Detox Diaries, Part 2

Thursday, January 7th I hate everyone. Not sure why. Well, I know why. Lack of carbs. I met a friend for dinner who was running late and I just about lost my shit on them. I was hangry. You can't blame me. We went to Pacific Catch and I ordered a Japanese Wasabi Bowl with Hawaiian Poke. Poke has soy sauce in it right? Soy is a legume. I can't eat that. Can I? #soytheredontcare

Friday, January 8th is the day I like to refer to as "the day of doom." I had coordinated a small surprise happy hour to celebrate Bianna's birthday several weeks ago. It was my job to get Bianna to the bar so I was mildly stressing about it all day. How was I supposed to get her to bar when we're not supposed to drink? I was put at ease when, at lunch, our chicken was doused in peanut sauce. Bianna looks at Ali and I and says, "Meh, I'm eating it. It's free," as she shook the cutlet free of the peanut poison. Later that day, I asked Bianna if she secretly wanted to sneak away from work and get ONE glass of wine. You know, for old time's sake. "Sure," she tells me. Well, shit. That was easy. No wonder we are work BFFs. After eagerly pacing behind her for several minutes, I get her to Mar's Bar where she is greeted by several other colleagues, including Ali and Robin. Seeing as how it was Bianna's birthday, and I promised one drink, I took a look at the menu. Before I could say "chardonnay," Robin tells the server, "I'll have a dirty Ketel martini, two olives." She looks at Bianna and I and whispers, "Less calories right?" Bianna and I nod in agreement. Make that three. I won't bore you with all of the details of the night, but I will say that several martinis and shots of Fireball later, we decided enough was enough. We all got ourselves home safely albeit, Bianna had to call an Uber for her 5 block commute.We were in rare form.

Saturday, January 9th was DEATH. Pure and utter death. The kind of hangover where you swear off alcohol for life. I needed some sustenance so naturally I ordered a Nutella crepe and fresh squeezed OJ from Sprig. Godsend. It was helpful. Around 4pm when I was feeling somewhat human again, I decided I probably needed more food so I went to my fridge for some leftover zesty chicken bites. Upon further investigation, Drunk Carrie must have had a delicious midnight snack because there were 3 tiny bites left. That bitch.

Sunday, January 10th I went on a walk with Robin. She was feeling better as well. Turns out Drunk Robin likes mac and cheese. We all have our thing. We walked to the mall and then I headed home. Round trip my walk was 10.5 miles. Go me.

Monday, January 11th I woke up per usual and headed to work. When lunch rolls around I'm not hungry. Shit. I must be getting sick. I'm never not hungry. After work the detox crew heads to Ali's house where she fills our bellies with detox friendly food and we watch The Bachelor and drank mocktails. Real crazy night. Turns out we are just as judgey about the girls on the Bachelor sober as we are buzzed drinking wine. A new development not shocking to any of us.

Tuesday, January 12th I'm officially sick. Eff. Lunch with Kendall and Annie. Laughed a lot. Didn't eat pita and hummus. Sad face. Home. Theraflu. Sleep.

Wednesday, January 13th is a work from home day. AWESOME. I have a Google Hangout phone interview so I peel myself out of bed and put on a minimal amount of make up on my face so as to not scare away our candidate. But alas, she is a no show. I hate people. More work. Warriors lose. Boo. They better win tomorrow because I'll be there. Probably eating the only salad sold in the arena. Said salad probably also comes with Ranch dressing. And legumes...

And so the saga continues.

Detox Diaries, Part 1

When one of your best friends, Ali, kicks breast cancer's ass and wants to do a detox after she's done with chemo and radiation, you automatically say, "Hell yeah! Let's rock this bitch!"

She gives you the detox outline in mid-December and you're like, "Hey yo... what the fuck is a legume?" And she tells you and you're like, "Oh yeah, ok." But in your mind you're still like, "Eff this might be hard because I'm so dumb and I still don't even know what a legume is." But it's not that hard... mostly. I'm on day 5 and I haven't killed anyone. Go me. 

We started said detox on January 2nd. No one starts on January 1st because #newyears #hangover #breakfastburritos. First stop that day was Fleet Feet. Ali, myself, and two-time breast cancer survivor/bad-ass Robin wanted to get some new kicks so we can start walking the city to train for the Avon 39 walk this upcoming July. The dude that helped me was a total babe (holler at me Ben!) so I walked away with a pair of shoes, insoles and socks. Success. Later that day I went to Ali's house and she taught me how to make vegetable broth. And when I say she taught me, I mean I sat around and watched her make it while keeping her company with riveting conversation; i.e. if she knew Teen Mom OG was starting this week and discussing the first few episodes of Making a Murderer. She made us detox-friendly Tom Kha soup for lunch because she's Ali and a total whiz in the kitchen. I'm not sure why she hasn't caught on that I clearly bring nothing culinary to the table in this friendship. But that's neither here nor there. She sent me on my way with three quartz of veg broth and I didn't ask questions. 

Sunday, January 3rd I went to brunch. If you've ever been to brunch in SF you know "brunch" entails a stack of blueberry pancakes and bottomless mimosas. Alas, I am tasked with my first detox obstacle (hereafter referred to as detoxtacle). Dafuq am I gonna eat?! After going into two different restaurants, I settled in at Perry's. They have a veggie omelet. Cool. I order, sans toast, along with a water and the waitress looks at me weird. "I started a January detox," I casually tell her. "Ohhhh. Ok, that makes sense. I was gonna tell you to order a side of bacon or something." I wanted to punch her in the throat. But I didn't. And I left a nice tip because I'm a decent human being. After brunch I head to my local market to pick up some staples for the coming week's food prep. It only took me six hours, but I made some mini turkey meatloaves, homemade pesto, lemon chicken with asparagus and a side salad. Before you get all, "Carrie! You said you can't cook! That sounds amazing!" I must tell you that I basically just copied everything Ali was food prepping that same day. I still suck. 

Monday, January 4th was the first day back to work and my work buddy Bianna's birthday. Bianna is also doing the detox with us and I friggin' knew people were going to bring her cake but EFF why do people have to actually like her and bring her 17 cakes and wave them in my face and they smelled so good and sugar and carbs and GIVE ME! But I stayed strong. I may have been a creep and smelled Bianna's cake and asked her to describe the taste to me but I stayed strong damn it! 

Tuesday, January 5th. Bianna and I shared a compelling snack of a single chopped-up apple accompanied by a handful of almonds. We are so lame. I got home that evening and my cat attacked me upward of seven times. She's never done that before. I blame the detox. It's going to be a long month. 

Today, Wednesday, January 5th Ali brought me a cold brew coffee almond milk from her local juice shop because she's a friggin' angel sent from detox heaven. We are fortunate to have our lunches catered so we scooted down to the kitchen at 12:01pm to avoid the hangry's and to scope out what was on the menu. Only acceptable items were bok choy, lettuce, and raw veg. Fuck. Debbie Downer over here (me) was like, "Wah wah I'm gonna starve to death! This is the worst! I hate my life! Ali let's just order a pizza!" And she was like, "Calm the fuck down! We can make a salad and add some avocado and use olive oil and balsamic for dressing and everything is right in the world again." And I was like, "Ok yeah fine." And so we ate. And it was good. She wins. Another detox buddy from work, my homegirl Kathleen, pings me on IM mid-day. We talk about how green beans are legumes. Mind blown. And how she wants sweet potato fries. I tell her sweet potatoes are ok on the detox and she tells me she wants Gott's sweet potato fries drenched in oil and a side of fro yo and a croissant and all the refined sugars in this world. She's handling the detox well. She also shared a recipe earlier in the week about some zesty chicken bites. They looked good and I had all of the ingredients at home and YOLO so I made them tonight. Holy shitballs, they were good! Thanks girl. I danced around my kitchen listening to Lauryn Hill popping the delicious brown nuggets in my mouth in sweet ecstasy.

