Monday, December 10, 2012

SHACKING, A PORTABLE BOYFRIEND, AN APPLE: OH MY!

I woke up on Sunday morning feeling despondent, uncomfortable and confused.  I surveyed the grey, messy room and it all started to come back to me.  I wasn’t in my apartment, I was in a boy’s room.  I reached over beside me and patted down the bed, keeping my head facing the opposite side of the room so as to avoid a Cyote Ugly scenario.  I expected to feel a warm body but there was no one.  I sprung up and fished through the sheets for my phone only to be confronted by a slew of texts ranging from - "Where are you?" to "Where did you run off to last night?"  Then it hit me – I was at Vanderbilt’s house.  Flashbacks from Saturday night pulsed through my brain giving way to a massive, piercing headache.  I had fallen asleep in my extra long, extra thick pea coat, jeans and heels.  I silently praised my prudishness as I stood up.

Visions of Vanderbilt trying to cuddle and make out with me about 6 times throughout the night danced through my head.  I remembered I tried to pull the sleeping card to get him to take a hint but it didn't work.  Finally, I'd thought of a great excuse "I'm sorry, I just got out of a 12 year relationship and I'm just not ready to move on yet."  (It couldn’t have been further than the truth as the longest relaysh I’ve been in was like 2 weeks long and that was nearly a thousand years ago.)  But it worked.  When in doubt, go the baggage route.  That's what I always tell my clients.*

My eyes darted wildly around the room as I tried to locate my purse. I grabbed it and tip toed to the front door, hoping Vanderbilt (I can’t remember his name – all I know is he went to Vanderbilt so that’s what we’re calling him) couldn’t hear me from the bathroom or kitchen or wherever he was.  Feeling like Nelson Mandela once he was finally freed, I opened the door and stumbled outside, blinded by the strong morning sunlight.  I pulled my black shades over my eyes as I tried to figure out where I was.  Gough and Clay.  The heart of the Marina/Pac Heights.  Of course.  Perfect.  I was only 2 blocks from the house of the kids I babysit for.  I decided to go the opposite way.  As I struggled to hike up the steep San Francisco hill toward a busy street in my 5 inch wobbly heels I silently prayed for two things:

1. That I would swiftly find a cab.

2. That no one I knew would pass me looking like an awkward freak wearing a gold sequined shirt, a black pea coat and heels at 8am.

       Just as I was considering hiding in a bush, I found a cab.  I breathed a sigh of relief as I climbed in and urged the driver to "step on it."  He glanced back at me, looked me up and down and giggled and I could feel him silently judging me.  "DING DING."  my text message alert when off.   It was Vanderbilt.  He'd gone outside to walk his dog and assumed I'd be there to let him back in.  Well, I wasn't.  My heart went out to him as I imagined him standing in front of his apartment in his pajamas with his dog.


you better believe I used the red eye remover to write "v-bilt" - ghet-to
           I got back to my apartment eager to begin writing about this in Toe Pick.  I threw on stretch pants and a hoodie and climbed into my bed (toe pick SF’s headquarters) to begin writing.  I opened up toe pick’s link and this showed up: We are unable to process your request because this page no longer exists (or some shit along those lines).  I tried to open it 27 more times on my computer then called 4 people to see if they couldn't open it as well.  No one could.  Naturally, I panicked. 
                           
                   3 hours and a lot of f-bombs later… 

“Miss, calm down.  What is your domain name?” 

“It’s toe…pick…S…F…DOT…com.”  I responded exasperatedly through clenched teeth.

“Excuse me?”  The google blogger rep sounded confused.  Uncomfortable, even.

“TOE as in the thing that’s attached to your foot… PICK as in to PICK your nose…. SF as in SAN FRANCISCO…”  I spoke clearly and slowly as though I were talking to a 5 year old.

I paced back and forth in my room, barely able to contain my urge to hurl my phone out the window.  I had been on the phone with blogger reps for the majority of the afternoon, trying to salvage TPSF’s content which had been removed as a result of my expired domain address.   

“And miss, what is your 4 digit pin number?  I need this information in order to renew your domain.”

“I don’t know!  I don't remember!  Are you saying that getting my blog back up is contingent on this measly 4 digit pin number that I set up almost 2 years ago?”  I realized I was shouting at this point and quickly took some deep breaths.  “I’m sorry – it’s not your fault.  I’m just… so… scared that I won’t be able to get the site back and I would freak if this was the case.”

“Don’t do that,” she counseled me.  “Listen, let’s both clear our heads and THINK.  Throw out some numbers you think your pin number could be.”

 “Um," I  hesitated.  “This is going to sound weird.  Please don’t think I’m a pervert.  But… it might be... 69-69?” I collapsed onto my bed and buried my face in my pillow in an attempt to try and numb my embarrassment.  I felt the need to explain myself so before she had a chance to really respond, I offered up this explanation:

“I think I could’ve used this as the pin, because well, it’s not easily forgettable and plus, it was my debit card pin number in college…”

“Miss,” blogger rep interrupted me.  “That’s not the correct number.”

