn't like my generations My Little Pony. This is better.

It might not be your thing. That's cool. But all I can say is don't knock it till you try it. If you enjoy quality western animation, strong female characters, and smiling, then this series is for you. 

I've been quiet. Too quiet...

I know, where have I been. You've all been at the edge of your seats wondering how I'm really adjusting to The City. Damnit, my witty Facebook updates just aren't detailed enough.

It's been over six months since we made the big move. And, let's just get this out of the way, I freaking love it up here. I love that we can just make the decision to leave the house and BAM! adventure. I love our quiet corner of the city, and that our apartment has a view of the lush Lake Merced and the ocean. I love that it's so easy to find vegetarian items on menus. Oh the food. Vegetarian biscuits and gravy, grilled tofu burrito, sourdough grilled cheese, balsamic strawberry ice cream,  vegan donuts, gourmet cupcakes...

Best. Cupcakes. Ever.
So I'm happy. Still kind of lonely, but happy. Where does that leave my poor neglected blog? For months I've been flirting with starting a pop culture blog. As many of you know, I love tv. And some books.

I just spent the past month reading about the Wakefield twins as adults.  My taste is impeccable.
But Maile, what about the food? The vegetarian biscuits and gravy? The grilled tofu burrito? Maile, what about the cupcakes???

Well my friends, my indecision has lead to the best of both worlds. Kitty in the City is branching out! I'll write about the city. The food. The stores. I'll write about pop culture, torturing you all with my geeky thoughts. (LOST rewatch 2012, it's on!) And maybe I'll even share a bit of myself, continuing to let you know about my struggles, my insecurities, and my fears.

So friends, you in?

The reality of my new life

Living in San Francisco isn’t what I imagined. No, I’m not talking about my superficial belief that I’d have a thriving nightlife, or that new friends would be banging on my door. I’m talking about little things. The details that never fit with the image in my head.

I have a new job. I was supposed to work in Union Square, surrounded by tourists, shoppers, high buildings, and bright lights. I’d take Muni to and from work, and my car would sit forgotten at home. A big city restaurant for a big city girl. But I got here and things changed. I changed. I could list 101 reasons why I revised my previous stance about working in a restaurant, but none of those matter. In truth I don’t understand why people are so amazed that I left the restaurant industry. Did anyone truly believe that was my dream?

I regularly said "would you like fries with that?"

I’m getting side tracked. Sorry, pet peeve. Besides, I was always secretly hoping for something new.

I work for a company that challenges me constantly. A place where I am surrounded by creative and intelligent innovators. I have learned so much in my short time here, and my knowledge continues to grow. I’ve fallen down a rabbit hole, and have had to just let go and enjoy the ride. At times my inner stage manager tries to make sense of the chaos, but I’ve discovered how to embrace the insanity. How to thrive within the madness.

I don’t work in Union Square. I don’t work in a tall building, surrounded by bright lights. I work in The Haight, a district that I instantly grew to love. I’m surrounded by Victorian homes, hippies, and sunshine. I drive to work, parking next to Buena Vista Park, and spend my short walk to work reveling in my surroundings. Street musicians say hello, while other people lounge on the grass.

There’s something else that has surprised me though. Another detail of the city that I didn’t anticipate. The nature. It’s so green up here. Green and lush and beautiful. I knew that it was green up here; I’ve commented on it in the past. But it’s not just that it’s green, it’s that you can find nature everywhere. There’s Golden Gate Park. I drive past it almost daily, though I’ve yet to explore it at length. It’s about 1.5 square miles, and has everything from tea gardens, to windmills, to buffalo. There’s Buena Vista Park; I’m convinced that park is magical. Maybe it’s the energy of flower children past. All I know is that it compels me to explore further. To go within the tress, and find the fae folk living within.

And then there’s my backyard. Lake Merced. When I was a little girl, our house was next to Back Bay. I loved to wander the greenbelt, letting my imagination go wild. Walking around Lake Merced, I get that same feeling. Well, an adult version of it. A feeling of tranquility. A desire for adventure. The realization that I can conquer the world. The self-esteem of my youth, before it was destroyed by bullies, rejection, and self-doubt. This isn’t a place to walk with a purpose. It’s a place for me to get lost in myself, and remember my inner power.
My backyard!
In essence, that’s what San Francisco has become. I imagined a big city life. Instead what I found is a place where the grass grows green, people say hi on the street, and I can let go of expectations and just be me.

I found my new home.

Home again, home again.

When I was eighteen, I wrote a short story that focused on one simple theme. You can never go home again. At thirty, I found myself contemplating that story as I took BART to the airport.


I made friends on the flight!

Last weekend was my first trip back to Orange County. I spent the bulk of the time with family, normal moments that wouldn’t have been out of place five months ago. We ate matzo ball soup, laughed at corny jokes, and told embarrassing stories of years past.* I saw some of my dearest friends, and we chatted as though I still lived below the LA county line.

It was the little moments that were strange. My mom moved soon after I did, so I was staying in unfamiliar places. I was sitting in LAX, an airport I grew up at, and having the thought I’m going home. It was startling, the realization that Orange County isn’t my home, that lives moved on without me, and the void that I left was not irreplaceable. Sure my family cannot replace me with another daughter/niece/cousin. But I probably talk with then more now than I did then. Even in my crazy busy moments,** I’m always an email or a facebook message away.

