Thankful that November only has 30 days

While I feel a small sense of accomplishment at successfully completing nablopomo (as opposed to all the other years when I missed a day but charged on undeterred) I am mostly thankful that I won't be quite so chained to my computer in December. This is a good exercise, and a fun challenge, but I'm a little burnt out.

Don't get me wrong, I love to write every day, but I felt like this year, I just didn't have enough to say to make daily posting worth reading.

I've also found that. by spending every day blogging, I missed out on what the rest of the blogosphere was up to. I miss my friends. So, I'm taking a break for a few days, continuing to fix my semi-broken internet connection, and going to see what all of you have been up to this month.

The further adventures of my left foot

I'm pretty excited that my foot is finally really starting to feel better. In fact, it's so much better that ART therapy no longer hurts. Tonight, I was promoted to every-other-week sessions. I'm probably still a couple of months from any real walking, but I'm going back to yoga this week. And I'm quite happy about that.

I had hoped to be training for another half marathon by the first of December, but since that's not going to happen, and I probably won't be able to tackle a race of that distance for awhile, I'm investigating early season sprint triathlons. I figure I can DNF after the bike, and get some race experience before I'm fully back on my feet. But I'm looking for races that are in warmer water. I'm not quite ready to tackle my cold water asthma issues yet, nor do I care to be rescued again from 200 meters offshore.

So I'm looking for warm water races in Northern CA between May and July. It's unlikely I'll find them, but it's worth a shot, right? Unless somebody wants to walk or run for me. But I think the rest of the Tortuga relay team has gone into retirement.

Harmonicas

My church sets up a giving tree every Christmas. On the tree, paper angels hang like ornaments, printed with the name of a gift and the age of the child who would like that gift for Christmas. In most cases, the gifts hanging on the giving tree are the only things that will appear under these kids trees on Christmas morning.

I'm a little cash strapped this year, and that's going to change how I approach gift giving. But as I walked past the giving tree last week on my way to choir rehearsal, one little angel stood out at me. There's no age attached to it, just a request for harmonicas. I'm not sure if more than one kid has asked for a harmonica for Christmas, or if the child making the request didn't know exactly how to spell harmonica.

I perused the rest of the tree, trying to figure out if anybody else requested a musical instrument for Christmas. I couldn't find an angel proclaiming "tambourine" or "recorder," so I picked up the Harmonicas angel, and I'll be making a trip to a local music shop this week. I guess I'll buy two, in case there's a serious demand for harmonicas among the kids in my parish.

Some kid's parents are going to hate me on Christmas morning, but everybody's Christmas should have a little music in it.

Hitting the wall

Today marks the 27th day of national blog posting month, and I've pretty much hit the wall. This happens every time I participate in nablopomo, but usually much earlier in the month. I'm happy to have made it this far. I've never fully completed nablopomo before, and I'm pretty determined to do so this year. I'm almost there. But I've sort of run out of words. I'm really thankful November only has 30 days.

Autumn in New York

I love Fall, and it's probably the only time of year I feel shortchanged by San Francisco. We just don't have the right kind of foliage for all the pretty leaves. And usually, by this time of year, all the leaves are off the trees in New York, and the bare winter trees already dot the landscape.

But this year, I was incredibly lucky. The trees still have some red, orange, and yellow leaves on them - though the bulk are already in neat little piles along the sidewalk. And the weather was nice enough today to walk around without 6 layers and a wool hat. And since I didn't need to wear gloves, my fingers were available to work my camera.

I was all excited to download my photos, but I left all the camera cables at home. Trust me, it was pretty.

So with tears in our eyes, we drove off into the sunset....

It just wouldn't be Thanksgiving without Mr. Guthrie and an entire recounting of the Alice's Restaurant Massacree. Take 18 minutes and watch the whole thing. Happy Thanksgiving!

Dusting off the Thanksgiving Pants

I generally don't see my family for Thanksgiving, because it's a really long trip for a very short visit. And scheduling travel for Thanksgiving and Christmas is difficult, so I have always saved my vacation time for Christmas.

But when I do travel for Thanksgiving, I always dust off my Thanksgiving Pants. They're an important tradition in my family. Last week, I decided I wanted to be home for Thanksgiving. I figured if I could find available seats and a decent fare, I would go to NY.  Without the knowledge of my mom and, until this morning, my brother (we had to tell him so he could drive me home) I arrived home in time to order pizza for dinner. It was an awesome way to start the holiday!