“Oh.”  Nothing like embarrassing youself for nothing

40 minutes of back and forth useless blogger banter later and we had made no progress.  I realized that these reps would be of no help so I ended the conversation and decided to sleep on it.

I realized after speaking with 2 more reps this morning that I would never remember my pin.  So – I fiddled around with my blogger settings and long story shart: the domain toepicksf.com is totally out of commission but I was able to go back to this toepicksf.blogspot.com.  Obviously I loathe the fact that the word “blog” is in my address but it’s better than nothing!  I'd also like to take this opportunity to apologize for being so dramatic and vocal about the situation via facebook status update.  CHAFE.

Moving on.   

I was thinking the other day about what I want for my birthmas. (Birthday+Christmas)  I figured since I’m now technically a WO-MAN I should ask for more practical, adult-like things as opposed to like, a Gameboy or whatever. So here’s what I came up with.
  • There’s this cool bathmat (with a twist) on sale that turns red every time it gets wet.  It’s a wonderful way to freak houseguests out because when they step out of the showa they’ll think they’ve been unknowingly injured (think Norman Bates via Psycho.)  I know what you’re thinking:  How in the fuck is this “adult-like?”  Well freaks, I’ll tell you: Adults have houseguests a lot.  It’s important to provide them with bathroom amenities including a bathmat.  So there.


  • The Jerky Boys: all editions.  I really need to step up my game in the field of prank calling.  No better way to learn than from the masters.

  •  A seahorse.  I am constantly perplexed and fascinated by a seahorse.  It’s like a cross between a tiny, saddlebred horse and a hummingbird.  They’re just so darn cute.  Plus, it will be good practice for me to take care of something in case one day I want kids.

  • A apple.

  • A portable, stowaway boyfriend.  When I think about it, the only time I really long for a boyfriend is on a Sunday night or when I’m watching a sad Lifetime movie.  The rest of the times I feel pretty okay with my haribo gummi bear nightlight by myself.

  • The 50 pound Haribo gummi bear that I’ve heard so much about.  I should really have one.  Like, it should be illegal that I don’t have one.  In fact, Haribo should be paying me for endorsing them so much.  Ungrateful bastards. 

What are you all asking for? I hope you get everything your sharts desire.  Oh - and just a reminder - please come to my 30th bday party on Saturday!  Click here for details.  It's gonna be F-U-N.

Up next: the remainder of my 3o lessons before 30.  

Have an awkward day!

xo, Nige

Thursday, December 6, 2012

You're Invited... to my Awkward 30th Birthday Party!

I’ve never been a big birthday person.  My birthday falls on December 23rd.  I was delivered home on Christmas morning which is why I’m so Christ-like.  There are a few things that suck about having my birthday so close to Christmas and they are:

·         No one remembers my day of birth because everyone is so caught up in X-mas, Passover, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, dradles, tinsel, stockings, Menorah's, etc.
·         Most everyone is with their families on the 23rd so no one can rage (except maybe this year because I’ll be in NYC)
·         People think that they can combine my Christmas and Birthday present – “Here’s your fat bag of coal– Happy Birthday/Merry Christmas!”

I’ve never had a big, blow out bday party but figured since I’m turning 30 and all I should probably step up to the plate.  That being said, I’d like to invite everyone to my party on December 15th.  It’s being held at CC’s – the breast dive bar in the city.  The theme is: Toe Pick.  You can come dressed as any character from TPSF: MacGruber, a Haribo Gummy Bear, Axl Rose, Lady Di, a shart (not sure how that would work) a Chafe (just think of a person or thing that annoys the shit out of you and dress up as that – I am thinking of going as a slow walker – my personal biggest chafe), a figure skater, a headbanger, a lost shoe, or something really awkward like a preppy salmon or a disgruntled gazelle.
ACE VENTURA: gotta package people!

this party is open to the pube-lic
Here are the deets:
Where:
CC’s
2417 Lombard St
(between Scott St & United States Highway 101) 

San Francisco, CA 94123

When: party sharts at 8pm and goes til the birds shart chirping.

Food: CC almost always puts out platters of mini roast beef sandwiches so if you’re not afraid of getting Mad Cow feel free to munch on those.  Otherwise, you can use them as ammo if someone tries to roofie you.  My advice: aim for the forehead – it’s flat and wide so the roast beef is more likely to stick.  Plus, no one likes a roast beef forehead (or maybe you do - I don't know what you're into).

If you're not into roast beef tossing do not fret - my breastie Wilcox is going to urge CC to make chile as well.  Wilcox is more partial to chile hurling and I know you might be too - different strokes...

Everyone is invited – the more the merrier.  Ok – so please come!!! (That’s what she said).  I’ll be back next week with the remainder of my 30 Before 30 segment.  Happy Thursday.  xo, Nigel