I haven't blogged for a month.

And I really don't know exactly why. I think somehow I've gotten lost in the day-to-day and the fun and excitement of starting something new. I have days where I let nine and almost ten-year-olds get the best of me, and I think that I can't get up the next morning and do it all over again. I also fasted on rice and beans for a week, which made me realize in more ways than one how dependent on food I am to survive each day. I also observed Holy Week in new ways, combining the fast with services each day. I started realizing that I've had a dog for over three months and I haven't killed him yet- somehow he's still thriving. And I drove my car over 4,000 miles in three months, heading to Portland and back.

So I guess there have been some reasons.

On the way home from Tahoe

I get an anxious feeling in the pit of my stomach. Usually it's because I'm leaving the excitement and enjoyment of dance parties, skiing, and enjoying nature and friends behind. But this time it was different. I was in control of how I was feeling. I was feeling anxious because of a midterm I had to take, a job I have to find, a meeting later with someone one-on-one that felt like it was holding expectations.

I could let myself feel sorry for myself: that I had to come home and take a test, make sure that my dog was taken care of, and then somehow muster up the energy to be fun and social at the end of the day, even though all I wanted to be was watching a TV show with some of my good friends on their couch. But I didn't. I came home, I faced my fears, and finally the pervasive anxiety is diminishing. I don't know how to let it leave every time, but this time I figured it out.

CNY 2012

I've never marched in a parade before. I used to watch the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade while growing up and one year I was lucky enough to go with my parents to New York and see the floats up close.

Yesterday, I experienced San Francisco in a way that I never had before. I got to march down Market Street, up Kearny, into Chinatown, with my students. They were the dragons and I, as one of the adults, was the flames. I had friends watching from Macy's department store windows and high hillsides, shouting "We love you Meg" with bullhorns. I got to dress up in costume, entranced by the way that the city was glistening in red and gold around me. The year of the dragon, 2012.

Tribute while lonely

I've been feeling lonelier than usual lately- it must be all of the puppy training and nine-year-old life that I immerse myself in each day. So, it came as a surprise when I got an email from my friend Pryor who I feel is a kindred spirit (also feeling lonely right now) that she wanted to do a blog post on me. I'm thankful for who she is as a person, our friendship, and for her new blog.

Here goes:

Tribute #1

If you have read The Hunger Games then you may be a little bit confused. I’m using tribute in the traditional sense of the word. For example, I’d like to paytribute to so-and-so. On second thought, maybe I am referencing The Hunger Games a little since I’m using tribute as a noun instead of a verb. No matter. I’d like to pay tribute to some tributes.

Here in blog world, and internet world in general, its very tempting for “me, me, me” to become the focus. (I’m realizing that is okay and good to talk about myself. I’m learning to trust that people care and want to know what is going on in my world. After all, I like reading my friends’ updates/blog posts, etc.) Okay, enough of that, I want to pay tribute to my girlfriends. I want to pay tribute to those that I love, those that have impacted me for good, and those that have blogs. (I may expand to non-bloggers, too. We’ll see.)

{I thought about doing this before I moved to a place where I had no friends. Now that I’m in this place not only do I hope these posts will a. encourage those in which I pay tribute to, but also b. make my heart glad by remembering those that I love and c. prevent loneliness.}

Tribute #1 (for real now)

Meg Garner.

Friendship Bio: I met Meg in San Francisco in 2007. At the time, she worked in a call center for a high-end fashion company (not really her thing). Now, she’s in her first year as a licensed/certified (I’m not sure the proper way to refer to an official teacher) elementary school teacher (very much her thing). She has a new puppy, a new job, and is still living in SF.

About Meg: Meg is a giver, I’m not sure that she would call herself one, but its true. She gave me my first pair of knitting needles and my first skein of yarn. She gave me an easel when I was on a painting kick. As an artist, her giving and creative nature compliment each other very nicely.

Meg taught me to knit. This has proved very beneficial to me since I have now made this hobby slightly profitable. Also, I have enjoyed passing time in the car, making something out of nothing, giving gifts with an extra special meaning, and teaching others to knit.

Giving. Artistic. Creative. Meg is also SPASTIC in the very best sense of the word. She has so much energy bottled up inside of her – its infectious. When she dances, I want to dance. When she’s going to a new show/restaurant/street fair, I want to tag along. When she is excited about something, I want to get in on that thing that she’s excited about, no matter what it is.

Now, let’s hear from Meg herself.

What is your greatest strength?