On my feet

In a continued effort to help my foot heal, I've spent a lot of the last eight weeks sitting down. Or at least not actively walking.  I've been taping and massaging and stretching and icing, and my foot is getting better, very, very slowly. But I'm starting to get antsy.

I'm trying not to focus on the speed I've lost, or the fall hiking I've missed, or the walks with friends and yoga classes that aren't happening for awhile. I'm filling my walking hours with spin classes and bike rides (when it's not raining) and lots of time in the pool. I'm a very recent convert to spin class, and while I'd definitely rather be outside, it's a good alternative on days when the rain makes my regular bike routes unsafe. And most of the instructors use good music. I just need to remember that it's a bad idea to try to sing along. I tried to do that this morning, and I'm happy to say I wasn't the only one in the class trying to sing with the Cranberries as we were ascending a steep virtual hill. I figured if I had the lung capacity to sing along, the resistance on my bike wasn't high enough. I turned the nob, increased the resistance, and could only manage to hum.

I figured out today that I also pedal in rhythm to the music, which makes sense since when I sing I usually keep time with my feet, but is not conducive to a hard workout. I don't foresee any silent spin classes in my future, so I'm going to have to figure out how to cycle in double time. 

Only Somewhat Dangerous

We were sitting around the table after our pre-Thanksgiving feast, and I don't know how we got started talking about the Chinese Zodiac, but all of a sudden we had competing smart phones pulling up information for each animal of the 12-year cycle. I was born in the Year of the Snake. Snakes are supposed to be loyal, wise, and logical, and only somewhat dangerous.

Seriously. At least according to whatever website my friends found last night.

The two snakes at the table were viewed a little differently after our reading.

Slightly suspicious

I'm entirely too old to be out until closing time. However,  I found myself closing down Ireland's 32 in the middle of the night last night with a bunch of friends after a ridiculously fun day. A friend drove me home, which is how I came to be sitting in a car in front of my apartment building at 2 am watching some guy walk up and down my block looking in the windows of the shop below my building and it's sister store across the street.

Let me say again, this happened at 2 am. The guy parked his high end station wagon across the street from my building. He got out of his car (in the rain), and walked to the shop window. He stared intently at it for a few minutes before crossing the street to stare at the other shop window.

And then he returned to my building, walked to the entryway, presumably pulled out a key, and went into my building. I presume he pulled out a key because while he very obviously got into the building, we weren't parked in the right spot to see him open the door. But we would have been able to hear the intercom if he'd called somebody to ask to be let in.

My friend and I watched all of this, and we debated whether or not I should go into the building. I've never seen this guy before. I know all the guys who live in the building. I know the boyfriends of a few neighbors. I've definitely never run into this guy before.

But more than I wanted to watch whatever drama might have unfolded in front of my building, I wanted to go to bed. So I went into the building, while my friend sat in the car watching my front door. Just as I texted him to report that my hallway was clear of strange men and I was safely locked in my apartment, he texted me to say the strange guy had just left the building.

Now I recognize that, had I been sound asleep at 2 am, I wouldn't have known that strange people were entering (and leaving) my building in the middle of the night. But having seen this, I'm now a little uneasy. My guess is this guy has some affiliation with the shop downstairs, as most of the shop employees have access to storage space in my building. But who makes a weekend, middle-of-the-night visit to their job in the midst of the biggest rainstorm of the season?

This is weird. And I'm not quite sure what to do about it.

23 Months

The 20th of every month these past two years has given me at least a moment's pause. Sometimes I'll get through the day without being fully aware of the date, and then I'll open an email or look at my calendar and realize I can now mark one more month without my dad. I miss him. And it sucks. And it's strange, because I no longer feel this big, suffocatingly overwhelming sense of loss. But I still get really pissed off when I need to ask about how to make a home repair. Or when I wanted to talk politics and elections. Or when I have a particularly "only in San Francisco" moment that I know would make him laugh.