Did I mention there is no alcohol during this detox? My birthday this year is January 24th so I will not be partaking in the entire month's detox festivities. I'm going to do brunch to celebrate on the 23rd (blueberry pancakes, bottomless mimosas, legumes and all) and I think that might be a solid run. 19 days and counting of the detoxtacle. I'm sure there I'll have plenty more of debauchery to share with the blogosphere. Stay tuned. 

Yay sports! Do the thing!

So, the Giants won the World Series. That's a pretty fucking big deal for a number of reasons. Three rings in five years coming back in game seven from a 0-10 loss in game six. Pretty amazing stuff. Not to mention that I currently reside in San Francisco, so call me biased for hoping to partake in another World Series parade and celebrate with the great people of this awesome city. I also throughly enjoy sticking it to all of the Giants haters, a population of which seems to be irritatingly growing by the minute. But none of these things are reasons I'm super pumped on this win. 

Let me begin by saying I am not a competitive person by nature (except when it comes to a wedding bouquet toss in which case I'm a fucking BEAST). I'm not athletic nor have I ever really loved sports. I grew up watching my sisters play softball and basketball so I know the games pretty well but you would never catch me quoting stats or making any form of insightful opinions when it comes to professional sports. When I moved to San Francisco I decided to faux adopt The Giants as my main team, much to the dismay of my entire die-hard A's fan family. Games are fun to watch, the atmosphere is always exciting and hey... every major league stadium has nachos right? What's not to love? 

Most fortunately, my best bitch Kendall (thereafter referred to as "Mija") has shared season tickets amongst her family. She most kindly invited me to this season's Opening Day and because I'm not an idiot and I know enough about baseball to understand Opening Day is a pretty big deal, I much obliged. After several glasses of champagne and a big first season win, I was hooked. You see, Mija and I work together and you can often find us cruising around the city attached at the hip while not in the office. When you spend that much time with another person, and Mija is a huge Giant's fan, you learn a lot. Having gone to several games throughout the season together, we started talking baseball. Well, let me rephrase that... Mija talked baseball and I just kind of listened. Fast forward to the Wildcard series and much to everyone's surprise, including myself, I started talking baseball back. 

I learned long ago that you never tell Mija no. If you tell her you don't want to do something, she will somehow catfish you into doing it anyways. When Mija wanted to watch the NLCS series at the bars in SF, my inner introvert was thinking, "OH AWESOME! A bar packed full of people screaming and touching me. Nope. Not happening." But Mija did her Mija thing and I found myself at Green's Bar on Polk Street. Several Budlights later, I started loathing some loud-mouth Cardinals fan in a jean skirt (are jean skirts still a thing?) and I was100% invested. From that point on I soon began biting my nails, wearing certain clothing out of superstition and *GASP* watching an entire game, alone, by myself, clapping, screaming, drinking beer. Who does that?? Apparently me.  

I was lucky enough to be at AT&T Park when the Giant's clinched the NLCS and it was legitimately one of the most awesome experiences I've ever had. This game was on a Thursday. That Saturday I was in Sacramento for a wedding so I decided to drive an extra hour and see my grandpa whom, I most embarrassingly admit, I do not see nearly enough. What you must understand is that my grandpa is one of the biggest Giants fans I know. When I picture my grandpa, I automatically see a black and orange cap on his cute little head. When I walked into the room of his nursing home and said hello (I surprised him, he didn't know I was coming) the first thing out of his mouth was, "Did you go to the game on Thursday?" When I told him yes he responded with a smile and a,"that's my girl." Heart = melted. We sat for over an hour talking about the game and the tough road ahead with the Royals. I was having an educated conversation about the Giants with my grandpa and while we sat there holding hands and talking about how Posey is due for a homerun and how Mad Bum is a force to be reckoned with, it occurred to me that this was a moment I would remember forever. 

What I hadn't previously mentioned was that two of the season ticket seats that we frequented this season had previously belonged to Mija's grandma. She used to come to every game, in those very seats and cheer on her boys year after year. Mija's grandma passed away of ALS in July of 2012 shortly before the Giants clinched the series. The passion Mija has for the Giants goes way beyond a love of baseball. It's a way of carrying on her grandma's legacy. 

I guess this is a long-winded way of saying that to me, this is more than just a game. The nachos are great. And the beer is good. But win or lose, the game is about remembering grandma, building memories with grandpa, spending time with friends, and not killing Cardinals fans. This third championship has painted a huge target on the backs of the Giants this next season and inevitably, haters gonna hate hate hate hate hate. But the next time you want to criticize my team, remember that I don't care. And screw you. 

That said, Go Giants! 

A Healthy Lifestyle According to a Lazy Person

Let's be honest... working out is the worst. No one actually "likes" it and if you say you do, you're either that annoying girl I hate at the gym who works out in hoop earrings or you're not actually working out. It's hard. And if it were easy we'd all be walking around looking like Gisele. Or Chyna.

I recently went to the doctor's office for a basic check-up and they drew blood to check my cholesterol levels, which came back normal thankyouverymuch. But it got me thinking... I'm 29 years old, rounding second and headed for home plate: my 30th birthday. There comes a time in one's life where they find themselves thinking about adult things like 401K's, increasing vision benefits and finding reasonable car insurance. That time for me, is now. But included in that conversation with myself (yes, I live alone and I talk to myself. Deal with it) I started thing about my blood test and why it wasn't high, especially after that burrito I ate 24 hours earlier.



I made a conscious decision to get my life in check and hop back on the fitness bandwagon. I'm starting a new series called PiYo which I like to describe as a cardio mix of pilates and yoga (how very San Francisco of me). It's only day 2 and I already convinced my lazy ass to get up early and do my workout before I shipped off to the ol' job. I would say that's a pretty solid start in comparison to sleeping in with just enough time to throw my hair in a messy bun and run out the door.

Now I'm not going to lecture anyone about getting out and running a half marathon. That's not what's happening here. I too enjoy a day of DVR bingeing just like everyone else.



But the reality is, we're all getting older and we need to take better care of ourselves. Don't get me wrong... eat some ribs or go nuts on brie and crackers every now and again. But maybe pick up a carrot stick instead of a potato chip. Or drink more water. Or get off the bus 5 stops before your usual stop and walk the rest of the way. Or not.. it's up to you.



I am a sister, a daughter, a friend, and an [awesome] auntie to many. I'd like to be around to annoy you all until I'm 98 years old. This is how I think I'll get there so I've decided to share my journey with you. Albeit a very slow tortoise-like journey, it's still a journey none the less. And I hope that maybe some of you might jump in and join me.

I still don't like working out. And I probably never will. To boot, I'm quite possibly the most non-athletic, uncoordinated person you'll ever meet. But I do like the feeling I get when I eat a hearty salad for lunch or complete a few miles on the treadmill. So get the salmon instead of the burger at dinner and go outside for walk and enjoy the beautiful weather... give it a shot with me, would ya? And have fun out there!

I Believe...