Hmm… while talking to my friend Adam at a party last night and explaining to him the joys and troubles of raising a puppy, he told me that I always have a propensity to bite off more than I can chew. I think that this is a strength and weakness: I’m up for anything all of the time and open to new people and experiences, but at the same time I often will feel overwhelmed after I’ve taken it all on. A lot of teachers I know just teach and that’s enough- they don’t have a social life or middle school girls that they mentor or host for people at an apartment without a sink. But, I don’t think that I would want to live life any other way.

Describe your perfect day.

My perfect day is one that I’m constantly tweaking. But, I think that it would start with a walk at Land’s End with my puppy Levi. Something art-related would definitely be involved- be it an independent movie, listening to live music, a trip to a museum, SCRAP, or a thrift store to come up with creative ideas for a new project. Other people would definitely be involved- good friends of course and there would be good food and drink too. Some kind of social gathering at night involving dancing would wrap it up nicely.

What’s your favorite book?

I’ve been reading more now since I’m sharing my love and enthusiasm for reading with my students each day during the curriculum we use. I don’t know that I have a favorite anything most of the time, but I just read The Marriage Plot by Jeffrey Eugenides and loved it. I’m a big Shauna Niequist fan too.

Describe how we met.

Well, this is one that I remember pretty clearly. You met my friend Rachael first at Young Life and I was with her when we met up with you at Hardly Strictly Bluegrass four and a half years ago! You were wearing overalls and were with Wimberly, who had a pink tutu on and was hula-hooping. I just knew that we would be friends.

What hobby/ activity are you interested in learning and why?

I would really like to learn to play the guitar because I think that it would be something great to do with my students- just busting out in song when they are being unruly.

What is the reason you started a blog?

Well, it first started with a book idea about my adventures living in France. I had some free time when I first moved to San Francisco, thinking that I could use it productively and record my European experiences while they were fresh in my mind. The book idea never came to fruition, but it was my first blog post.

I started a blog because for some reason I believe that I have experiences that no one else has and that I want to share with other people. Who else can say that they overloaded themselves with groceries at Trader Joe’s, parked up a hill far away, and then ended up just shoving the shopping cart in the bushes? Or that they made their own muppet in New York and dressed up as her for Halloween, more for herself than her students? Peace, love, and happiness was one of those phrases that I was obsessed with in middle school- I had necklaces, t-shirts, you name it. Now, my fourth graders love the same thing and I laugh about it every time I see them doodling it on their papers.

What is the reason you have continued your blog?

Again, similar to the reason above. I know that my mom reads it. And that people like Pryor (who I don’t get to share my life with on a daily basis but who I still want to be up on my adventures) read it. So I keep going.

Here’s to Meg!

From Mindy's new book...

Getting a dog this week has made me much less fearful of commitment, talk about a lifelong one, a one that wakes up at 2 in the morning whining, and needs constant TLC. Now, I just need to find someone who is willing to do the same thing.

Why You Need A Man, Not A Boy | Mindy Kaling via Glamour

Mindy Kaling’s book is still not available til November (sigh) but Glamour has featured a chapter on their website. If the rest of the book is as good as this, my excitement level has risen! Here it is!

Sometimes I eavesdrop on people.

I could rationalize it—oh, this is good anthropological research for characters I’m writing—but it’s basically just nosiness. It also helps me gauge where I’m at: Am I normal? Am I doing the correct trendy cardio exercises? Am I reading the right books? Is gluten still lame? It was through eavesdropping that I learned that you could buy fresh peanut butter at Whole Foods from a machine that grinds it in front of you. I had wasted so much of my life eating stupid old already-ground peanut butter. So, yeah, I highly recommend a little nosiness once in a while.

Recently I listened in on two attractive thirtyish women talking over brunch. I heard the following:

Girl #1 (pretty girl, Lululemon yoga pants, great body): Jeremy just finished his creative writing program at Columbia. But now he wants to maybe apply to law school.

Girl #2 (tiny girl, sheet of black hair, strangely huge breasts): Oh, God.

Lululemon: What?

32D: How many grad schools is he going to go to?

Lululemon: I know. But it’s not his fault. No publishers are buying short stories from unfamous people. Basically, you have to be Paris Hilton to sell books these days.

32D: For the 10 years that Jeremy has been out of college doing entry-level job after entry-level job and grad school, you’ve had a job that has turned into a career.

Lululemon: Yeah, so?

32D: Jeremy’s a boy. You need a man.

Lululemon did not take this well, as I’d anticipated. I felt bad for Lulu because I’ve been Lulu. It’s really hard when you realize the guy you’ve been dating is basically a high schooler at heart. It makes you feel like Mary Kay Letourneau. It’s the worst.