But it's a little bit easier these days, and I'm thankful for that. And that's gotten me to thinking: dad and I talked a lot about his funeral, and how he wanted to be remembered at home. And we talked about what I could do here, for myself and my friends. We hatched quite a plan for a funeral party. And I feel bad that I was way to sick to throw that party.

But my dad was often not the most prompt guest to the party, and I don't really think he'd mind a two year delay. So I'm throwing a party next month. Monday, December 20, to be precise. I don't have all the details worked out yet, but I'll be hosting a happy hour in his honor. I'm sure he'd be thrilled if you stop by for a drink.

A little more about that blogversary

The year I graduated from high school, the girl who gave our graduation speech used her few minutes at the podium to - as many times as possible - list the names of her 16 very best friends and mention all the fun times they'd had over the four years (or eight, or in some cases 13) they'd been in school together.

As you might imagine, that didn't go over too well with the rest of us. And with a class of only about 110, there were a lot of us who felt left out that day.

I think about that a lot. Well, not that speech or that day so much, but in situations where I'm on the inside of something - a joke, or a group of friends, or whatever - how it looks to people on the outside. I've been thinking about that more than usual this week. On Tuesday, I went to a party; a celebration hosted by somebody I know through her blog. Somebody who I only met in person two weeks ago. It was a very personal celebration, and yet she invited many of the people who she's only known through her comments or Twitter. And she was equally gracious to us pseudo-strangers as she was to lifelong friends.

I met a bunch of really cool people at that party. I doubt our paths ever would have crossed if it hadn't been for our blogs. And some of us talked about that for awhile, and about how hard it is to explain to everyone on the outside of the blogosphere how it's totally safe to meet up with strangers you know from the Internet. Or to travel with them. Or accept their offers of a place to stay while you're on vacation. And how awesome it is when those strangers become actual, meet for lunch or a night out, real life friends.

I've been blogging for five years, and the people and opportunities this little piece of the Internet has brought me are priceless. I just wanted to say thanks.

Winter light

The shadows in Golden Gate Park are awesome at this time of year.

A very happy blog birthday to me!

My little blog turned five yesterday. In celebration, and because I'm a little burnt out on the writing today, I'm pulling out the archives. Here's some fun from February 2006.

On Saturday night, I had plans - innocuous ones really - to meet a friend for an early drink at a local bar. I had little money, no desire to be out late, and the intention of chatting with people for a little while and then returning home. We made our plans, and I arrived at the bar on time. To a zoo. It was really crowded, with lots of very young people wearing Mardi Gras beads and dancing to lousy DJ music. My friend wasn't there yet, so I thought I'd order a beer and chat with the bartenders. Ha. It turns out this Mardi Gras - themed zoo was a birthday party, and it was so crowded and loud that conversation was impossible. I drank half my beer and left to stand outside and call my friend.

"Don't bother parking the car," I told her. "We can't stay here."

She agreed. Should we go to another bar, or perhaps get some food? She was hungry, so we went to our favorite burger place in the neighborhood, and ordered some food. By this time it was about 9 pm, and I was losing my desire to be out at all. It was cold out, and I was tired. We were finishing our burgers, in a pretty empty restaurant, when an old man walked in. Probably in his 80s, and very dapper looking in a full suit with a head full of silver hair. He ordered a beer and started chatting with the waiter, in a slightly slurred Irish brogue that made me think this wasn't his first beer of the evening. I discreetly turned around to assess this new patron. As the waiter left his table and walked towards ours, I heard the Irish guy call out "Hey, Irish." I quickly realized that, in a restaurant with only three patrons, and with a dinner companion who definitely doesn't look Irish, he was probably talking to me.

"Hey, Irish," he called again. So I turned around and said hi. We chatted about his evening for a minute; apparently he, too, wanted to go to the bar down the street, and the party was too much for him also. I turned back to my dinner companion, we paid out check and got up to leave. The guy called out to us "Is either of you lovely ladies single," to which my friend (not too bright in matters dealing with men) responded "Unfortunately, yes we are."

First off, I don't find my lack of boyfriend unfortunate at all, but that's beside the point. The first rule of life is if you tell the guys you're single, you'll be hassled. And we were.

"Well, if you are, I could be very interested," he said.

Cue my really fast exit from the restaurant. He was old. Way old. And my friend, who can't understand a brogue with subtitles, hadn't heard him at all. So I pulled her out of the place, and translated for her.