Carrie circa 2003 loved collages. I loved them so much that when I decided to chronicle my senior year of high school with a very amateur scrapbook that I would indeed make a collage out of the cover. And so I did. And when I recently fished said scrapbook out of my parents' garage, I picked through my collage cover with a fine toothed comb and caught a glimpse into eighteen year old Carrie's brain.

My collage consisted mostly of quotes haphazardly cut out of magazines such as Cosmo, Teen Vogue, YM and the like. One particular cut-out was a list of things titled "I Believe..." I remember loving that list so much and it got me thinking... what do I believe in today? What makes me tick? What advice should I have given the Carrie of yesterday given what I know today? I immediately started rattling off items in my head and decided they may be of better use written down. So here goes:

I BELIEVE...

...that you can never have too much good wine, good food, or good company.

...that binge watching a television series is a swell way to spend an entire Sunday.

 ...in being friends with your ex. It didn't work out for a reason. Be happy when he moves on.

...that champagne makes everything better.

...in investing in friendships that matter, and letting go of those that don't. 

...in eating a burger one day and a kale salad the next.

...in being pen pals with long distance friends. Since being removed from your everyday, they usually give the best advice.

...in wearing what makes you feel good. Don't judge a Louis Vuitton bag with a Target dress.

...that siblings make some pretty good friends.

...in loving your body the way it is. Ten years from now you'll hate that you thought you were fat.

...that any song that speaks to you is a great song. Even if that song is "Wrecking Ball."

...in working at a job that makes you happy. Life is too short to have a boss you hate.

...that true love can come from something with fur and four legs. 

...in continuously working on yourself to become a better person. 


Some of today's beliefs align with those listed on my scrapbook cover. Some don't. But that's what happens when you grow up. I don't know that eighteen year old Carrie would have had these same beliefs eleven years ago. And I don't think thirty nine year old Carrie will have these beliefs either. But who knows. All I know is that eighteen year old Carrie would probably think twenty nine year old Carrie is pretty fabulous.

A Single Girl's Rant

My DVR is 22% full. This is a problem considering I just cleared it with the exception of Glee's "The Quarterback"episode, eight Dateline stories for a rainy day, and The Today Show where in the 10am hour with Kathy Lee and Hoda, I am featured out in the plaza waving to the camera in my 3 seconds of fame. Based on these calculations I should only be MAYBE 10% full. Anxiety sets in. I browse my recorded shows and realize the oh-so-meh summer line up has started recording. Oh yeah, and those three movies that I decided to record after single-handedly consuming a bottle of wine last weekend because "why not?? I pay for HBO so fuck it... I'm gonna watch movies." And so my 22% is justified and thank God I'm single because I can't spare the DVR space.

This is my life. The life of a single gal six plus months away from leaving her 20's for good. The life of someone spending her periodic Friday nights catching up on Scandal or watching reruns of Sex and the City. The life of someone who orders enough take-out to last her 5 days. The life of a girl who purchases her organic produce online to be delivered to her door. This is my life. And I am okay with it.

I recently officiated a wedding for one of my best gals and her very patient now-husband. At said wedding her grandmother asked if I was engaged. Sorry Granny. Single as they come. "Oh but why? You're so sweet! We need to find you a boyfriend." It's instances such as these that I love and cherish. Sweet Granny subconsciously, and adorably I might add, boosted my single girl confidence right when I was about to enter man-hating mode for the umpteenth time. Now let me be clear that it is both cute and endearing when Sweet Granny tells me I need a boyfriend. Not so much when my 8-year-old niece points it out at family gatherings and all major holidays. Then it just becomes obnoxious. No ill will toward my 2nd grade frenemie (if you're reading this, hey girl!) but this is indeed my life and I know that I'm single. Reminders are completely unnecessary. Thanks though.

Don't get me wrong. I think it's great when people insist I meet their nephew or their cousin or their brother because we would "be just perfect together." It shows that they think highly enough of me to want to introduce me to someone else they reciprocally think highly of. But I also don't need to be anyone's charity case. Being single isn't an illness (although it may be in epidemic in this great city I call home). If I don't get married, oh well. If I don't have kids, I'll get a dog. Or two. Or three. I am a self sufficient, caring person with moderate baking skills, awesome friends, an amazing job and an apartment a block away from the most spectacular view you have ever seen of the Golden Gate Bridge. There are worse things in life than not being in a relationship and I prefer that not be what defines me.

My DVR is still 22% full. I know this because I set the next recording (Catfish). And the one after that (The Bachelorette). And the one after that (Game of Thrones). Yes, this is my life. And I am okay with it.

Why Clare from The Bachelor Sucks

Toot, toot! All aboard the crazy train! Your conductor this evening will be Clare Crawley from Juan Pablo's season of The Bachelor. This broad has rubbed me the wrong way since day one. She is everything I despise about being a young, single gal and here's an open letter to tell her why... 

1. Your name: Where's the "i" in your name, Clare? Did it disappear, along with your dignity, when you stayed on the show after JP pretty much told you (in broken English) that you were only a booty call? That's what I'm going to assume. And from now on I'm putting an "i" in your name because you're annoying enough without it.  And anyways, Cla(i)re is a fat girl’s name. Just ask Judd Nelson.  #breakfastclubreference

2. You showed up fake pregnant: You sure did come out of that limo with a bang didn’t you? Pun intended. The first night of the Bachelor is just like a first date in real life, Cla(ire). You can’t just show up the first time you meet a guy with a fake belly being fake pregnant because Cla(i)re, that is not normal.  Even on national television compared to someone else who shows up playing a piano bike. Still not normal. Author’s note: Although, Juan Pabs kept you around until the finale so maybe I’ll try this on my next OkCupid date.  #firstdatefakepregz

3. Your smug attitude: After your little escapade in the ocean, you skipped back to the Bachelor house and coyly made a cheers at the cocktail hour before the rose ceremony to “making love.” You thought you were so smart, escaping to a boy’s house in the middle of the night and getting back into bed before anyone noticed. Guess who does that, Cla(i)re? Thirteen year old girls.  Thirteen year old slutty girls.  #soaknpokefail

4. Your over accessorized finale ensemble: Chunky earrings with a rhinestone embellishment on the single strap of your evening gown is not the business.  Sort of like how many times you talked about your dead father’s DVD, which none of us got to see and was like when you read a book and they keep talking about a character who ends up having no relevance to the ending at all and I wonder why the author even bothered to waste my time. It’s just too much. That’s you, Cla(i)re. That’s you.  #simileinception

5. Your “honesty”: Yeah,  Juan Pablo’s a dick. We all get it. But you can’t go from zero to sixty in 2.8 seconds.  You tell Juan Pabs “Hey dude. I like love you and wanna be with you and I’m really nervous and my earrings are really heavy but it’s worth it to me because you’re like my person and you know where Sacramento is and I can’t wait for you to give me that free Neil Lane ring because like I love you and like I’m part Mexican but I don’t know Spanish so I’d get along with your family and like, Camilla gave me a high five so where’s the ring bitch?” then he tells you, “Yo homegirl, I’m just not that into you” and you’re like, “Fuck you, Juan Pabs. Don’t you try to hug me and ask me to assept your forgiveness after I told you I would have your babies in one year and two months and met your family and banged you in the ocean when you were dating 25 other girls who were asleep 100 yards away you lying, cheating bastard!” So there’s that.  #secondisthefirstplaceloser

And that, Cla(i)re, is why you are the fucking worst.

P.S. I’m back, bitches. 

Jesus, Take The Wheel...

