Hippie Headbands & Fannie Packs

LK has been hounding me about this post since I told her she was my inspiration for it. Little did she know that it's all about things I like but she hates; my secret love for fanatical trends.

So there is this adorable girl in my yoga class and I can't figure out if she is a hot mess or not. Anyway the last two times she has been in my class she has worn a sparkly silver headband in the fashion of, as LK would say, an effing Indian. 

Lindsey hates this new trend but I secretly like it. The thing is, as so many super trendy things do, the hippie headband would look absurd on me. It would slide up my tiny head and my hair would go right along with it and pouf out at the top and then eventually and probably at the most embarrassing moment the headband would spring off my head an into the lap of some gorgeous guy - hot mess moment/ v. awkward- Well anyway I wish I could wear one and to yoga no less. Hippie headbands fall into the same secret love trends as the following. 

Shorts one pieces, I realize you have to weigh 110lbs wet and be about 5'-10" or taller to wear them. I have a pair of black silk capri overalls that I love but haven't warn in years because they have been banned by all of my friends; they sort of fall in the same category - except they fall to the mid calf and have OshKosh like pockets in front (Yeah I know that was the first reference to Oshkosh since 1993). Actually LM hasn't seen them yet. I am waiting until she really pisses me off one day and then I will pair them with my crocs (which you should know I only purchased for when I went backpacking and it was totally worth it) I will go out with her in public wearing them and like your mother did in Junior high I will embarass her to shame. And that is how she will know I am mad at her. It's genius.

I also secretly love the designer fannie pack. But then again that too would ride up my hips, create a pouf in my shirt and totally embarass me. Maybe it would pop off at the same time as the hippie headband and then there would have to be an intervention. So don't worry I will leave these trends to those who know how to keep it together.

But as I constantly aspire to embody the type of girl who is able to wear these things - The headband is a physical impossibility as my head is just too small - I'll leave you with this last thought. I made the brilliant choice, as I sit in nook today, not to order the cheese platter designed for two that I typically eat by myself. I ordered the boring old cup of soup instead - I officially hate myself -but anyway what I was getting at is if I kick my cheese habit do you think I can wear a designer fannie pack or a shorts onsie? Hopefully not together but maybe one at a time? 

Union Street Festival/ Insomnia

I am not happy about this. It is 2:30 am, my head hurts and I can't sleep. But I guess that's what I get for drinking all day as if I was still in college; when I never used to get tired or hangovers. Back then God didn't punish me for drinking a fifth of Popov (woof) with little more than a piece of toast to tide me over. I could wake up and go to class after sleeping for two hours. I didn't get that puffy residual drunk look that is so common to me now after a day of drinking in the sun. Dear God why the change of heart? Is it because you want me to grow up and be an adult or because you have finally realized I am never going to join your team? Is this the same reason you have finally allowed my cheese habit to catch up with me and why when I went through all of adolescence zit free you have finally decided to curse me with adult acne? Who knew you were as vindictive as me. I forgive you all this if you would just let me sleep right now.

So yesterday (as in several hours ago) was San Francisco's annual Union street festival. There are several of these festivals during the season. For your reference please search Folsom street festival images. The morning started at LM's friends house at Greenwich and Laguna but in an effort to actually see the festival instead of skirt around it all day attending parties in the area we headed to union to wander around before things got too crazy. Fairly typical street fair but add more drunks than usual and less music. Seriously the amount of live entertainment was a little disappointing, although above average people watching really filled the gap. We headed over to a friends friends apartment that was in the thick of it but ended up at the wrong party. How we found this place I don't know but it was a frat house in the middle of San Francisco. Literally reminded me of a pike house in SLO. It was wall to wall people, men in tank tops and acrylic nails everywhere. I was given a stamp that says friends which I am sure when I finally do fall asleep and wake up will be on my forehead. So we finally find our friends but the apartment is out of beer so we agree to go to the Bus Stop where there is a huge line which we don't want to wait in so we walk around the side of the bar to the back entrance where for no bribe at all you can walk right in. Genius. 

My friend John Tuttle, is saving us a table and when he sees us he stands on the bench to greet us and low and behold two naked white legs. He is wearing short shorts and has a popped collar. I don't know Tuttle are you pretending to be one of them or are you actually one? We finally agree sitting inside a bar on a sunny SF day at a street festival seems wrong and so decide to explore which really means eat some food and 20 minutes later head back to the house party with fresh cold 18 pack in hand. The house has a beer bong tied to the stair railing and a beirut table set up in the living room. I love both of these things (but when am I going to grow up?) I walked home alone at around 7:30 p.m. up Union to Hyde. I almost died walking up the hill and if you think I am exaggerating then you A. don't live in San Francisco and B. Didn't know what I didn't tell you which is at the fair I ate a chicken skewer with the meat of half a whole chicken, Pad Thai, a hot dog, and 2 slices of pizza. I wasn't going to tell you because I am trying to pretend it never happened. I can feel you judging me right now...just stop that's what I have God for. Anyway I hop on the cable car at Hyde (thank god) and I am home and in bed by 8:30 p.m.. But not before I can text several friends to let them know I will be going out in 2 hours which is pretty adorable if you think about it since I woke up at 1 a.m. trying to figure out where I was.

Still can't sleep, I think I will watch the last episode of Parks and Recreation. If you haven't seen it go to hulu and watch it. It is genius, I hope they don't cancel it next season.

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. The size was completely discriminate and based upon several criteria including whether or not I liked you, whether you shook your head about wanting to take one or manned up, how drunk I wanted you to be and how drunk I already was. So I am sure you can see why I look upon this dubbing fondly. In 2009 the term has changed slightly. “Pulling a Mya” as it turns out is when one eats miniscule piece of something she really shouldn’t be eating any of. Several minutes, hours or in some very extreme cases a day later goes back for SOME more or over several miniscule pieces finishes the remainder of said item. For example my male coworker brings extra donuts down from his safety meeting and Jeremy goes and takes half of a donut in an attempt to restrain himself. 10 minutes later Jeremy announces he is “pulling a Mya” and goes back for the other half. Right…. Fucking humiliating when my 6 bottomless pit male coworkers have decided you have done this enough times for the entire act to carry your name for life. Now you know Jennifer Aniston would never… but hello Brittany you’re lucky I got stuck with it first.  But then again "The Brittany" is much much worse.

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.

PS He played R&B the entire 90.

Aha yoga I'll see you tomorrow.

Aaaah Naw yoga don't count on it.