Until I was 30, I dated only boys. I’ll tell you why: Men scared the sh*t out of me. Men know what they want. Men own alarm clocks. Men sleep on a mattress that isn’t on the floor. Men buy new shampoo instead of adding water to a nearly empty bottle of shampoo. Men make reservations. Men go in for a kiss without giving you some long preamble about how they’re thinking of kissing you. Men wear clothes that have never been worn by anyone else before.

OK, maybe men aren’t exactly like this. But this is what I’ve cobbled together from the handful of men I know or know of, ranging from Heathcliff Huxtable to Theodore Roosevelt to my dad. The point: Men know what they want, and that is scary.

What I was used to was boys.

Boys are adorable. Boys trail off their sentences in an appealing way. Boys get haircuts from their roommate, who “totally knows how to cut hair.” Boys can pack up their whole life and move to Brooklyn for a gig if they need to. Boys have “gigs.” Boys are broke. And when they do have money, they spend it on a trip to Colorado to see a music festival.

Boys can talk for hours with you in a diner at three in the morning because they don’t have regular work hours. But they suck to date when you turn 30.

When I was 25, I went on exactly four dates with a much older guy whom I’ll call Peter Parker. I’m calling him Peter Parker because, well, it’s my story, and I’ll name a guy I dated after Spider-Man’s alter ego if I want to.

Peter Parker was a comedy writer who was a smidgen more accomplished than I but who talked about everything with the tone of “you’ve got a lot to learn, kid.” He gave me lots of unsolicited advice about how to get a job “if The Office got canceled.” After a while, it became clear that he thought The Office would get canceled, and by our fourth and last date, that he clearly thought it should get canceled.

Why am I bringing up Peter Parker? Because he was the first real man I dated. An insufferable yet legit man.

Peter owned a house. It wasn’t ritzy or anything, but he’d really made it a home. The walls were painted; there was art in frames. He had installed a flat-screen TV and speakers. There was just so much screwed into the walls, so much that would make you lose your deposit. I marveled at the brazenness of it. Peter’s house reminded me more of my house growing up than of a college dorm room. I’d never seen that before.

Owning a house obviously wasn’t enough to make me want to keep dating Peter. Like I said, he was kind of a condescending dick. But I observed in Peter a quality that I knew I wanted in the next guy I dated seriously: He wasn’t afraid of commitment.

At this point you might want to smack me and say: “Are you seriously just another grown woman talking about how she wants a man who isn’t afraid of commitment?” Let me explain! I’m not talking about commitment to romantic relationships. I’m talking about commitment to things—houses, jobs, neighborhoods. Paying a mortgage. When men hear women want a commitment, they think it means commitment to a romantic relationship, but that’s not it. It’s a commitment to not floating around anymore. I want a guy who is entrenched in his own life. Entrenched is awesome.

So I’m into men now, even though they can be frightening. I want a schedule-keeping, waking-up-early, wallet-carrying, picture-hanging man. I don’t care if he takes prescription drugs for cholesterol or hair loss. (I don’t want that, but I can handle it. I’m a grown-up too.)

I know I’m only marginally qualified to be giving advice. I’m not married, I frequently use my debit card to buy things that cost less than three dollars, and my bedroom is so untidy it looks like vandals ransacked the Anthropologie sale section. I’m kind of a mess. I did, however, fulfill a childhood dream of writing, producing and acting in television and movies. Armed with that confidence, alongside a lifelong love of the sound of my own voice, I’m giving you this bit of wisdom: When you turn 30—maybe even before—a fun thing to try is dating men. It’ll be like freshly ground peanut butter, times a million.

Muppets times three

It took me three times of seeing the movie and one time of downloading the soundtrack on iTunes to finally get this quote.

Sooner or later, you have to believe in yourself, because that's what growing up is.

(Jason Siegel to Walter, when he is about to perform for the first time as a Muppet)

Living in San Francisco means...

Every time that I'm back in Pennsylvania, I struggle to explain to other people how much I love the city I live in. I'm becoming more of a rarity in York county, as my other SF friends are moving back east. But this post from the Bold Italic (slightly edited), seems to sum up my thoughts for the city that I hold so dear.

Living in San Francisco means having worked at a start-up, made lattes, mixed Bloody Marys, sold shitty clothing, waited on morons, and invested your heart, your soul, and all your energy into a nonprofit. It means still walking dogs, still trimming weed, still babysitting, still doing random gigs from Craigslist, still participating in clinical test studies at UCSF, still doing whatever the fuck it takes to pay rent in this city. It means thinking that half a million dollars for a one-bedroom condo is totally normal.