I think I came out of the womb a woman scorned. Growing up listening to artists like Shania Twain and Wynona Judd, how could I not? But it wasn't until a few years back that I realized how bad my man-hating had gotten... until one fine spring day on my drive back up to Chico.

I'd been home for the weekend and my little sister burned me Carrie Underwood's new (first) album. Typically on road trips I like to pop in something I can sing along to, but this particular day I was feeling a little crazy. I figured "might as well" and popped ol' Carrie into my 1992 Saturn coup's top-of-the-line CD player. *Note: My Saturn had dent resistant doors. My friends loved to point that out. The CD gets rolling and I start to dig it. That Jesus song comes on and I belt it like I'm a choir member in the Baptist church. Great jam so I keep the party going. 

Pretty soon I'm cruising down the 5 and I start listening to the lyrics of this particular song. Sounds interesting so I start the song over. "I dug my key into the side of his pretty little souped up 4-wheel drive, carved my name into his leather seat. I took a Louisville slugger to both headlights, slashed a hole in all four tires. Maybe next time he'll think before he cheats." Pardon my French but... Fuck. Yeah. This was the ticket. I listened to the song for the rest of the drive and was immediately obsessed. When I got home I called my cousin and told her she needed to listen to the song. She is a woman of my own heart so she, no doubt, would love it as well. She is also the person who called me after a CMA Awards and told me that Miranda Lambert's "Crazy Ex-Girlfriend" reminded her of me. But that's neither here nor there. 

I had a boyfriend at the time and he drove a truck so when we scooted around town, I mostly drove to be more economical. He liked country music so when I went to visit him one day, I made a point to make him listen to my new favorite tune. We're halfway through the song when he turns the volume way down and looks at me. I was at a red light so I look back at him with a "what-the-hell-never-touch-a-black-man's-radio" a-la Chris Tucker look on my face. His expression concerned me. Before I could speak he says, "I need you to not listen to this song." OK, not happening. "Why?" I ask. "I don't know. I just feel like if we ever break up you might do this to my truck." Any other person/couple would have keeled over muttering "oh you!" with a friendly chuckle. Not us. We just both kind of smiled awkwardly knowing that it was kind of a joke but not really because, let's be honest, it may be true. 

Long story short, it didn't work out. 

Not long after"Before He Cheats" became a huge success, other artists like Miranda Lambert and Taylor Swift began releasing songs that made normal woman (like me) realize they aren't completely insane for thinking that MAYBE it would be nice to key a jerks car if he cheated on me. Or I'd POSSIBLY want to go home, load my shotgun, wait by the door and light a cigarette. Fellas, I'm here to tell you right here and right now: I don't care how cool your girlfriend/wife is, she's thought about these things before. But have no fear... it doesn't make her crazy. What makes her crazy is if she actually acts on it. And if she does carve her name into your leather seat, call the cops because that bitch be crazy.

I find solitude in knowing that there are other jaded women out there. I don't think I'll ever stop singing these songs in the shower or screaming them while driving down the freeway like Danika Patrick. Lord help the sucker who ends up marrying me. In the not-so famous words of this Carrie circa 2004, "Fuck yeah, Carrie Underwood. Fuck yeah." Hell hath no fury. 

*No pick-up trucks or men were hurt during the writing of this blog.

Detective Couture, On The Case

Wednesday, August 15, 2012. 4:21am:

I wake up. Nothing out of the ordinary. Sometimes I have to pee in the middle of the night. Nothing new. As I'm about to get up, I hear something outside. I freeze. Wait 20 seconds. Nothing. I sit up. A bang. Shit. Someone is on the side of my building. Panic. Wait another 20 seconds. Hold breath. Just shuffles. Is someone trying to break into my garage? Is my car alarm on? Does a thief give a shit about my 2002 Honda Civic? What if they steal the BMW next to me? It'll be a lot easier to get out of my parking spot the next few days... I get up. Slowly and carefully I peel back a curtain and with just centimeters, bend back my blinds. I see nothing. My window is at an angle where I can't see down the building alley. Rats! It's quiet for a few minutes. I tip toe to the bathroom. Still need to pee. Done. Tip toe back to bed. I reach for my cell to call 911. Crunch. The familiar sound of a crushing plastic 2-liter soda bottle. Another crack. The smashing of a beer can. All very familiar sounds to me. It's a homeless guy. Or is it a little Asian lady? Either way, if you're not trying to steal my car, I don't give a shit. Sleep. 

Thursday, August 16, 2012. 4:39am:

Bang. 2-liter hits the floor and rolls. Ugh. Homeless guy/Asian lady again?? Last night was cute but tonight you're just being annoying. More cans crush. More bottles crunch. Toss. Turn. Sleep.

Thursday, August 16, 2012. 3:35pm:

Texts to/from my building manager...

Carrie: Hi Jessica. Today was the second night in a row that I have woken up at 4:30am to someone on the side of our building digging through the garbage for bottles and cans. Is there a lock on the gate that we can make sure is secure tonight? Thanks.

Jessica: Oh no! There is already a lock on the gate. I wonder if it's someone in our building? I'll send an e-mail out. Thanks for letting me know. 

Thursday, August 16, 2012. 5:38pm:

E-mail received from Jessica. To entire building. 

Subject of email: Trash Bandit

Good Afternoon Neighbors,

It has been brought to my attention that there has been a "bandit" rummaging through the trash late at night and waking up several people in the building. Although this is not illegal, it is quite disturbing to fellow neighbors as they sleep in several ways. If anyone has any information on who this may be, please kindly ask them to extend a courtesy to thier neighbors and refrain from rummaging through the trash. I will also be reviewing the door to the alley to ensure that the locks are in proper working order to deter any outsiders from gaining access as well.

Jessica

Friday, August 17, 2012: 12:02am:

Clanking of glass. Wrestling of trash. Ahh! Thief/homeless guy/Asian lady/neighbor is back! Grab phone. Text. 

Carrie: Our thief is back! I hear them!

Jessica: I'm on it! I'll look out my window now. 

Sit up. Single eye brow raised. Perched lips. Fingers drumming together. You've been caught. Drop our cans and hit the road, Jack. Beep. Text received. 

Jessica: It's a family of raccoons!

I'm an asshole. 

Carrie: Oh... hahahaha. Well, mystery solved. (awkward) 

Jessica: Yeah there were about 8 of them. Even a bunch of babies. 

A big asshole. 

The Dating Diaries, Story #2: Paging Dr. Douche

One vague night, clouded with vodka and cranberry juice, I was out and about with some friends consuming stiff drinks and being my typical loud self. A friend of mine eagerly introduced me to “Dr. Steve” and immediately left us alone, indicating this was some sort of unbeknownst set-up. Not above making conversation, we get to talking. Dr. Steve was a nice guy… from what I remembered. What I didn’t remember was giving him my phone number.

The next morning I woke up to a relatively pleasant text saying, “Hey. It’s Dr. Steve. Hope you made it home safe. I was thinking maybe the drive-in tonight? You mentioned you wanted to go.” Apparently Intoxicated Carrie loves the drive-in. I figured since I liked him when I was drinking, he should be a decent enough guy. Plus, The Bourne Ultimatum was playing and who doesn’t want to see beefy Matt Damon in a tight cotton v-neck? So, I agreed.

Later that night Dr. Steve picks me up in a newer Jeep Cherokee. Thank God it’s not  a Chevy Nova. He’s not as good looking as I remembered but that doesn’t mean much taking into consideration a great personality.

