There has been much debate about whether the House of Hot Mess (my apartment that is) is located in Nob Hill or Russian Hill. I like to think the invisible line dividing the two is at Hyde and Jackson. Our favorite dive chinese restaurant U Lee located at this very juncture captures both worlds. It is Zagat rated but still tiny, cheap and a little questionable. It has the flashing neon lights - that in my mind define Nob Hill and a sorry attempt at the twinkle lights that so characterize and separate the two. At this juncture you cross over from slightly seedy liquor stores and cheap ethnic dives to "markets", wine bars and formal world dining. How the two can coexist so closely together is the mystery of any city I suppose. So by my own boarder definition sadly (or not sadly but I will debate that later) the house of Hot Mess despite being posted on Craigslist by our miserly low life landlord as located in Russian Hill is actually in Nob Hill. I should have know this sooner I suppose but it has taken almost 7 months for it to be okay. I should have noticed it the night that Little Asian Man dumped his trash bag full of cans onto the sidewalk underneath my bedroom window and one at a time set each can up on end and proceeded to crush it beneath his foot. I should have known I wasn't in Russian Hill everytime I walked up our entry stairs (which BTW we fondly refer to as the death trap) and was greeted by the smell of urine. Marissa did actually discover that our 1st floor neighbor couldn't be bothered to walk his dog past the entry steps to pee. I have been devising a threatening note in my head that will hopefully scare the old man that lives there - and who is probably paying like $150 a month for the entire apartment thanks to SF Rent Control - into taking his damn dog for a walk. This will be delivered at the same time as the death threat to the upstairs neighbor who walks around in heels 24 hours a day. I imagine she owns healed slippers with fur on them similar to Carrie's when she is trying to have good sex with Burger (that was doomed from the beginning and we all saw it, I mean Burger....really?) So anyway I digress but what I was at one point getting to was, as I sit at Nook (located in Russian Hill, but barely) Is that I kind of embrace living in Nob Hill. Now thank god we are not bordering on the TenderNob or China Town but I like cheap food I can afford and more importantly restuants that I can bring my own beer to. I like divey goodwill stores not disguised as high end boutiques. I like the can lady I see in the morning engergetically collecting her recycling, please note this is entirely different from Little Man can crusher. I like the stoners who work in Le Beau our market... hello they put extra cheese samples out and don't care that I try each one twice. I have nothing else to say about it except I wish I didn't end this post with cheese. But whatever I am a little hungry and Nook has a delicious cheese platter but it isn't really for one...hmmmmm.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Nob Hill Musings
There has been much debate about whether the House of Hot Mess (my apartment that is) is located in Nob Hill or Russian Hill. I like to think the invisible line dividing the two is at Hyde and Jackson. Our favorite dive chinese restaurant U Lee located at this very juncture captures both worlds. It is Zagat rated but still tiny, cheap and a little questionable. It has the flashing neon lights - that in my mind define Nob Hill and a sorry attempt at the twinkle lights that so characterize and separate the two. At this juncture you cross over from slightly seedy liquor stores and cheap ethnic dives to "markets", wine bars and formal world dining. How the two can coexist so closely together is the mystery of any city I suppose. So by my own boarder definition sadly (or not sadly but I will debate that later) the house of Hot Mess despite being posted on Craigslist by our miserly low life landlord as located in Russian Hill is actually in Nob Hill. I should have know this sooner I suppose but it has taken almost 7 months for it to be okay. I should have noticed it the night that Little Asian Man dumped his trash bag full of cans onto the sidewalk underneath my bedroom window and one at a time set each can up on end and proceeded to crush it beneath his foot. I should have known I wasn't in Russian Hill everytime I walked up our entry stairs (which BTW we fondly refer to as the death trap) and was greeted by the smell of urine. Marissa did actually discover that our 1st floor neighbor couldn't be bothered to walk his dog past the entry steps to pee. I have been devising a threatening note in my head that will hopefully scare the old man that lives there - and who is probably paying like $150 a month for the entire apartment thanks to SF Rent Control - into taking his damn dog for a walk. This will be delivered at the same time as the death threat to the upstairs neighbor who walks around in heels 24 hours a day. I imagine she owns healed slippers with fur on them similar to Carrie's when she is trying to have good sex with Burger (that was doomed from the beginning and we all saw it, I mean Burger....really?) So anyway I digress but what I was at one point getting to was, as I sit at Nook (located in Russian Hill, but barely) Is that I kind of embrace living in Nob Hill. Now thank god we are not bordering on the TenderNob or China Town but I like cheap food I can afford and more importantly restuants that I can bring my own beer to. I like divey goodwill stores not disguised as high end boutiques. I like the can lady I see in the morning engergetically collecting her recycling, please note this is entirely different from Little Man can crusher. I like the stoners who work in Le Beau our market... hello they put extra cheese samples out and don't care that I try each one twice. I have nothing else to say about it except I wish I didn't end this post with cheese. But whatever I am a little hungry and Nook has a delicious cheese platter but it isn't really for one...hmmmmm.