There were two unexpected moments that were perfect for a surprise trip home. I told very few people outside of my family that I was heading down, because I simply knew that I wouldn’t have time to see everyone. But on Saturday morning, I made a pit stop at my old restaurant. I was there for about ten minutes, but I was able to see so many of my old friends. We exchanged hugs, and I remembered how close we all once were. I miss them, and I’m glad that I didn’t try to replicate them up here. I’m glad that my life is so different. Next time I’ll spend more time with them.

Next time. Who knows when that will be?


The other moment was on Sunday evening, Easter. I was meeting some friends, and, in typical Maile fashion, I was running early. Feeling nostalgic, I decided to stop at my old theatre bar for a drink. I went in, and it was virtually empty. Easter Sunday, and all. I grabbed a quick drink, and chatted with the bartender, sounding like one of those old crazy people. ”I moved out of the area, and I used to come here all the time when you were in your old location. I had to stop by.” She humored me, and cocktail finished, I left the bar, prepared to update my facebook with a snarky update about how the bar was empty. And as I’m getting in my car, BAM, I see someone I know. A handful of former theatre colleagues appeared, and I agreed to stay for another drink. We chatted about shows, and my new life. Like with the restaurant, I had this overwhelming sense of community. Of a world that once upon a time, I was an important part of.

My life has changed. I’m still getting to know my new coworkers. My local friends are scattered about, not close enough for an impromptu day at the park. My life is so hectic, I’m not sure if I’d be up for such unpredictability. But one day, I’d like to have that sense of community again.

Can you ever go home again? In my admittedly limited experience, I think it’s less about going home, and more about realizing that you have a new home. That the place with the memories is a part of you, but it’s not who you are anymore.

*No, I will not repeat said stories.
**I’ve been doing homework since I came home

Three updates in one

It's funny, when we made plans to move to the city, I imagined us all over the place. Hitting hotspot after hotspot, lunching by day and drinking cocktails by night. I blame Sex and the City.

I always fancied myself a Carrie, but Charlotte was my favorite.
What does that say about me?

Somehow it never occurred to me that it's been quite a few years since I went out every night. My bills have grown, my wallet has shrunk, and six hours of sleep just doesn't cut it anymore.*

That said, I do have three different adventures to share. The first involves the theatre. The second Saint Patrick's Day. And the third, a midnight showing.

Adventure One: The search for Midnight Pizza
Earlier this month Leonard and I went to a local production of True West. Those familiar with our theatrical background are probably aren't surprised to hear that this was a black box production. It was fantastic. It gave us both the acting bug, and we were thrilled to speak with the cast after.**

The show ended around 9:30, and we were both feeling a little hungry. In true black box form, the theatre wasn't quite near anything, and the cast could only recommend a local bar. We wandered the city for a little while, but alas all we found were liquor stores and fancy night clubs. My low blood sugar suggested that we go to West Portal, an area closer to home that's loaded with restaurants and shops. Certainly they'd have something for us.

We arrived at West Portal around eleven. On a Friday night, that's closing time. We walked by a pizza place that shut their door and laughed at us. They laughed!!

We got home close to midnight and at this point we were starving. I placed an order with a late night pizzeria and about an hour later, the food was in the apartment.

It was a-mazing.

I'm used to keeping strange hours, between working in restaurants and theatre I've always frequented late night dining establishments. It didn't occur to me that I'd have to track them down here. That places close in the big city.

Adventure Two: Saint Patrick's Day
This was it. The big one. We had the city at our disposal, a city that apparently has the best Saint Patrick's Day celebration West of the Mississippi. Ha! We may not have a social network, but damnit, we have the city.

Clad in green, we headed downtown around noon. We were thrilled to catch the parade, and wanted to check out the street fair at Civic Center. We followed the drunk college kids, and sure enough they lead us to the festivities. The parade was awesome, a variety of bands, dancers, dogs, decorated cable cars and buses. We had candy thrown our way.

This was Leonard's favorite.


But you know what the parade route didn't offer us? Food or beer. By the time we got to the street fair, we were famished.

I'm noticing a theme in these stories. Maile and Leonard go into the city for food, then can't find anything.

The street fair was small, a handful of booths with treats and Irish items. We wandered around for a bit, until we decided to call it an evening early. We returned to our local haunt, West Portal, and got shots of Jameson at the multiple Irish pubs there. It was a lovely, calm way to celebrate.

Turns out we've out grown drunk college kids. Who knew?

Adventure Three: The Midnight Showing
Ironically the only adventure that does not feature us searching for food

We were prepared. We left with more than enough time to spare. We looked up the late night bus to get us home at three in the morning. We had a Bay Area expert with us, to help us navigate the city.

We saw the 12:15 showing, and stayed through the credits. With the obligatory restroom stop before leaving, this made us the last non employees to leave the mall. With the exception of one other group of movie goers, the streets were empty by the time we got there.

Keep in mind that there were four showings that had gotten out over the past fifteen minutes, so people must have scampered away. We noticed a bus stop down the street, and headed that way to examine the map. Google claimed that our stop was about ten minutes away. Within seconds, this guy appeared out of nowhere asking for money to get home. We said no and continued walking. The F-er followed us. Harassing us, begging for money. Reprimanding us for not helping him. He only let us be when we moved ahead of the one other group

A few minutes later, we were a bit turned around. Our Bay Area Expert hadn't been in the city for about three years, and it was 3am. We turned down another empty street. We weren't lost lost, we all recognized the street names. Just none of them were the streets we needed. A well dressed man on a cell phone rushed past us. We continued on our journey.