We roll up to the drive-in and Dr. Steve hands the teenage kid at the ticket window a $10 bill. The kid looks like he’s high and an uber nerd to boot. We’re talking braces, mouth open, heavy breathing, the works. In a voice eerily resembling Spicoli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High the kid says, “Uhhh, dude? It’s actually $6 a person.” An arrogant laugh bubbles from Dr. Steve, “No. Actually it’s only $5 a person.” Without hesitation, Spicoli fires back, “I know, it’s gnarly dude. But they just raised the prices. Sorry, bro.” Dr. Steve was not having it. “I saw in the paper this morning it said $5 a person and you’re going to honor that price.” Similar conversation ensues for another five minutes, or what seems like an eternity for myself and the three cars behind us, who have begun to honk. 

At this point, I’m starting to feel sorry for Spicoli. I’ve worked in customer service before and I know the ticket increase isn’t his fault so I start to get frustrated with Dr. Steve. I reach in my purse, pull out $2, reach over Dr. Steve and hand Spicoli the cash. “Thanks man,” Spicoli says to me with a single nod. I look at Dr. Steve expecting some kind of redemption but he grabs our tickets and drives off without a, “thank you.” It’s fair to say I am now thoroughly annoyed.

As if nothing happened, Dr. Steve continued our get-to-know-you session. “What, exactly, kind of doctor are you?” I finally ask.

“I’m a chiropractor.”

“A chiropractor? Do you have to do to medical school for that?”

“No.”

“So you’re not really a doctor?”

“Yeah I am. Well, kind of. See…”

This is the point where I start tuning him out. You may think I’m stuck up for getting irritated that he wasn’t a doctor but I felt duped. The incident with Spicoli coupled with being trapped in the car for the next two hours with Dr. Douche made me want to vomit. I couldn’t tell you what the conversation consisted of for the rest of the night because my mind was reeling. I think there were a lot of "Shhh, I'm trying to watch the movie" coming from my end. I couldn’t even concentrate on the gloriousness that is Matt Damon, which made me even more pissed.

The ride home was a blur. I don’t remember much except for when he dropped me off. I didn’t even flatter the guy with a courteous, “Thanks for the lovely evening,” since I paid for a third of my movie ticket. As I gathered up my jacket, purse and unlatched the seatbelt that felt, at this point, like a death trap, Dr. Steve had the audacity to lean over and try to kiss me. “Whoa there! I don’t think so pal,” is what I recall saying. I may have just laughed hysterically. Regardless, I grabbed my things and shot out of the Jeep.

I may not have been as big of a bitch as I portrayed because a few days later I got a call from Dr. Steve asking if I wanted to meet him for another date. I never called back. Last I heard Dr. Steve was still trolling around San Luis looking for a girlfriend. Dr. Douche, maybe you’re single because you’re a rude cheap ass. Clean up your act. But that’s just my two cents… Or rather, my $2.

The Dating Diaries: Ginger Baggage

 
I met Kit at work. He was an account executive for one of our clients. We met in person and the next day sent a few funny e-mails back and forth. I wasn’t immediately attracted to him because he was a ginger. Like, a super ginger. And I’d never dated one before. But long story short, we met for drinks, I laughed my ass off and we started hanging out. He even made me dinner at his house one night, where I was introduced to his friendly pup, Ren.

One night when I asked what he was up to he told me he had a bachelor party and couldn’t hang out. Date night free for the first time in a few weeks, I happily gathered up a few of my friends and headed downtown for some cocktails.

Frog and Peach was packed. After a few drinks, my peanut-sized bladder could take no more. I grabbed my friend Katie’s arm and dragged her to the bathroom (because that’s what girls do).

Mazing our way through the crowds, I spot Kit across the bar. We make eye contact and he immediately waves. I asked what he was doing there and he said the bachelor party took a turn for the best and decided to hit the town. Elated to see him, I told him to have fun and that we’d chat a little later.

Per usual, there was a line 3 people deep in the ladie’s. Katie and I took position and waited. Both of us still reeling from the coincidence of seeing Kit at the bar, Katie asked me how things were going. Before I could answer, the girl behind Katie asks for her name. “Ummmmm, it’s Katie.” With squinty eyes and a slight sway, the girl asked what my name was next. “It’s Carrie,” I told her. “Oh. Hi,” she says. “I’m Sarah. Ren’s mom.” Ren. As in Kit’s dog. It takes me a second to piece the puzzle together, but I soon realized the drunken aggressor was Kit’s ex-girlfriend of 4 years. The same ex-girlfriend of which their relationship had just recently ended about six months before Kit and I met. A few beats later, Sarah pipes in and says, “This is awkward,” and stumbles out of the bathroom.

I shot a quick glance to Katie that telepathically said, “What the FUCK just happened?” and we both bolted to met up with our other friends, anxious to tell them the story. Like a tennis match, Katie and I went back and forth telling everyone the craziness that just went down. Shortly after the chaos subdued, Kit found his way over to me and said he’d heard what happened in the bathroom. He apologized profusely and said he’d talk to Sarah and tell her not to approach me ever again. As if God was looking down and saying, “What a sucker,” Sarah comes out of no where and wedges her way in between Kit and I. She just stands there, looking from face to face to face of all of my friends with an idiotic grin. A good 10 seconds passed before Kit asked quizatively, “Sarah… what the hell are you doing?” Without hesitation Sarah replies, “I met your new giiiiiiiiirlfriend in the bathroom. We’re friends now!” She clanks the drink I’m holding with her brand new beer, lifts the bottle as if to say, “salude” and then chugs. And chugs. Until the beer is gone. Like a car accident, none of us could stop watching. It's as if time stood still.

Kit grabs Sarah by the arm and pulls her away from the group. At this point, I start laughing hysterically. For once in my life, I’m not the craziest person in the vicinity. There was more conversation about “Crazy Sarah” as we called her, when I got a text from Kit. Sarah had escaped from the bar and was making, what I presume, were empty threats and he had to leave to find her. I wished him luck and finished my night with a double vodka tonic before heading home.

Turns out Kit found Sarah at her house where she confessed her love for him. I think she also puked. Not sure. Long story short, it didn’t work out between us. It wasn’t all Crazy Sarah’s fault, but she was  a big part of it. I think after Kit and I parted ways, he gave another go-around with Crazy Sarah. Last I checked, that didn’t work out either.

Crazy Sarah, if you’re out there reading this, I salute you. To being ballsy, being a nut job, and most of all, to justifying that every single thing I have done in the past has not been as bat-shit crazy as you are. Crazy Sarah, this Bud’s for you.

Why Eating Is A Good Idea

Sometimes it gets really busy at work. I said, ‘sometimes’ ok? Lay off me… anyway this one day I’m SUPER busy. Like, not-even-joking busy. These e-mails are makin’ it rain and before I know it, it’s 2:30pm. I realize I have not eaten breakfast, lunch, nor have I consumed any type of liquid since the night before (and said liquid was probably wine). If I don’t get some type of sustenance in my system, there are going to be consequences. Like me, face down, unresponsive at my desk. I grab my wallet, my company badge and my last ounce of strength and haul ass to the ground level of our building for some food. 

I hit up my go-to: San Francisco Soup Co. It being 2:30pm and all, there was no line. I quickly grab my food and start heading back. Before I’m even halfway to the elevators, my phone starts vibrating. It’s vibrating so much that I thought I had a call. Turns out it was just more e-mails. Back. To back. To back. To back. Being the star executive assistant I am, I multi-task by holding my food, pushing the elevator button with my elbow, reading emails and responding (using only my right thumb, mind you). The doors open and I scurry in, trying to send a few e-mails before the doors close and I lose service. 