Why is it I seem to do so well with the under-20 set and the old guys? Where are the lads in their 30s?

Greetings from a wifi hotspot!

My internet is broken. Well, that's not exactly true. It's just painfully slow. Like 56KB slow. A call to my provider is in order, but I know what the problem is, and I know that the solution requires a service upgrade. And I need to figure out the pricing, and search for some deals, before I make that phone call.  So I'm in Starbucks. It's much less crowded at 11 am, and I snagged a nice brown leather chair with a view of California St. and an ottoman on which to rest my feet.

Horribly slow internet isn't really something to complain about. And ordinarily I don't really think I would care, except that none of my Google programs are loading. I can't access Gmail. I can't access Blogger. And with 16 days of nablopomo finished, I'd like to stay in the game. Though I am tiring of daily posting - it disrupts my ability to read what the rest of the blogosphere is up to. Except that I can't do that from home right now either, because most other websites aren't loading either. And that is really messing with my job search.

And then I left my house this morning, stood in line, and ordered my drink. And my wallet wasn't in my bag. It was still on my kitchen table. So I've hit the restart button on today, and I'm hoping it loads before Thursday.

When jellyfish attack

I woke up Saturday morning with plans that did not involve a trip to the beach. And then I read this article about swarms of jelly fish washing up along Ocean Beach. And my plans were canceled. And the weather was spectacular. So I did what apparently most of the rest of the city did this weekend: I went to check out the jellyfish invasion.

Jellyfish on the left, regular sand on the right.

Overnight Friday, clusters of bluish-tinged jellyfish washed up along a roughly one mile stretch of beach.  They gave the sand a slightly blue hue. I vaguely remember something similar happening in 2004, but those jellyfish were much smaller. And I'm pretty sure they were not such a pretty color.

These guys were huge - at least by my size 10.5 shoe standards. And they smelled funky, but not nearly as bad as the dead whales that sometime wash ashore.

Not to worry, I didn't step on the jellyfish, but rather carefully maneuvered my way around them. I also did not touch, squish, or throw the jellies, like a lot of other people on the beach were doing this weekend. They're reportedly safe to humans, but I didn't need to take any chances.

Not sure how much fun I missed

I got up early yesterday morning to run some errands. This is what I saw when I left my building.

Yes, it is indeed a half-full (or, I guess, half empty, depending on how you look at things) wine glass, sitting on top of the intercom, in the entryway to my building. I've been doped up on decongestants the past few days. I hate to think I missed a party.

Bargain basement. Or sub-basement. Or a bargain cave, three miles down

I am a great bargain shopper. And I'm descended from a pretty spectacular line of bargain shoppers. My grandma was a coupon queen, and would buy so much for so little that I often expected store clerks to pay her for her purchases. Grandma's been gone for two and a half years, but for the rest of my life, I will probably think about her every time I score an incredible deal.

On Thursday, while searching through my wallet for a receipt, I pulled out a withered green piece of paper from a local bookstore. A few years ago, I sold a bunch of books there, and I got $9.83 in store credit. The credit had been sitting, forgotten, in a back pocket of my wallet for at least three or four years. And it turned up at the perfect time. I've had a cold. I'm a little cranky. And I'm out of books.

I'm also on a pretty strict budget, so I'm not spending much these days on anything that's not essential. And waiting for books from the library can sometimes be frustrating. But nine dollars richer, I hopped on the bus and went shopping.

I browsed for about 15 minutes before choosing my purchases. Both paperback books were brand new (the store also sells used books), and each had been marked down from prices in the high teens to $4.98. I looked at my credit. I estimated the total price of both books. I grinned.

I walked to the cash register and placed my books on the counter. When I mentioned to the clerk that I had a credit, he wanted to make sure I knew that I wouldn't get the full amount of my credit for new book purchases. I must have looked puzzled because he started to clarify. And then he looked at my ancient store credit receipt. And he laughed.

"Wow, this is old. But never mind what I just said, this is cash credit."

Then he pulled out his calculator and totaled the price of the books. He subtracted the price of my credit. He stared dumbly for a second at the calculator. Then he looked at me.

"That will be three cents, please."