"Excuse me, are you from around here?"

We turned around.

"Not really. We're new."

He then proceeded to tell us his tale of woe. He was driving up from Pasadena, trying to get to Eureka, and he was driving through Palo Alto and his family got held up with a gun, don't worry, everyone was okay, but they got to San Francisco, and spoke with the transit authority, and were staying at the Marriot, and their car was about to be towed but they needed money to get gas so they could drive their car away, and all he had was his cell phone and his watch, and the police were no help, and if we could spare $8.18 then he'd be able to be on his way.

Leonard shrugged, giving him a few dollars out of his pocket. The guy looked over at me expectantly. I wasn't born yesterday, there was no way I was opening my wallet. I shrugged and told him that I only had plastic. He glared at the few dollars Leonard had generously given him and stormed off.

Way to show your hand, flim flammer.

We found out bus stop about five minutes later, and waited another ten minutes for the late night bus. We were home before five.

Adventure Four: To be continued...
We may not be party animals, but we're both geeks at heart. Tonight we're going to the grand opening of a comic shop in West Portal. It may not be the hotspot we imagined, but we're finding our way in the city. And I may not be a Carrie Bradshaw fashionista, but I'm pleased with the shirt I've picked out.

I'll be the belle of the ball

And now, we're off to the comic shop!



*Not to mention Grad school
**The two leads switched roles every night. I can't even imagine...

My evening in Oakland

This week I went to Oakland for the first time.* If pop culture is to be believed, I was going to a hell dimension where I'd be mugged the moment I stepped off of BART. Obviously pop culture was exaggerating. I was meeting a new friend for dinner at a mac and cheese restaurant (let me say that again, a MAC AND CHEESE RESTAURANT!) and I could certainly handle a 5-10 minute walk from BART to the restaurant in daylight.

After all, true hell demons don't come out until the evening.
I watch a lot of Buffy

My directions were simple. The restaurant is on the same street as BART. Certainly even I couldn't screw this up. I turned right, walked a block, then noticed everything was pretty much residential. Doh! I walked back to BART, and found a map of the area. Foolish me, I should have gone left. No harm done, I walked left, smiling at the restaurants that I could see in front of me.

I walked. And walked. And walked. Okay, I knew this was a 5-10 minute walk, but certainly it'd been fifteen minutes by now. Everything was residential, but I could see something ahead. A restaurant. I wasn't wearing my glasses (I need a glasses case to keep in my purse) so I couldn't see the name, but it kind of looked like the pictures I'd seen online. It was about five minutes away. I was near what I'd remembered the address to be. I'd get there before dark.

I got to the restaurant right at dark. It wasn't the right place. Not at all. I stood in the light of this new restaurant and texted for the address of the mac and cheese restaurant. It was 400. I was at 1000.

It was dark. I was alone. I was about twenty minutes from my destination, and wandering a strange street in a strange neighborhood. At least I didn't have to worry about vampires.
right?

I may have seen a prostitute, but I think she was just a girl who had poor taste in clothing. She didn't appear to be street walking, just walking. I walked past BART. Double doh! I was supposed to go right.

Long story short, I didn't get mugged, didn't meet any villains, and didn't find Oakland any scarier than some Orange County neighborhoods.**

As for the important part of the story, I did in fact get my mac and cheese.

With Goat Cheese!



*As I was writing this, I recalled that I've been to the Oakland airport, but immediately took a taxi to/from the city, so I don't really count that.

**Newport is scary in a completely different way.

It is time, woo

A favorite movie in my family is Heart and Souls. You know the one. Alfre Woodard, Kyra Sedgwick, Charles Grodin, and some other guy die in a bus crash and their souls get attached to a little boy who eventually grows up to become Robert Downey Jr. He forgets about them, then they reappear so he can help them put right what once went wrong, and they all sing Walk Like a Man.

And it's set in San Francisco.

It came on cable our first week here. It was kind of cool. I mean sure, we're from Orange County, but most things aren't filmed behind the Orange Curtain. Hell, The OC was filmed in Redondo and Long Beach.

Earlier this week I was walking along Haight and I heard this familiar noise. San Francisco natives will recognize it as the electrical wires screeching as the bus comes to a stop. But me? I recognized it as the sound that signifies the bus driver is coming to collect another lost soul.



And as I heard it, as I cognitively acknowledged it as the sound associated with the film, another feeling overwhelmed me. This sound that is deeply ingrained in my subconscience has become a part of my every day life.

It's such a little thing, just one snapshot into the day to day realization that this is my life now. This is my home.

How am I doing? Really.

I've been asked recently if I know my way around San Francisco yet?

Let's see. I get lost constantly. Drives that should take me twenty minutes easily take me forty. The day that I took the bus to work, I got on the wrong bus home.

And yet...

I recognize street names. I get lost, but I easily find my way home. I'm discovering back roads, alternate routes, and how to bypass those dreaded one way streets. When I took the wrong bus, I still managed to find my way home with ease (albeit by walking more than a few blocks out of the way.)