I take advantage of not receiving e-mails for the next few seconds as I ascend and read through more e-mails. DING! The elevator doors open. Great! I look up. I’m on the 7^th floor. I work on the 3^rd floor. Not so great. I forgot to hit the 3^rd floor button. Crap. There were others on my elevator and it was going to continue to go up. So I get off and push the button to go down just as my phone starts buzzing again. More e-mails. Seriously?

 

Feverishly responding, I get into another elevator minutes later. I’m alone. Perfect. Read some more e-mails and prep responses. DING! Finally… Only I forgot to push the button to my floor AGAIN and I’m back in the lobby. Shit. 

Not sure if you’re familiar with elevator etiquette but when the doors open at the lobby, you let the current riders out before entering. The four people waiting in the lobby to go up stood there staring, waiting for me to kick rocks. “No, I’m actually going back up. Come on in.” 

I push the 3^rd floor elevator button what seems like 17 times to make sure I don’t wind up on another floor. I continue reading e-mail. Not sure what the others were discussing when I hear one of the gentleman say, “…well at least none of us forgot to get off the elevator.” Cue uproar of laughter. Very funny.

Damn, it feels good to be hipster

Hipster [hip-ster] noun, Slang. "Hipsters are a subculture of men and women typically in their 20's and 30's that value independent thinking, counter-culture, progressive politics, an appreciation of art and indie-rock, creativity, intelligence, and witty banter."

I like to write. Duh. And I don't think I'm too horrible at it. So last month while on a double date at Anchor and Hope, my one and only hipster friend Casey asked if I'd be interested in participating in the Write Club series. For those of you unfamiliar with Write Club, their tagline says it all: "Literature as bloodsport. Prize money to charity." Essentially you are assigned one of two conflicting topics (i.e. left vs. right; up vs. down; dark vs. light). Each author writes on their assigned topic and the audience decides whose piece they liked better (it usually comes down to a battle of wit). The winner gets to donate a portion of the nights cover charge to a charity of their choosing.

I've never actually written anything and physically read it out loud so I was a little weary. But despite my hesitation, it only took a few "you'll do fine's" and "it's no big deals" in combination with copious amounts of wine to convince me to participate.

What I have yet to mention is that Write Club commences in San Francisco's Mission District. A little unsettling for a Marina girl who sticks out like a sore thumb amongst hipsters and pick-pockets. Shudder!

I tried to get pumped for the competition by telling myself that if those hipster elitists don't like my style, then they can go screw themselves. But I soon found out that my actual fears stemmed from the potential reaction of the crowd. A mob of hipsters is fairly unpredictable. My guess was that after my reading they would either shower me with tomatoes (certified organic, of course), or my words would resonate with a blessed patron in the crowd who would begin a single, slow clap growing into a monstrous uproar of applause. Either that or they would just snap at me.

Many of my best ideas occur to me while laying down, either in bed or when I wake up from a restless night's sleep. My idea to harness my inner hipster before entering the the writing competition was no exception. I started writing this post at 1:09 am. Good. Already on hipster-time. But instead of sitting in bed, I wished I was at a local cafe, using their free wifi and sipping a skim latte. Shit. Bad start.

To my surprise I found myself euphorically lost on my hipster journey. To start, I purchased a pair of thick framed Zooey Duchschanel-esque glasses. Who doesn't like Zooey Duchschanel?! Automatically I've got that going for me. Additionally I already had an array of patterned clothing that I could mix and match with tights or leggings, my black Toms and a mustard yellow Urban Outfitters cardigan. As it is, I'd always wanted to try color blocking.

I reach for my iPhone for inspiration to start writing my piece (I've been assigned "fast" to my opponent's "feast"). The only music I have on my phone that can be moderately considered hipster is "Pumped Up Kicks" by Foster the People. This is good enough for me. Repeat. I love the whistling part.

I had two weeks to prepare for the competition and in true Carrie fashion, procrastinated until the night before. For lack of better words, my piece sucked. I was starting to get nervous.

I arrived early to The Make Out Room (clever hipsters) and was immediately informed that I would be up against Casey's co-Write Club founder: a guy who not only looks, but writes, like Zach Galifianakis. Thanks for the pairing, Casey.

As suspected, by piece blew. Zach kicked my ass. But he was really good so I couldn't wallow in my loss for very long. And the hipsters did laugh at a few of my anecdotes, especially the part about being elbow deep in a bag of Flaming Hot Cheetos. Hipsters apparently love Flaming Hot Cheetos. Who knew?! There were no hipster mishaps, no tomatoes, and no snaps. Nothing but encouraging applause. Also, I didn't get pick-pocketed. WIN.

Participating in Write Club was a fun experience. It challenged me to step out of my writing comfort zone and do something different. I highly recommend you check out their website and not only attend a show but to be a part of it, whether you're a seasoned writer or a lone blogger like myself.

Being a hipster was a lot of fun. I still rock my Zooey glasses, listen to Foster the People, and color block. And why shouldn't I continue to enjoy it? Am I not in my 20's - 30's and someone who values independent thinking, counter-culture, progressive politics, an appreciation of art and indie-rock, creativity, intelligence, and witty banter? My friend Justin has pegged the phrase "preppy hipster" in his efforts to categorize me. And I'm not gonna lie... I kinda like it.

Revisiting a Mockingbird

It's odd to think about how something can mean so much to you at one point in your life but later on mean something completely different. My first car was a roaring speedster when I bought it, and thinking back now I wonder how I managed to play it so cool in that piece of crap. In college I was glued to my newest pink Motorola Razr flip phone, making me cringe as I now blog, Instagram, Tweet and run temples on my iPhone 4s.

After hitting a reading dry spell upon completion of the Hunger Games trilogy, I decided I wanted to brush up on my writing skills. As someone who finds their best mode of communication via the written word, I thought the best way to continue my rogue education was to explore what most consider classic literature. I can remember myself as an awkward 8th grader, sketching out what I imagined the infamous Boo Radley to look like as depicted in Harper Lee's To Kill A Mockingbird. I vaguely recall creating a gentle, monsteresque figure not unlike Edward Scissorhands, holding a pair of bloody sheers for a reason at the time of reminiscence I did not recall. Most of the story escaped me but I was sure that it was a book I would enjoy. That's all I needed to know. I traded in Mockingjays for Mockingbirds. I picked it up and felt instantly at home, transported to an unfamiliar time in Montgomery, Alabama.

For those of you who slept through 8th grade (because we didn't have Spark Notes back then), To Kill A Mockingbird is a story about "growing up and the human dignity that unites us all." It's a tale of attorney Atticus Finch in the court trial of his life trying to raise two children in the south, pre-pubescent Jem Finch and the narrator, Jean Louise "Scout" Finch.

Not having been able to recall the story line, one thing stood out to me above all else: I loved Scout Finch. I didn't remember why but I kept this in mind when I started reading round two. I now realize that I liked Scout at the time because I could relate to her. The narrative she displays expresses to the audience her innocent adolescence dealing with adult situations and not completely understanding them. I think I related a lot to Scout because the first time around, I was somewhat oblivious to the adult nature of the book's subject matter (Atticus is representing Tom Robinson, a black man accused of rape).