Hot Mess Moment – Effing Donuts…
So I have decided to come clean, be honest about my secret envy of girls who are anorexic- oh hell, how about girls who have self control. Like the one who doesn’t eat the bread at the table and only half of her oversized dinner. I envy these girls so much I make comments like “I could look like that if I didn’t eat” or “she looks hungry” or “Her coke habit was the best thing that ever happened to her” or the even more cleverly disguised “I am concerned about so and so, I think she might have an eating disorder…” concern my ass I just really want to be her.
But it turns out I am not. In 2004 a “Mya” was a term, dubbed by my freshman year college newly found friends, for a shot of alcohol that I poured…it was usually about half of a highball glass and took you between 2 and 3 gulps to take.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Aha Yoga...or Ahhh Naw Yoga?
That's right I jumped on the bandwagon. I am officially one of "those girls" who does yoga. Or at least I thought I was. I know the postures, even some of the names. The term downward facing dog doesn't make me giggle anymore - although the shear idea of "Happy Baby" still does. I have my own yoga mat, attire and I finally, yes finally embraced the "Ohm" although why we do it escapes me. I even say namaste and bow at the end of my practice; so yes I like to think my hot mess self can fake it through a yoga class (although the whole time I am aspiring to be the non hot mess in the front of the room - you know her she's that one in head to toe Lulu Lemon w/ coordinating mat...she weighs 115 lbs and what is the secret to her pouf? The entire 90 minutes upside down, in the twist, lying on the floor, standing on her head and her f'ing pouf is still intact as is her perfect natural makeup that says I'm not wearing any - Yeah you know her and you can't hate her because your hot messy self wants to be her). Anway I digress. I finally decide after several attempts at other yoga places and free yoga at Lulu Lemon on Wednesdays (which is normally fabulous but the instructor this month, they rotate every month, is a little bit of a yogi-douchebag) I purchase yes the overpriced 20 sesh package hoping that through this I can channel a little of that Lulu Lemon girl that I know is just hiding deep inside me waiting to surface - and hotmessmoment: they have free oranges...mmmm. The first class back at Aha actually doesn't actually go so well for me. Friday night with Sherman the African American Body Building Yogi God. Sherman you don't have me fooled, those pecks are not from Yoga. Turns out Sherman, who had rave reviews on well ahasf.com (hmmm rethink the incestuous review...) is actually a sadistic yogi who I suspect instructed yoga in the military or even more likely the marines. The warm up was hot and messy but I kept it together, this was under the assumption, as Sherman assured us that this was the hardest part. Throughout the 90 minutes Sherman put his hands all over my convulsing about to pass out body to correct me on my posture probably because as a hot mess I don't exaclty bend like Lulu Lemon the yoga superstar upfront; in my defense, were we really made to bend that direction anyway? Come on Sherman couldn't you have looked the other way and let me think I knew my yoga?
45 minutes through the practice, hot, sweaty and I had already put my headband back in 3 times I realized this wasn't going to get better. 50 minutes through the practice I take a child pose. 60 minutes in I decide to half ass the next 30 or I may vomit on cute boy up front - Hot Mess sidenote: he can do that posture with on one arm with body and legs suspended in the air...mmmmm-.
65 minutes in and still on the standing postures I decide to take another child's pose which turns into me on my knees waiting out the latest punishment Sherman has thought up. Sherman catches wind of my plan - to quit - and comes over to make sure all is ok; Hot Mess Moment: "yeah my doctor says I shouldn't do this one on my bad knee..." Not good enough for Sergent Sherman he gives me a similar posture anyway.
And then the abs, um f'ing never ended. The last thing I remember before I passed out is Sherman saying "and twist and twist." - actually I'm not that messy I didn't pass out - Anyway Sherman doesn't like me and I don't like him. Sorry Sergent Sherman I won't be making it to your bootcamp again anytime soon.
Aha yoga I'll see you tomorrow.
Aaaah Naw yoga don't count on it.
45 minutes through the practice, hot, sweaty and I had already put my headband back in 3 times I realized this wasn't going to get better. 50 minutes through the practice I take a child pose. 60 minutes in I decide to half ass the next 30 or I may vomit on cute boy up front - Hot Mess sidenote: he can do that posture with on one arm with body and legs suspended in the air...mmmmm-.
65 minutes in and still on the standing postures I decide to take another child's pose which turns into me on my knees waiting out the latest punishment Sherman has thought up. Sherman catches wind of my plan - to quit - and comes over to make sure all is ok; Hot Mess Moment: "yeah my doctor says I shouldn't do this one on my bad knee..." Not good enough for Sergent Sherman he gives me a similar posture anyway.
And then the abs, um f'ing never ended. The last thing I remember before I passed out is Sherman saying "and twist and twist." - actually I'm not that messy I didn't pass out - Anyway Sherman doesn't like me and I don't like him. Sorry Sergent Sherman I won't be making it to your bootcamp again anytime soon.
PS He played R&B the entire 90.
Aha yoga I'll see you tomorrow.
Aaaah Naw yoga don't count on it.
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