Okay, so I can hardly pass for a native. But I'm learning.

I'll get there.

Landmarks

Growing up, there was a Southern California landmark that made me happy every time that I saw it. It was out of the way, so driving by it was a moment for excitement. A reminder of what was near. As I grew older, it became a part of my routine freeway driving. This didn't diminish my excitement. Some of my older friends may realize what I'm talking about.



The Matterhorn isn't the only landmark that makes me happy. The Hollywood sign still evokes images of the golden age of cinema. The Statue of Liberty always brings tears to my eyes. And of course, the Golden Gate Bridge.



It's no secret that a few weeks ago I wasn't emotionally in the best place. I felt isolated from the city. Leonard and I were both recovering from a flu, and had barely left the apartment. He wanted to cheer me up, so he took me on a surprise trip to Golden Gate Park. To see the buffalo. And we were driving on 19th street, the major street near our house. We'd been on the road for maybe five minutes, and we went over a minor hill and suddenly there it was.

Leonard turned to me with a smile. "Look at that." But I didn't reply. I felt my eyes filling up with tears. So many of my trips to San Francisco, the bridge has been ignored. I would drive across the lesser Bay Bridge, stay downtown, and never venture to the ocean side of the city. Now I live near the bridge. The Golden Gate is my bridge.

Within the week, I would begin my new job. Now every (not foggy) work day, I drive that same route. I drive toward Golden Gate park, and for a few blocks, I can see her. My bridge. And every morning I smile like the little girl who was obsessed with the Matterhorn.

This is my home.

5 most San Francisco things to happen to me this week

Well, really last week. But what can I say, I've been lagging.

1) I got a job working for a tech start up in a Victorian in the Haight.

2) I couldn't find my way home from said job, because my commute there consisted of a variety of one way streets, which resulted in a half hour drive taking nearly an hour as I tried to find a street that I recognized. (This has happened to me about four times in the past two weeks, though only twice was the drive home from work. I've since found an acceptable route, thanks to my bus adventure last week.)

3) My good friend Traci and I stumbled across an Occupy Oakland demonstration in downtown San Francisco.

4) A crazy guy befriended me on Muni, then happened to be on the same BART car as me, though I'm not sure that he saw me there. He got off the same BART station that I did, but I don't believe he followed me. He certainly wasn't at the restaurant where I had a lovely brunch.

5) I saw two naked guys walking through the Castro. They weren't completely naked; one had a kitty cat hat on. They may have worn shoes. Rumor has it, this is totally normal.

Ladies and gentlemen, I'm not in Orange County anymore.

Maile vs Muni

Here it is, the post that I promised weeks ago. That's right, I'm going to blog about a staple of living in San Francisco.

Muni, or the Municipal Railway is the bulk of what I've experienced. The M line isn't fancy, but it's a 5-10 minute walk from the apartment, and takes me right into the city.

Who am I kidding, I love the M line. I love sitting, or standing with all these people. This is one of the reasons that I was so excited to move here. Eventually I'm sure that I'll read while the train is going, but for now I just look out the window with wide eyes.

So how could I post Maile vs Muni when really it was Maile + Muni = <3?

Then last night's adventure happened.

The biggest problem that I've had thusfar isn't with Muni, but with my own two feet. The stops I generally wind up at are classic subway stops. I'm underground, and the only clues to my location are little signs telling me which stairs lead to which streets. Unfortunately, because I'm still learning, those signs never actually include the street that I'm looking for.

This happened yesterday. Google gave me these ridiculous directions, and I got so turned around that I didn't have a clue where I was. This wasn't a part of the city that I was horribly familiar with, and I don't have a smart phone. What was I to do? How was I going to get to the book signing? Using some sort of natural instinct, I turned around, found my way, and was at the bookstore with time to spare.

Getting back to my station was a piece of cake; I walked with some of my new friends and wound up at Civic Center. And thus began my most annoying Muni trip to date.

It started when my Clipper Card wouldn't scan. The attendant let me pass, but still frustrating. I went down the stairs, sat down, and patiently waited for my train. The digital sign informed me that an Outbound M was expected in about five minutes. That M never came. They skipped it. Instead Outbound N, L, J, K all came through. No M. The cycle continued.

Okay, if my train never came, I could take one of the other lines, maybe K, get to West Portal, or even St. Francis. I could wait for my connection there, and if it never came, I'd be close enough for Leonard to rescue me.





And then the crazy man came.

Don't give me that whatever Orange County Girl face. Everyone was on alert. Muni police were paged. He was talking to himself, in a very fierce determined voice. He talked about bullets, guns and shootings. Yes, I'd definitely get on K. But I sat. I waited. The crazy guy got on K. I stayed behind.

About fifteen minutes later, M finally showed up. Single car. Standing room only. Awesome.

Waited over half an hour for a train - check. Crazy guy - check. Standing the entire route - check.

You may have won this round Muni, but I'm not finished with you yet.

If you're ever down a well, ring my bell

One of the most difficult parts about moving, and something that I've been experiencing lately, is the loneliness. We came up here with a sprinkling of friends and family, most of whom are farther away than I'd realized. That doesn't make them nonexistent. One local friend has already reached out (I was still recovering from the never ending flu), and I have a girl's night on the books with a very dear friend.

But is that enough?