Now having read more than half of the book (no, I'm not done yet), I find myself painstakingly drawn to Atticus Finch. I also find relate-ability to be the cause of this. Besides the obvious facts of being exposed to and enjoy learning the subject of law, I relate to Atticus in a way that I can understand. As mentioned, I haven't finished the book. I don't remember if Tom is convicted or Atticus sets him free. But my lesson from the book has already been learned: no matter how many people speak out against you, or who don't agree with your actions, standing up for what you believe in and what you believe is right is the most important lesson of all. And if Tom is killed at the end of the book, at least Atticus can know he did what he could to try and save him without regret.

What the hell is the point of this post? I'm glad you asked. Books that evoke thought are good, but stories that everyone can relate to in different ways are genius. And I think that's what makes To Kill A Mockingbird so brilliant (besides Lee's beautiful writing style of course). You can chalk this blog post up to change. I changed what I took away from the story, having related more closely to Atticus than Scout. Maybe next time around something in my life will challenge me to look closer at Jem's character. I'm sure in 15 years I'll wonder how I ever drove around my Honda Civic for so long, or mock the "newest technology" of my iPhone 4s. But all I know is that change is good. Change means growing, learning, moving forward. And isn't that what life is all about?

"I'm a Big Kid Now" or "Why Not To Get The Comcast Self Installation Kit"

For those of you hiding under a rock, I recently moved into a studio in San Francisco. I got the call a few weeks ago that I scored the place and I literally screamed out loud. It's been a little bit of a challenge finding an apartment that was both in my budget and in the Marina, but I somehow managed to pull it off.

A little about the place: My next door neighbor is practically the Exploratorium (how awesome is that?!), hardwood floors, laundry in the building, a walk-in closet and... wait for it... a parking spot. Cue angelic music. This place is everything I hoped to find and more. It's always quiet, I feel completely safe, and most importantly, I'm a short walk (or bus ride if I'm lazy) away from my friends.

I'm going on my second week here and I love it more and more everyday. I'm finally settled and it's beginning to feel more like home. After a slight tug-of-war with Comcast, I finally have tv, internet, and a phone line so I can buzz people into my building (debatably my favorite part of living in San Francisco).

Move-in costs in the City can be pretty phenomenal. One place I looked at wanted what some people in the Central Valley pay for a down payment on a home. Luckily, I was able to get in here with more reasonable costs. But since I spent all of my money on a deposit and first month's rent, I decided to opt for Comcast's "self-installation kit." When I got the box in the mail that was large enough to sleep in, I began to panic. Luckily (or unluckily, however you want to look at it) they sent me the wrong order so they scheduled a technician to install everything for free. After two calls to Comcast, one missed appointment and 3 hours this morning with Ali, the Comcast technician, I'm finally up and running.

I like to describe my place as "quirky." You have to be under 150 pounds to even fit through my foyer (yes, I have a foyer) and the sound of my shower often mimics the screaming mandrake root on Harry Potter. But I can lay in bed, eating ice cream and watching The Bachelorette; I can blast the Dixie Chicks while I make a Trader Joe's dinner; and I can leave my dishes in the sink for 3 days and no one will care. This place isn't perfect. But it's perfect for me.

Just when you thought our living situation couldn't get any weirder...

I can summarize my Saturday in three words: Baseball, beers, bars. Consequently I had a rather unfavorable Sunday morning, however, for more reasons than just my hangover.

Tim only lives 6 blocks away but he stays over at Ashley, Dave and Sofia's a close second to me. "At 2am, that's a rough 6 blocks." I wake up and see him on the loveseat. Knowing neither of us are going anywhere anytime soon, I turn on Dumb & Dumber. Two hours and 4 glasses of water later, Tim and I have the standard 10-minute discussion on who is going to venture out to Safeway for eggs and bacon. After a coin toss, rock paper scissors, some pretty unconvincing arguments and having it closer to noon than 8am, we both decided we'd venture out to the Italian Deli on Chestnut for lunch. Being the diva I am, I required a shower first.

So fresh and so clean, I immediately grab my towel and wrapped it around me. While still in the shower, wringing out my hair, the door between Ashley and Dave's room and the bathroom flies open in full force. There stands Dave. Naked.

My initial reactions in chronological order are as follows:
1. Gag reflex
2. Rubbing my eyes to make it go away
3. Scream
4. More gagging

Dave bolted out of the bathroom and before I can even get my upchuck reflex under control says from behind the door, "If you like what you see, speak up."

Getting dressed with the speed of light, I head back to the living room. Wanting to put it all out there (no pun intended) I stop at the entry way, look Tim in the eye and say, "I just saw Dave naked." He stares back at me then says, "Well... what did you think??"

With zombie-like demeanor I put my PJs away in the closet and head back to the couch. In a last ditch effort to avoid Post Traumatic Stress Disorder I sit down and try to watch tv. Before I knew it, Tracy Chapman starts blaring and it's coming from the bedroom. Again, the door flies open (cringe) and out comes Ashley in nothing but a blue towel dancing the jig to "Talkin' Bout A Revolution."

The four of us, plus Jarrett who came over shortly after, eventually ended up heading to the deli for lunch. I did not order salami.

Inspire Me

Lately I have been a little down in the dumps about my wardrobe. I consistently feel like I need to be adding to my closet to make sure I don't become a fashion robot, wearing the same thing week after week after week. Further, it's become more and more difficult to get creative with the pieces I already own since I sleep on someone's couch and have limited closet/suitcase space (my living on a couch is a blog subject for a different day). In an effort to overcome this slump, I've been reading a lot of blogs, articles, and anything I can get my hands on to try and help me tame the wild beast that is my wardrobe.

A few months ago I posted a status on my Facebook asking people for any interesting blog suggestions. After wading through all of the smart ass comments, I found a diamond in the rough. My friend Christine suggested I check out Kendi Everyday, a fashion blog about utilizing only the items in your closet and remixing them for 30 days. I was intrigued.

Not only does Kendi manage to mix and match the cutest outfits ever, but she is a phenomenal writer who keeps me in stitches with her daily posts. Are you sensing a girl crush?? Totally have one. For those of you wifeys out there, Kendi also has another blog about she and her husband's relationship called Better Off Wed, which is just as funny if you're not married and you're a single gal like myself. Again, with the girl crush.

Having been in San Francisco for an entire three months now, I have found fashion inspiration in plain sight: takin' it to the street. There are people from all different cultures and walks of life here, so why not use them to influence your daily fashion choices? I wouldn't recommend trying to scope out inspiration from the crackheads in the Tenderloin, but the Mission hipsters and Marina preps are a good start.

One of my interests on StumbleUpon just so happens to be fashion (if you haven't "Stumbled" yet, give it a whirl. I highly recommend it). Every now and then I'll come across shopping or fashion websites that catch my eye for a minute or two before I move on. But today I came across a blog that simply captivated me. The genius behind this gem of a blog decided to draw inspiration from animated Disney characters. They had me at "Disney." I was enthralled with all of the fabulous outfits they were able to produce from not only the Disney Princesses, but the Villains too. Amongst my favorites were Cinderella, Belle and Ariel. But my heart melted for Sleeping Beauty. Tell me you wouldn't want to rock every single one of those outfits?? Absolutely fabulous.

I feel like I've uncracked a whole new world of inspiration (Did you get the Aladdin reference? How witty am I?!). Ladies, and gents if any read my blog, moral of the story is to keep your eyes and mind open at all times. Inspiration is lurking around every corner.

