So, eight hours after I was scheduled to touch down in San Francisco, I arrived at the temporary home of the boyfriend. (Note to self: How an airline so thoroughly rude and cavalier and self-centered can have the word “American” in its name…oh, right.)
So far, the best part of the alleged vacation (I brought my laptop, and you know how that goes) has been listening to all the hippies whine about how unbearably hot it is. All of which makes me wanna say, (a) “Bitch, come to New Orleans, and I’ll show you hot“, and (b) “Bitch, spend a hundred bucks on a window unit and shut the hell up.” You’ll be happy to know, however, that I’ve bitten my tongue. Mostly. Mom would be proud.
In addition to rolling my eyes, I’ve shopped a bit, caught up with friends, met new folks in Jonno’s ever-expanding social circle. Yesterday, we went for the full-on Carrie Bradshaw Experience, complete with manicures (1st time in my life), pedicures (2nd time in my life), and, thanks in part to a suggestion from my friend Drury, an afternoon spa extravaganza (1st of many times, I hope). I now feel guilty and dirty and ashamed, but my neck feels totally better, so there.
The big letdown? Dinner last night at Chez Panisse. The restaurant was beautiful and I couldn’t have asked for more charming, sparkling company, and I’m sure Alice Waters is, like, really nice and everything, but her food left me mostly underwhelmed. And since she’s all about natural, seasonal simple-ish food, maybe that was the point, but if I wanted to be underwhelmed I could visit the de Young Museum again. Of course, everyone else at the table was really happy with everything, so maybe it was just me. It’s always just me….
sturtle [dot] com 