Of course not. After a childhood of dorkiness, I have become a very social person. I like having people to laugh with, girls who are just as strange as I am. So today I did something awesome, something that I'm not ashamed to admit kind of freaked me out.

I went to a speed friending event.

I know, really Maile, what are you even talking about?

Remember that book I devoured this week, MWF Seeking BFF? The author had a signing today in San Francisco! I knew there was a reason that the book was screaming at me on Wednesday. And following the signing, there was a speed friending event. You know, like speed dating, but for friendship. Which is awesome because I've always wanted to do speed dating, but sadly I'm quite happy with Leonard.

And it was nice. I chatted, other women chatted, and in the end I walked away with three phone numbers & email addresses. Will these be my new Bay Area Buddies?

How do we ever know? Eleven years ago could I have foreseen that Claire would one day write a sappy ode to me on her blog? When we were cast in the same show, could I have anticipated that Julie would become the Joey to my Chandler? (Try to fight it Jewels, everyone knows that if anyone is Chandler, it's me). Did I know that Jess would become my penpal, that Marika would become my work bestie, that Traci would be my go-to book buddy?

Of course not.

But all I can do is go in with an open heart, an open mind, and take the steps to making my home in San Francisco a happy one.

An apology of sorts

I hope that you'll forgive last night's melancholy. I had this dream this morning, that we hadn't moved yet. We were packing the U-haul, and doing such a poor job of it. And I when I woke up in the apartment I was so happy to be here. So happy that we have moved, and that we're here.

It's just overwhelming. For years this is all I wanted. To live in the city. To live in San Francisco. But nothing is quite as I imagined.

Really I should have figured that out after thirty years. Things are never as you plan.

I imagined us closer to the heart of the city, instead we're out of the way. I imagined excitement, instead it's quiet and peaceful. Quieter than Orange County. I imagined to be within a stones throw of all these hip local places, instead we can walk to the mall.

None of these things are bad. There's a lot to be said about each of these developments.

I am so thrilled to be here. I just wish I had more stories to share. I wish that every time people asked, I had a new exciting tale to tell.

But that's all on me, isn't it?

A not humorous confession

I expected to have it all figured out by now. I expected three weeks in to be a regular Carrie Bradshaw of San Francisco, with my own hot spots already chosen. To have a new and exciting life that made up for the past thirty years of mediocrity.

That hasn't happened yet.

Today I had a thought. A thought that I only share here because I'm a writer at heart, and really only feel confident expressing myself through written words. I don't even know how to say this.

We were in the car, and I was looking out at everything my new home has to offer. And one thing kept racing through my mind.

I want to go home.

I wanted to be back in Orange County. Where everything is safe. Where I have friends, where I had a life.

Instead I'm here. Alone, save for Leonard and the cats. Crazy cat lady, party of one. All we've explored are the local malls, which are certainly nothing to write home about. And dear friends, I feel so, so lost.

I read a book today, MWF Seeking BFF. A woman in a new city looking for friends. Ir cried out to me, begging to be read. I devoured it, of course.

After I finished, I went to the website so that I could write the author. I don't know what I'd say. Help me? But then I saw, she'll be in San Francisco this Sunday.

Maybe I'll try to make a new friend or two this weekend. Maybe I'll have something real to blog about soon.

I wanted this blog to be all about my new adventures, and instead I find myself chronicling the many reasons why moving is so difficult. I always considered myself to be a strong woman, but this move continues to strike me down.

Feels Like Home

I've had my next posting mentally written for over a week now. Maile vs Muni. It was going to be brilliant. And then the past few months took their toll on me. I got sick. I know. Perfect timing, right? Well, I'd kind of been fighting it since early December, so I guess I was due.

Anyhow, today we went exploring. Today we discovered how close we were to the coast. On a clear day, looking past the lake, we thought we could see the waves.

We were right.




The smell of salt water revitalizes me. It makes me feel alive. I feel whole. Complete. Like all is right with the world.

It's been that way as long as I can remember. I was born on an island. A birthplace that I only remember from family folklore. A place I can only recall deep within me. I grew up in a coastal town, spent my childhood and adolescence at the beach. At Big Corona. I would swim so far out in the ocean that people would worry. Lifeguards would swim out to check on me. I spent summers in Hawaii, tumbling with the waves as they crashed over me.

And I wonder, aside from my birthplace, have I ever lived this close to the ocean?

When I think of San Francisco, I don't think of the coast. Sure, I think of the water. The bridges, the wharf, the sea lions. But I don't picture the waves crashing on the sand. I didn't expect to be this close to home.

The Pacific Ocean is home. It connects my birthplace to my childhood. Connects Oahu to Newport. And now it connects those to my adult life, to who I am today. This is my home.

Smelling that salt water, I suddenly feel more at home than I have for over ten years.



2012 is going to be an amazing year.

Moving Sucks, part two

Where was I?

Right, Saturday. The day to unload all our junk into the new apartment. The U-haul that if you recall couldn’t hold all of our possessions. And while the new apartment is a good size, it certainly isn’t as large as our two bedroom (with garage).

But we were in good shape. We had a moving assistant, a good friend who made the drive with us. We had an elevator, and we had a handcart.