Hot Child In The City

I've been in San Francisco since March and I still feel like I haven't seen a fraction of what the City has to offer. I really wanted to utilize the extended part of my weekend to maximize my San Francisco exposure. We shall call this extended weekend my first "Exploriday."

On Sunday, we ventured out to the Treasure Island Flea Market. A $3 entry fee gets you access to vendors selling everything from feather hair extensions to 1950's circle-dial telephones. I only walked away with a bag of kettle corn (which is gone, by the way) but Ashley scored herself a nice used baseball glove ($25) and a pair of the raddest white cowboy boots on earth for a measly $30. Jealous.

Since we made our rounds at the flea market early and the weather was phenomenally gorgeous, we decided to get some authentic Mexican food in the Mission at La Taqueria. Named on of the top 20 places in the Mission to eat, it did not disappoint. It may have been one of the best tacos I've ever had. Sorry grandma. Filled to the brim with kettle corn, carnitas tacos and an ice cold Corona, we headed back to camp and watched a house-record 3 Netflix movies until bed. I'm now not only convinced the real Paul McCartney is dead, but I'm convinced Courtney Love killed Kurt Cobain. I need to stop watching documentaries. I digress.

Today I woke up and hit the gym with Ash. She and Dave had tickets to the A's game, so it was just me, myself and I. I knew I wanted to head down Fillmore and check out some of the shops in Pac Heights, so I hopped on the ol' deuce-deuce (the 22 bus) and headed on my way. A little nervous to be by myself in the City, my mind was soon at ease when I spotted my boyfriend on the bus. And when I say "boyfriend," I mean Tim Lincecum. And when I say "spotted," I mean there was a newspaper article about him hanging up. It took all my might not to vandalize the by-line to read, "Lincecum flirts with Carrie Campos." But again... I digress.

Shopping was a huge success. Not only did I manage to buy my sister a birthday present (yeah, I know it was a month ago, but I haven't seen her in a while so lay off me), but I gained the confidence to go out and explore on my own. Head held high, I decided to walk home. I took the picture featured above on my way. The weather was too nice to sit inside for the rest of the day so I called Tim and asked him to meet me for some food/drinks and watch the Giant's game. We decided to head out to the Embarcadero, only to find it was a ghost town. Thankfully, Gordon Biersch was open and happy hour was just beginning. Awesome. Dave and Ashley met us there after the game and after a few more apps and drinks, we were off to pick up a bed at Ashley's co-worker's house. The mattress didn't fly off of Tim's roof going up/down Fillmore, so we can bank this as yet another success.

Not ready to end the day, we headed out to Moscone Field to break in Ashley's new baseball glove. While Dave and Ash played catch, I practiced my fastball on Tim (yes, in flats). At first glance, I thought a homeless man was walking toward me on the mound. Turns out he was just a weirdo who wanted to pitch to Tim. I happily obliged. After about 10 minutes of this guy almost pegging Tim in the head, he left the field with his shopping cart full of beer and told us to have a "Happy Fucking Memorial Day."

We all took turns at bat and, not to toot my own horn but, I was pretty good. I even told Dave my softball team in 5th grade almost made it to the Junior World Series (total lie). He believed me (total sucker). We played until sundown and walked back to the apartment. How "Sandlot" of us.

I remember moving to San Luis and exploring on my own. The only problem is, there was only so much in San Luis to explore. Not here. There are museums, and fields, and galleries, and food (lots and lots of food). There is a never-ending plethera of events, places and people to see. I learned today that exploring a city can be fun, challenging and more often than not, memorable. I can't wait to see what my next Exploriday brings.

Get It Right, Get It Tight

I know everyone has their own taste in workout music. In high school, my friend Jenna would listen to Celine Dion's "A Decade of Song" before basketball games. To each his own. But the other day I was working on my fitness and I had an epiphany: I had perfected my workout mix.

For a long time I'd find myself skipping tracks, which would consequently get me out of my workout groove, especially while running. What I noticed is that there was a direct correlation between what song was on my iPod and how hard I was pushing myself. This needed to change and my playlist was the key.

With the consistent release of new songs, I am constantly adding to my playlist. I find this both encourages me and excites me to head to the gym. Another tool I utilize is my "shuffle" button. I put my mix on shuffle to spice things up a bit and find, somehow, my iPod knows exactly when to play Kanye's "Stronger" just before I get the urge to push the emergency stop button on the treadmill.

For those of you wondering what gets my blood pumping and my legs moving, I have decided to share a few crucial tracks on my workout playlist with you. Happy running, everyone.

1. Uprising, Muse
2. Cry For You, September
3. Dynamite, Taio Cruz
4. Rock That Body, Black Eyed Peas
5. Because The Night, Cascada
6. When Love Takes Over (Remix), David Guetta & Kelly Rowland
7. Stronger, Kanye West
8. 3, Britney Spears
9. On The Floor, Jennifer Lopez
10. Blow, Ke$ha
11. S&M, Rihanna
12. Evacuate the Dancefloor, Cascada
13. Boom Boom Guetta (Boom Boom Pow Remix), Black Eyed Peas & David Guetta
14. No Sleep Til Brooklyn, Beastie Boys
15. Say It Right, Nelly Furtado
16. Getting Over You, David Guetta with Fergie and Chris Willis
17. Right Above It, Lil Wayne & Drake
18. Make It Rain, Fat Joe
19. I Like It, Enrique Iglesias
20. Can't Be Tamed, Miley Cyrus

Just another day...

Having a job at Genentech has its perks; one being the charter bus that totes me to and from work everyday. The only downside of the Genetech bus system is that my route home only comes once an hour. If I don't make the 4:30 bus, I'm waiting until 5:30 for the next one. I've never had much problems making it onto the bus... that is, until today.

The ride back to the Marina is approximately 45 minutes. Considering I have a bladder the size of a peanut, I try and hit up the ladies room before I take off. When I returned to my desk after today's daily lavatory ritual, my boss was waiting for me. He was in meeting all day and wanted to discuss some tasks before his busy schedule tomorrow. With a plastered grin I tried to seem interested, but found my eyes darting back and forth between he and my clock, like I was watching a tennis match, to make sure I could catch the bus. After wrapping things up, I had 5 minutes until the bus arrived. I didn't have time to properly stow anything away so I grabbed my tupperware from lunch and headed out. Like a gazelle, I flew by my co-workers' cubicles, leaving behind only the voice of my goodbyes.

I decided I better skedaddle since I was cutting it pretty close, so I picked up the tempo as I hopped down a few flights of stairs. Now into a brisk walk, I headed out of the building and around the corner where I could get my first glimpse of the bus stop. The bus was already there. Shit. Without hesitation, I threw my body into a full-on sprint. Approximately 12 steps in, I felt my bare right foot hit the ground. My shoe must have flown off. Behind me. Shit! In an effort to stop the momentum of my body, my right foot dragged across the cement, leaving a nice scuff across a number of my newly pedicured toe nails. Double shit!

No stranger to hop scotch, I launched myself on only my left foot to my abandoned shoe, slipped it on and was rolling in no time. Not wanting another aerodynamic mishap, I was running and shuffling at the same time. I was ruffling.

Hoping some kind soul would see me ruffling across campus and tell the driver to hold the bus, I started waiving my arm, tupperware in hand, in a panicked frenzy. When I finally made it to the bus doors, I apologized to the driver and thanked him profusely for waiting for me. He looked a little puzzled, glanced at his watch and said, "Oh you had plenty of time. We're not leaving for a few more minutes."