I handed him a nickle. He returned my change with a chuckle, and we agreed that this would probably never happen to either of us again. I smiled and left, understanding that I'd just purchased roughly $40 worth of books for three cents.

This situation might never happen to that store clerk again, but it may indeed happen to me, maybe with a little other-worldly guidance from my grandma. I think she'd be proud. 

Opening the Floodgates

I am an inveterate reader. In grad school, while keeping up with several books for my classes, I often eeked out a few minutes a day to read fiction. In high school, I often read three newspapers a day. In middle school, I read through my dad's collection of presidential histories of the Nixon and Carter administration.
Most writers are also big readers, so I guess this isn't so surprising. I also come from a family of readers, and books were something I especially shared with my grandma and my dad. Grandma was notorious for sending books she wanted me to read so we could discuss them. They were often about people or subjects for which I had no interest, though she also had an impressive collection of trash fiction, most of which I inherited in the few years before her death, as she kept mailing her paperbacks to me.

In the months following her death, I lost the desire to read. I would pick up a book and make my way through a few pages and then lose interest. This had never happened to me before, and I was somewhat disturbed by this turn of events, but I figured it would pass.

And then some other things happened and I found myself laying in bed last January, too sick to read. And too tired to concentrate. I've been waiting since then for the desire to pick up a book. And waiting. And waiting.

I've started a few books and left them neglected on my coffee table. I've faced outraged friends asking how I could possibly abandon wonderful books - books they stayed up all night to finish - half-read on the shelf. Meanwhile, I've flipped through magazines and reorganized all the books on my shelves and waited.

And then last week I visited a friend, and she had just finished the latest book by my favorite author. And she said she'd lend it to me, provided I return it to the library when I'm done. I finished that book in less than 48 hours. And then I finished the half-read book languishing on my coffee table. And then I put in a library request for a few more books. One of them was available on Monday. I finished it in a few days.  I laughed and cried my way through it - mostly laughing and crying simultaneously. It's a beautiful memoir, but more than that, it might have been just the remedy I needed, because I am reading again.  I'm so happy to have books back. I have missed them tremendously.

Where the orange palm trees sway

You know the prelude to "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas," the part about being in Beverly Hills on Dec. 24 and watching the orange trees and palm trees swaying in a warm breeze? When I first heard that version of the song, I thought for awhile that the lyrics were about orange palm trees.

I'm pretty sure there are no orange palm trees in Southern California. But there were several at the ball park during the World Series. I took this photo in front of the stadium after game two.

Just delayed, and thankfully not dead

My neighbor came home last night. I haven't seen her yet, but it would appear that her travels were just delayed a few days. I'm incredibly thankful nothing bad has happened to her.

I have a bit of a herding instinct. I'm the friend who always knows where everyone is. I keep track of travel schedules and vacations and if you're not someplace you're supposed to be, I'll check with you to make sure everything's OK.  I often joke with friends that I'll be the first person to notice if somebody I know disappears. And I'll be the one to call the cops.

People sometime think I'm a little ridiculous, but I can only hope that if anything ever happened to me, somebody else would be paying attention.

A 24-hour fix

The Starbucks in my neighborhood is open 24 hours most days. I live near a hospital, and I'm guessing it's open all the time (except between midnight and 4 am on Mondays) to accommodate hospital employees and visitors.

It's a pretty large storefront, with nice windows and lots of light, and a decent assortment of tables and chairs and couches and stools. It's warm and comfortable, and it is always packed full of people. It's also the only late night destination in my neighborhood.

On Saturday night, after not making any plans and then deciding I wanted some social interaction, I took my book and made my way down the street. I thought I'd get some hot chocolate and read for awhile. I was about 100 pages from the end of my book, and I was pretty excited to finish it.

When I walked in, most of the chairs and stools seemed to be occupied. But there was no line, which is unusual, so I ordered my drink and scoped out a seat. There was one, at a high counter by the window. But it was being saved by a laptop, notebook, and pair of gloves.

And every other seat was taken. At 8pm. On Saturday night. Even the benches outside the store were full.

I took my cocoa to go, and as I left the store I was a little annoyed. Who were these people, and why couldn't they study or read or chat at home? Or why weren't they out elsewhere on such a beautiful night? And then I started thinking back to my high school coffee shop hangout, a place in a neighboring town called Slave to the Grind. Friends and I would often show up on a Saturday night in the middle of winter and have to sit on the curb outside the store with our drinks because the place was so packed.