We were set. The boys went to drive the U-haul up to the apartment, while I took a call from the cable company about setting up our service. Conveniently, our apartment included basic cable, and our apartment manager gave us our rep’s card the night before. Inconveniently while I was taking that call someone STOLE OUR HANDCART.

Yes, someone decided to take a handcart from the lobby. Welcome to the SF, Bitch!

We were in a panic. We could certainly do this without a handcart, but it would take about five times as long. (We could fit about five boxes on the handcart, not to mention how it would help the boys with the heavy stuff). The good news sat in the back of the U-haul, behind boxes and boxes of crap. Attached to the fridge was a second handcart, an industrial strength model.

New plan, unload everything into the lobby, then use that one. It wasn’t ideal, but it was the only way we could return the U-haul that night.*

We unloaded everything into the lobby. Said goodbye to a few more items. We really didn’t need a broken chair. We got it all to the lobby. The boys moved the truck. They took a few of the heavier items upstairs (the fridge, the couch), and then THE FREAKING HANDCART RETURNED!

It was just sitting in the elevator, waiting for us like a person.

What. The. Bloody. Hell.

Long story less long, we got everything in, returned the U-haul, and calmed the cats back down.

We did it. We’re here.

It’s a fustercluck, but we’re here. And I am so grateful for the friends and family who supported us through this process. The people who helped us pack, who saw us out, who called to check in. The people who kept me sane…well, tried to. I wish you were all here now.

Not in my apartment; that’d get crowded. But in our complex? That’d be pretty cool.

So why does moving suck? It’s hard work. It costs much more than you’re expecting. A week before the move you can be well within budget and have funds to spare, then BAM! you’re broke and struggling to stay afloat (send us Trader Joes gift cards please!) The things you’ve known your entire life are suddenly different. My channels, I can’t make heads or tails of them! My entire life channel 2 was CBS, and now it’s FOX?!?! ? And learning where everything is? We needed a drugstore after 10pm one night, and Leonard drove around and around and around. Turns out, it was about five minutes away. And my friends and family. Did I mention that I miss you guys?

We’re here, and I’m thrilled, but damn, I’m ready for the moving process to be finished.


*It was due by 9am Sunday morning, but because I was working Fancy Foods, it was easier to return it on Saturday night.

Moving Sucks, part one

Okay, so I tried being clever. I had a whole list of why moving sucks. But this move has drained me. It has wiped me clear of creativity and wit. So instead you get some rambling thoughts about why moving sucks, thoughts that may or may not be connected to one another.

We didn’t have enough room in the U-haul. Yeah, we packed, and packed, and donated nonstop. Still we didn’t have room for everything. By the time we figured this out, the U-haul was 95% packed, and we still had 15% of our possessions to get in. With the help of some good friends, and some mad Tetris skils, we got about 10% in. But it was frantic and stressful and lame.

Little did I realize that it wasn’t going to get less stressful anytime soon. We spent the night at our friend’s house, and Mowgli was not a happy little kitty. He cried the entire drive there, and spent the night hiding under the guest bed. River, a social little kitten, came out to meet our hosts. She purred and cooed and slept at my feet that night. We drugged them in the morning, put them in their respective carriers, and I drove off about five minutes ahead of Leonard. Mowgli cried, and cried, and cried – AND RIPPED OPEN HIS CARRIER!

Yeah, the cat broke the carrier, popped his little head out, and escaped. I frantically pulled over, parked in a Fresh & Easy parking lot, and tried to figure out what to do next. Mowgli crawled under my feet, trying to find a safe place. I called Leonard – no answer. I called my mother – no answer. I called Leonard again – no answer. I called Claire – no answer. Then I did what all strong women do when the stress has taken over. I cried.

Long story short, Claire returned my message. She and her charming boyfriend drove to my rescue, and got us to a pet store. We got Mowgli a sturdier carrier, which he hated, and I went in my merry way. Leonard called me back (his phone had accidentally turned off), and we agreed to meet around Magic Mountain. I was an hour behind schedule, thanks to Mowgli.

Mowgli cried and cried and cried. He scratched his nose trying to escape, and tore up his claws. At Magic Mountain we gave him another pill, and I passed River onto Leonard. Mowgli and I would do the drive on our own. He cried through the grapevine, until finally calming down around Bakersfield. He’d sleep for maybe twenty minutes at a time, then wake up and pathetically start to cry.

And I started to wonder about all of you who said traveling with a cat was easy. Were you punking me? Was this an elaborate practical joke? Mowgli’s a good kitty. A little insecure, sure, but otherwise he’s good. How do those of you with poorly behaved cats do it?

He thought we were abandoning him. I’m sure of that. And abandonment issues? I get that. He truly is my cat.

We made it, half an hour later than we were supposed to. Luckily our apartment manager waited so that we could get into the apartment that night. If not we would have had to wait until Tuesday. F-ing Tuesday! We slept on the floor that night, curled up on whatever blankets we could find.

As for Saturday? Well friends, I guess you’ll have to stay tuned for “moving sucks, part 2.”

Root, Root, Root for the Home Team.

I’m not what one would call a sports fan. My family raised me with a basic understanding of baseball, and a team to root for (Go Yankees!). But otherwise, not really my scene. I hate the rivalries that come with sports, and cringe at how many comments this heartfelt entry will receive that consist simply of “Yankees Suck!”