Living in San Francisco means moving to the Mission and complaining that it's getting gentrified.

It means knowing the Marina actually isn’t that bad after all. Knowing that Nopa is a restaurant and that the neighborhood is called the Western Addition. Knowing that Upper Haight is always about five degrees colder than Lower Haight. That 6th and Mission is both sad and shady. That the Outer Sunset and Outer Richmond are more than just fog-engulfed neighborhoods with fine ethnic food. That there’s a certain magic in North Beach, as long as you don’t go there on the weekends. That the Financial District is full of suits, Noe Valley is full of babies, SOMA is full of condos, and the Castro is full of gays. Actually, every neighborhood is full of gays.

Living in San Francisco means continually dealing with impermanence.

It means having places you love close up forever. It means having friends get married and move to Oakland. Friends who leave to join the Peace Corps. Friends who go to rehab. Friends who lose their minds. Friends who move back to wherever the fuck they’re from. Friends who OD and never move again. It means dreading the inevitable earthquake that will ultimately wash this city into the sea.

Living in San Francisco means never leaving the house without wearing layers. Having just one wardrobe. Owning lots of hoodies. Owning lots of scarves. Owning lots of hoodies and scarves for your dog. It means having pale legs that get sunburned every time it’s warm out. Calling in sick to work because, for once, it’s 80 degrees and you want to drink a 40 in the park. Enduring the cold summer months and savoring the warmth and festivities of Indian Summer. It means being worried that the term “Indian Summer” may not be politically correct.

Living in San Francisco means embracing any cause for celebration.

It means having a costume box for events like Bay to Breakers, the Love Parade, Burning Man, Halloween, Decompression, the How Weird Street Faire, or whatever new dress-up holiday gets added to the calendar this year. It means accidentally buying blow in the Beauty Bar. Having a medical marijuana card. Getting 86’d from Zeitgeist for doing something stupid. Getting 86’d from Zeitgeist for no good reason at all. Drinking with 75-year-old Beat poets at Specs. Dancing in the streets when Obama won. Dancing in the streets when the Giants won. Dancing till 4 a.m. at The Endup, at Club Six, at 1015 Folsom, at some underground warehouse in the Bayview where the directions weren’t even sent to you until 10 that night.

Living in San Francisco means having friends who are sex workers. Friends who have PhDs. Friends who have PhDs who are studying sex workers. It means having gay friends, straight friends, and friends who are somewhere in between. It means being open-minded about people – unless, of course, they’re Republicans.

Living in San Francisco means waiting an hour for a cab if there’s the slightest bit of rain.

It means riding the Night Owl and thinking you’re gonna get mugged by the teenagers in the back. Taking the 22 from the Marina to the Dogpatch and observing the city’s vast spectrum of existence. Sitting on BART and trying not to think about what lives inside those cushions. Riding Muni and seeing feats both beautiful and wretched within seconds of each other. It means walking these streets and witnessing broken beings weeping, sleeping, peeing, drinking, shitting, fighting, smoking crack, shooting up, screaming, bellowing, raging against some hellish torment that only they are privy to. It means having a local bum you kinda look out for, slipping her a buck or two, even though it’s been her “40th birthday” every day for the past five years.

Living in San Francisco means coming over the Bay Bridge and having your heart race a little when you see the city’s skyline.

Crossing the Golden Gate and smiling at the way the fog sits right on top of it. Snaking up the 101 and Candlestick Park being the greeting that tells you you’re almost home. It means visiting Middle America and being thought of as some kind of socialist gay hippie. It means traveling Europe and being considered one of the enlightened Americans. It means missing burritos, missing pho, missing Tapatio. It means missing Dolores Park, missing farmers’ markets, missing the ability to walk wherever you need to go. It means flying back from two and a half months in South America and getting a little teary-eyed watching Doctor Doolittle , just because it’s set in San Francisco.

Living in San Francisco means the midday smell of pot.

Cold winter winds that cut right through you. Sweet summer strawberries grown not too far away. Crisp salty air by the ocean. The occasional sound of gunshots. Being able to actually count the number of stars visible in the sky. Warm whiskey and late-night chatter on a new friend’s rooftop. It means walking by bodily waste and unfortunately being able to tell that it’s from a human, just by the way it smells. It means feeling the hum of the city as it gets revved up for another Saturday night.

Living in San Francisco means loving this city for all its fantasies, its freedoms, its fuckery, and its follies, and being excited to read something that begins: Living in San Francisco means...