I learned from a friend last night that this particular Starbucks is one of the most popular meeting places in the city. It's also a prime destination for blind dates, and a place that generates a lot of first dates. Now I'm excited to watch the crowd. I just need to figure out how to save myself a seat.

How do I know if it's time for a welfare check?

Last month, my next-door neighbor left a note for everyone in the building saying she would be away until Nov. 4, and we were welcome to share her newspaper. She put a hold on her mail and went on her way. I'm not even sure if she scheduled anybody to water the plants that sit outside her kitchen window.

It's now Nov. 8 and her mail is starting to pile up in the foyer of our building, along with four days worth of newspapers. It appears she is not yet home.

Many years ago, friends of mine took a trip to visit family in Ireland. I panicked a little when they didn't return as scheduled, thinking they stayed because of a sick relative. That wasn't the case. I spent days inquiring with her friends before learning that my friend's husband had gotten ill, had a stroke, and died. She didn't come home for another eight weeks.

Now, I don't know this neighbor well, but I think she works in the neighborhood, she seems to have a pretty solid network of friends or family, and she travels frequently. She once told me she has lived in this building for about 25 years.  Perhaps weather caused travel delays. Her flights could have been canceled. She may have just decided to extend her trip.  And I could just be completely overreacting. What do you think?

Have you ever been arrested?

I can count on one hand the number of times I've ridden the 19-Polk bus. It's far from my favorite bus line. It traverses through a couple of questionable parts of the city. The riders are often not the friendliest folks. It just feels a little unsafe. But it stops a block from REI, so I have occasionally jumped aboard.

On Friday night, I was headed to an art opening for the I Live Here: SF retrospective. Side note: if you are unfamiliar with the Website and Julie's work, check it out - it's awesome. The show is at SOMArts, just down the street from REI, and two blocks from the 19 stop at 7th and Brannan.

The opening was awesome. The photos are incredible, as are the stories that go with them. But as I chatted and mingled I was consciously aware of the time and my bus trip home. I really wanted to get on the bus before dark, but that wasn't possible. So I set my curfew for 8:45 and headed to the bus stop. Three families with young children were also waiting, and we chatted while the kids ran around on the sidewalk.

We waited about 10 minutes, and when we boarded the bus, I moved quickly to the rear. I had to stand, and was facing a cute couple obviously on their way out for the night. Behind me was a late-teens looking guy. He was deep in conversation with the five girls spread out across the back of the bus. They were talking about how he just got out of prison.

This is definitely the second - and possibly the third time - I've ridden this bus line with a gentleman discussing the details of his very recent release from incarceration. The last time (and I've scoured my archives, but I can't find the post about it) the recently-released guy was musing over cell phones, construction in the city, and other things that had changed since he'd gone into lockup 13 years earlier.

I mentioned this to the couple I was standing in front of, and they pointed out that there's a jail facility on Potrero Hill, a few blocks from where this bus stops.

In this case, the guy must have been in juvenile detention, because he told the girls that he was celebrating his 18th birthday that day. I'm assuming he was going out to celebrate both his birthday and his freedom, but I didn't get that part of the story. The juvenile offender and his new friends all got off at Market St., long before my stop. I'm not sure if I'm sorry I don't know the rest of the story.

Program discontinued due to budget shortfall

Like a lot of other things in the State of California this year, my quest to find San Francisco's best margarita has been on hold the past few months, pending an influx of cash. I'm still without a job, which is probably the best time to research margaritas. But, sadly, my budget can't handle many margarita tastings.

I did, however, make an exception on Wednesday. I met friends for dinner in the Marina after the World Series parade. We went to a new-ish restaurant called Tacolicious. My tastes generally veer toward streetcart tacos and local taquerias, but the reviews for this place are pretty good, the wait was slightly less than an hour (brief by this night's standards), and we could eat outside - taking advantage of a rare night so warm we didn't need a heat lamp.

We ordered some of the best guacamole I've ever tasted and a bunch of excellent tacos. And I bought a $9 margarita. It was their house margarita, and the cheapest one on a fancy and extensive menu. It was served on the rocks with salt. For $9 I was expecting a much larger glass. And something a little tastier. It wasn't bad, but, eh, it wasn't so great either. A friend also ordered it, and he questioned the slightly overpowering lime aftertaste. It tasted a little like Limeaid.

