The San Francisco Treat

So I come to you tonight wearing my shame face (and pajama pants and ratty tank top). Maybe I should draft a boilerplate apology paragraph and paste it at the beginning of every post. However, I certainly don’t want to commence each post with an apology. I mean that would kinda be like dating a jackass – you start off every date with him apologizing for something he did so you can get into the actual date and enjoy yourself. And dear readers, I am no jackass and I don’t want you to look back at your time on this blog with bitter regret. I’ll start posting more regularly. So keep visiting and subscribing. I vow to never promise to take you to Olive Garden and then not show up or call.

Part of the reason why this post came slower than Christmas is because I went on a mini break to San Francisco. And when you are going to be out of the office on a Friday, everyone likes to make you pay during the prior four days. (Yeah, I think that’s fuzzy math too.)

Because I had such a wretched work week, I paid the $49.99 to upgrade my coach seat to business class. Lest you call me a princess, I’ll explain that a business class seat on Airtran is basically a coach seat on Delta with a free bottomless glass of wine and snack options other than pretzels (still a few levels below air travel nirvana).

Plus, the flight ended up being painful anyway because the stewardess/flight attendant/terribly dressed person that is supposed to quash riots when the tomato juice runs out was cranky. It isn’t my fault she didn’t listen when I told her to bring those single serving wine bottles Noah’s Ark style (that’s in two’s for you those of you who missed out on vacation Bible school). And how was I to know that my purse strap was sticking out in the aisle creating a booby trap for her and her wheelie cart causing her to spill hot coffee on herself? There was no need for her to take her polyester-wedgie-induced frustration out on me (refusing to look and see if there were more pita puffs was just mean and spiteful).

To add salt to the wound, the guy next to me was reading a book about grief and mortality, and kept looking at me like he wanted to talk. No sir. That convo is going nowhere good. Did he think I looked like I knew how to deal with grief and mortality? I was doped up on Dramamine, downing “free” glasses of wine, and reading OK Magazine (I had already read all the US Weekly’s on the stand). I think he got the hint when I passed out with my mouth open murmuring about how John Mayer is a prick.

The silver lining to this cloud is that once I touched down in San Fran, everything was sweeter than Mrs. Butterworth. San Francisco is quite possibly the hippest city on the planet. Even people’s dogs are hip. (A mutt at the music festival rolled over and showed me the “peace, love & scraps on the floor” tattoo on his belly.) Despite myself, I bought two newsboy hats, moccasins, and a pair of bright red thrift store sunglasses (which now unfortunately belong to a cute guy I met). I drank coffee and walked Union St. with Steph, my friend and roommate from law school (I blame the hats on her). My childhood friend Melissa and her rocker husband, Brent, took me to the Mission where I asked an Italian chef to make us gnocchi with meat ragu even though it wasn’t on the menu (it was delish and followed by tiramisu on the house). We listened to great live music in Golden Gate Park and sat on blankets in some other park watching the dogs run. We talked about life and our jobs and how you can’t put a price tag on being happy. I even ate falafel. And yeah, we drank from sunup to sundown. (I plead the 5th on whether we did anything else.) But I have to admit that the highlight of the trip occurred when I saw the Seven Sisters in Alamos Square (aka the townhouses from the opening credits of Full House).

Just like a pudding cup, the weekend ended with me wanting more. I almost cried when I got off the redeye here in Atlanta, felt the 5 a.m. 90 degree humidity smack me in the face, and saw that chubby woman wearing confederate flag shorts.

But to keep myself from trying to slit my wrists with a legal pad, I’ve decided not to leave my heart in San Francisco. I'm going to embrace my inner independent spirit and let the artsy schfartsy side of me roam free. There is no reason why I can’t don my newsboy hat and meander down Peachtree Street with a cup of coffee. And there are a slew of bands in East Atlanta and Little Five Points waiting to be discovered by an ex-sorority girl in leggings and flats. I can head to Piedmont Park with a blanket, a bottle of wine, my journal, and a beret if I want. I can be a San Fran hippy right here in the 30309.

Of course, I will have to be a San Fran hippy that puts on $100 face cream at night and buys handbags that are worth more than the GDP of Yemen. And I will never be one of those vegan hippies. Last time I checked, no one throws squash on a pig cooker, douses it in bbq sauce and calls it a Gourd Pickin'. But I think the fact that I don't shave my legs everyday makes up for all that. And don't tell, but I actually really like falafel.