Okay, so I do regularly text one of my dearest friends whenever one of my teams beats her Red Sox, but that’s just comedy gold.

That said, there is one aspect of sports that I really enjoy. This is when it can bring people together. When people can bond of their mutual enjoyment of this event, and get invested in the stories of the teams. I like live games for this reason; the social aspect of sports appeals to me.

Earlier this year, when I had my day job, I would listen to a lot of morning radio. This was just at the beginning of football season, and I wanted to be able to follow the news reports. I put up a facebook message asking for who I should root for, and after quite a few suggestions I decided on the 49ers.* This was in large part due to my plans to move out here. For those of you who don’t follow sports, today was a big game.

This afternoon I was shopping at Trader Joes. In the middle of my shopping trip they made an announcement over the loudspeaker. The 49ers had won the game!

They made an announcement in the supermarket that the local football team had won a big game.

Forgive me for being glib, but that wouldn’t happen in Orange County.

And for that memory, that moment when I realized this is my home, this is my home team, this is my city’s victory, that memory has sealed my fate.

I am a fan of the San Francisco 49ers.

More than anything else in the past 24 hours, that stupid football game showed me that my life really has changed more than just an apartment with a spectacular view.



*I also decided to root for the Giants. Well, really I root for both Giants. NY Giants and SF Giants. But I already rooted for the baseball team; rooting for the football team is new.

Written about twelve hours ago

Well we’re here. We made it. I’m sitting on the floor, laptop resting on an ottoman, looking out my sixth floor window. We don’t have Internet (I’m typing this on Saturday morning, likely going to a coffee house or bookstore to work on my homework later today).* We slept on the floor, using whatever cushions and blankets we could find. Most of our possessions are still in the U-Haul, waiting for us to unload them today. The cats are fine (now, more on that later).

It’s not real to me yet. To either of us. The entire drive up, I kept feeling like I was going on vacation. That I was on my way to visit one of my Bay Area buddies. And now that’s me. I’m a Bay Area girl.

Nope, doesn’t feel real.

The apartment feels real. I’ve easily adjusted to it. It’s just the fact that the apartment lies in San Francisco that I haven’t fully grasped.

San Fran-bloody-cisco!




*Bookstore was rubbish, Leonard managed to connect me with his bluetooth.

Goodbye Orange County.

I don’t even have the time to write this blog, but writing keeps me sane. It’s what keeps me going when life is in chaos around me. True confession, I’m writing this in spurts. A minute or two here. Pack. Another few minutes. Pack. And so on.

Tonight is our last night in the apartment. Tomorrow night we’re staying at a friend’s house to get an early start. Tonight is it. We’re in the red. The danger zone. No messing around.

Did I mention how not ready to go we are?

Focus Maile.

The past few days have been loaded with goodbyes. My previous entry touched on my last day at the restaurant. But let me tell you friends, it was even more spectacular. I didn’t really doubt it, but I will be missed. The morning manager went out of her way to make the day special for me. There were hugs, and there was singing, and then there were the tequila shots.

Don’t worry, the shots came later. Hours after I walked out the door, shedding tears that were for my eyes only. Yes, I cried. When I walked away, alone, my last shift truly over. I met my work friends at another restaurant, where we spent hours together. We drank together, had conversations both brilliant and inane. They told me they loved me, and I held back the tears.

Damnit, I’m going to miss those guys. No restaurant will be the same without you.

Then last night we had a little going away thing. I was so tired. So, so, so tired.

But here’s the funny thing. With our friends from last night, with my closest friends from the restaurant – it wasn’t goodbye. It sounds so silly, but it was just see you later.

And we will. We’re only a drive away. My family is still down here, and I’ll see them. You guys know I’ll be back. My cousin’s wedding is this year, and my bff isn’t too far behind her. These are life events that I cannot, and will not miss.

But saying goodbye is hard, yo.

It’s not goodbye. It’s so long, see you soon.

Now I have a spare bedroom to clean out.

Next time friends, I’ll be writing you from San Francisco!

Waiter Rant

Five and a half years ago I was looking for a new job. I had my resume in with employment agency after employment agency. I clicked on link after link that Monster had to offer. And, on a whim, I put in a resume for one serving position. I talked with a manager and was advised to check back in two weeks. Two weeks later I had a phone interview, only a few days before my previous position was ending. Friday September 1st was my final day with that company. I was hired at the restaurant on Saturday the 2nd.

I didn't expect to be there long. I wanted to move to the big city and take steps toward becoming a professional author. Over the past five and a half years my life has changed substantially. My goals have shifted and altered. And yet here I am, moving to the big city and starting a graduate program in Creative Writing.

I love this job. I love the coworkers, I love the food industry and I love interacting with the public. Sure I have bad days (who doesn't?), but truly it's been a great five and a half years.

Tomorrow is my last day at the restaurant. I will cry. Tomorrow I say goodbye to the memories. I say goodbye to the girl I was when I walked in those doors, and smile at the woman I've become.

I have grown professionally and personally because of this job. I have formed friendships that I hope will last a lifetime, and made connections that I will forever treasure.

So thank you dear work friends, for making the past five and a half years so memorable. Thank you for being there through the bad tips, the rude tables, and the burnt food. We've been through some horrible times together, and some amazing ones.

And it is without irony that I say, for perhaps the last time "HB ROCKS!"