However, the ambiance of Chestnut Street celebrating the Giants couldn't be beat. We sat across the street from The Horseshoe, a known hangout for several members of the Giants. Over the course of our meal, we're pretty sure we saw at least one member of the team pull away in a secure vehicle.  Our evening was tons of fun. But next time, I think I'll just order a Coke.

Postseason blues

I always get a little down at the end of the baseball season. I listen to most games on the radio, so when Kruk and Kuip and Dave and Jon go off the air, I feel a little like I've lost some friends. They're such nice company as I cook and clean at the end of the day.

This year will probably be no different, or maybe it will be. I had an extra month of baseball this year. And all the celebrating was a much better way to end the season than the rough endings of the past few years.

Buster Posey

Timmy!

 

Pat Burrell

It's rumored the mayor asked every company in the nation to send orange confetti our way.

And with one last rush of confetti, the parade was over. The street sweepers appeared on Montgomery St. pretty quickly, and the police re-opened the road, much to the distress of revelers still celebrating in the middle of the street. The celebrations continued well into Wednesday night. But I was safely tucked into bed by 10 pm. All this excitement was hard work.

It's raining orange!

I got my first parade-related text message yesterday at about 7:30 am. By 8:15 I was on the bus, hoping to get all the way downtown before the streets closed. I made it, and met a friend on Montgomery St., not too far off of Market. We were positioned right in front of the street barricades. We had a front row view. And only a three hour wait. But we met friends, made new friends, and generally had a blast.

Willie McCovey

Bruce Bochy with the trophy.

Cody Ross

The parade started with all of the front office staff and a lot of the box office staff. We saw tha Cal and Archbishop Riordan marching bands, and a bunch of cars carrying city dignitaries and former members of the San Francisco Giants. The current team was placed two to a cable car. Each car had its players names prominently displayed on the roof, but for the most part they were easy to identify.

UUUUUU-RRRRIIIIBBBBBEEEE!!

Eli Whiteside - giving some love to the Grateful Dead.

Fear the beard!

I took over 100 photos yesterday, and I'm still sorting through them. Stay tuned for more, including the actual tickertape (or confetti) portion of the festivities.

Possibly the best day ever!

I just spent most of the day sitting alongside Montgomery St. in the Financial District. Today was probably one of the best days ever. A full parade recap is coming, but for right now, I did take a few photos.

Kruk and Kuip - baseball broadcasters extraordinaire!

Soon to be former mayor, and Lt. Gov. elect Newsom

Lou Seal!

World Fucking Series Champions

*Edited to include photos* If you don't live here, or you're not a baseball fan, or you were rooting for another team, you don't quite get tonight's awesomeness. The Giants won their first world series since 1954 tonight - and their first ever in San Francisco. And I've never been in town when a home team has won the baseball championship.

At the Irish Times. Here's the crowd just before the end of the game.

Anticipation

World Series Champions!

I'm drenched in champagne; I partied in the Financial District and the Marina;  and I need to shower off the booze before I go to bed. But stay tuned, because there are stories, and a parade, in my near future. Never have I been so happy to be unemployed, as when I learned the ticker tape parade for the Giants will be Wednesday during the day. I predict a sad outbreak of the orange flu will soon be attacking this city.

There is no theme for November

It seemed only right to kick off National Blog Posting Month with the announcement that November has no theme. So it'll be a 31-day blogging free-for-all over here (hopefully with the continued overuse of the hyphen), as I try this year to actually post every day for a month. I haven't been too successful the past few years, but the beauty of November is that it always comes around again. And I need a good challenge right now. 

On the topic of challenges, when I was first laid off, I made a mental list of all the things I wanted to do with my free time: organize my closet; purge some clothes and other stuff I don't use anymore; reorganize my apartment; and a whole bunch of other stuff around my apartment to make my space a little more settled.

I looked around the other day and realized I've almost completed my list. I'm pretty excited about that, but also a little worried. My job search isn't moving as fast as I'd hoped. What am I supposed to do once the projects are finished? Anybody need any help at their house?