Oh Crap

One week from today I'll be in San Francisco.

One week from today I'll have been in San Francisco for over 24 hours.

I don't even have words for all the thoughts running through my head. I'm excited, of course I'm excited, but more than anything else I'm overwhelmed.

Why is moving so stressful?

Monday is my last day at my restaurant, my real last day, and that afternoon I'll be saying goodbye to the people who've colored my life for the past five years. Five freaking years.

Thursday is the day we're loading the Uhaul.

Friday we're driving up.

Time is moving way too quickly now.

I apologize for the lack of introspection in this post; I'm operating on fumes of anxiety at this point.

Still Packing

The house is an obstacle course. In the past few days I've managed to repeatedly injure myself. None of these injuries are bad (in fact the worst happened outside the home), but they consistently remind me to be careful. Bags of clothes are on the floor, surrounded by boxes, surrounded by school bags. Some of these things are packed, some need to be sorted, others haven't been touched yet. I know doing a bit each day is the smart way to do this, but it makes for a different type of stress.

In other packing related news, I've come across quite a few things from my past that have given me hope for the future. Positive reminders about who I once was, what was once important to me, and what I still have in common with that girl from years ago.

I wish I could contact her, and say don't worry Past Maile, it get's better. You become comfortable in your own skin, and the things that make you self conscience turn out to be the things you love about yourself. You will make friends, true friends. You will share your writing with others. You will go back to school. You will meet a guy who cares. You'll even move to San Francisco, just like you wanted. You will get through the growing pains. And, p.s. Past Maile, they're totally normal. Everyone has growing pains, even the people who appeared to have it all together.

I wish I could tell her not to worry so much. Hell, I wish I could tell Present Maile not to worry so much.

If you could contact your past self, what would you say to them? What words of wisdom would you offer yourself at 10? At 15? At 20? How have you changed, and in what ways have you stayed the same?

I think exploring this is one of my favorite parts about the moving process. Even if it can be painful at times.


Past Maile, before she became a ball of insecurity.

Goodbye Clothes

Now we're packing the apartment. Really packing the apartment. In some ways this is easier than the storage unit. Most of my apartment stuff is stuff that is going to San Francisco. Over the past few years, I've tried to sort through books as I go, and, bookworm that I am, those are the bulk of my regular purchases. It's the little things that aren't making the cut. A script here, a notebook there.

And the clothes.

Ah, the clothes. People say you should go through your closet once a year. Once a year! I have things I haven't touched in three! I'd like to say there's logic to what I'm keeping, that I have it down to a science, but I don't. Gone are the skirts that never fit me right, that never quite worked with my body. Gone are the sweaters I'm not sure I love, yet others I'm just as wary about stay. The jeans I can't quite fit into anymore? Some get tossed aside, others get to travel with me, waiting for the day they can be worn again. It's a quality issue; the good jeans and the good sweaters get to stay.

Then there are the clothes that still fit, and I still love, but just aren't me anymore. I'm not an ageist, I know more than a few women my own age who can still pull some of these outfits off. But sadly, I'm not one of them. Gone are my days of low cut lace up black tops and short plaid skirts.

And somehow, despite the fact that I've never considered myself a clothes horse, this is hitting surprisingly close to home. I know a lot of people who lose weight and deliberately get rid of their bigger clothes. But what if it's the opposite? What if you've been stress eating because of a big move, and hope to fit into the old clothes by March?

Today we tackle the kitchen. More Leonard's domain than my own, but I still expect some difficult decisions.

Happy New Year!

It's 2012. The year of the move. The year of change. January will be huge for us. I start my graduate program through Southern New Hampshire University, we move, Leonard starts at San Francisco State, and somewhere in there I start at a new restaurant. A month where starting a graduate program is the least stressful part of the equation.

But, if you'll forgive a little melancholy dear readers, today is a bit difficult for me. We were supposed to be on the road. Right now. I was supposed to be well past the grapevine, on the stretch of the 5 that is nothing but fields and cows. Our shiny new city apartment should have been waiting for me. Instead our move date was pushed back two weeks, and while this is definitely a good thing (seriously, what was I thinking wanting to move during the holidays), it still manages to sting a little bit.

For the next two weeks, we're on borrowed time. We're going to pack, and we're going to visit with friends. I'm going to work a little longer, which I know my restaurant is grateful for. But I also have to fight the blues.

As some of you know, I'm fairly good with dates. At one point in my life, I could tell you exactly what I was doing a year ago to the day. My inability to do this now has less to do with my memory, and more to do with the fact that my life is a bit more mundane than it was when I was 20. And happier, Lord am I happier. So every day that I'm down here, a part of me will wonder what alternate reality Maile is doing in San Francisco. It this the day she was going to start working? Did she just discover an amazing used bookstore? Is she just sitting with Mowgli, just looking out the window?

In other news, I'd like to puff up my feathers and share that I did pretty well with my resolutions for 2011. Not as great as I'd like, but I throughout the year I made active strides toward them all. I did have a great workout plan in the earlier half of the year. I did find a job outside of the restaurant industry. I did declutter my life, and I was accepted to a graduate program.

2012? Aside from learning San Francisco, I only have two resolutions. One is the standard, get back to the gym. The other is a little more personal. I'm going to write a book.

I'm getting to December 21st with at least one item crossed off my bucket list.