fitforafemme.com

Apparently, the rest of the country is on fire and the skies are trying to put them out with mediocre success, but I shan’t take up valuable white space with that sort of nonsense.

It was a very brutal Friday at work.

No, it was a very brutal Friday from the moment I woke up until, hm, champs ‘o clock.

It began with delays at my BART station (our metro of sorts), because some moron was walking around on the tracks. 30 minutes late. On the upside, there was perfectly cooked bacon when I arrived. A few harried hours later, I had a noon meeting, with food provided, but I don’t do pre-made sandwiches so lunch was actually half of a somewhat stale pastry chased by a bottle of OJ, eaten one-handed around, oh, 3PM. Of course, there’s nothing like a 3.5 offshore-centered earthquake from a high-rise building to make the afternoon exciting, not that I felt it (I was far too busy running around dealing with far less thrilling aftershocks of another sort).

It is no wonder then, that I made a beeline for Godiva after leaving the office, partly for my own sanity and partly because I’d promised my girls some treats. The smirk below, then, is directly related to A) Friday, at last and B) champagne truffles.

That, and the fact that we’ve got a 1.75L bottle of 10 -year Eagle Rare single-barrel Kentucky bourbon sitting atop the bar.

Plus, this dress is excellent and I’ve figured out that the Fekkai Marine Summer beachy wave hair stuff works much better when my hair is dry.

Dress, Calvin Klein
Scarf, Pier One ($10!)
Boots, Donald J. Pliner
Sunglasses, Kenneth Cole
Denim Jacket, Old Navy
Suede Tote, Banana Republic
Leather Earring, Idyllic4U (Brooklyn Flea)

Here’s what I’m thinking for my own personal inspiration sheet for Fall 2010 (or, like, life):

Weekend plans include, but are not limited to, the following:

What have y’all got going on? Is there anything else I’m missing, besides a massage and a good soak in a hot tub? Here, listen to this song, it’s pretty:

Edited to include this sandwich explanation: Pre-made and packaged sandwiches disgust me. I will also never, ever eat at one of those creepy, psychotic “dining in the dark” places. I must see exactly what you are putting in my probably very sparse sandwich, and I will watch you like a goddamn hawk tracking a sweet little bunny rabbit in an open field on a lovely Spring day if you are making it for me. I cannot believe that people actually consume sandwiches that have been sitting there for fuck only knows how long, with the spread or oils or whatnot soaking all into the bread and the other contents withering inside of suffocating plastic wrap. I also really loathe mayonnaise, and I still can’t quite figure out how I am friends with people who are known to eat it by the spoonful. The same is true for salads, you know, even if all of the ingredients are tidily separated from one another. Salads should be fresh. They are not fresh if they are boxed. I realize that being impossibly fussy makes me somewhat disagreeable, but I’m not quite as obnoxious as vegans or gluten-free types or people who can’t handle dairy without a big to-do, so there.

CONFESSION: On our 5th consecutive day of blissful holiday PTO, M took me to see A Single Man (remember when I mentioned it here back in November?). Despite the dreariness of the day, we bravely set out on BART to catch it playing down by the water at the Embarcadero theater. I really, really enjoyed it. It was delicious. There’s an old L-Word actress cameo, model cameos, a Mad Men cameo, and one other that I cannot quite recall. It was a touch slow in places, but it’s so visually saturated that it really doesn’t matter, and it made me cry. On our way home we took these silly photos, and then it began to rain, so we hustled inside, made a big spaghetti dinner, opened a bottle of tasty red from Spain, and then FINALLY got around to the Johnnie Walker Black Label blending session we’ve been postponing forever. Dreamy.

Y’all can have special insider pics of the super elaborate scotch whisky blending set-up, because I love you like that:

CONFESSION: Impromptu FFAF photo shoots are the best. We were on our way to BART to catch Where The Wild Things Are downtown, when we passed this relatively empty laundromat. It was so much fun, right down to jumping into one of the carts, playing shooter games and the old-timey Soap Stop (below). I realize the key missing component is the fact that we were just passing through, not doing any actual laundry (which I abhor), but still. SUPERFUN.

I cried and cried and cried through not only the trailers (that Sandra Bullock one and the Baby(ies) documentary – have you seen or heard of it? – it’s about the first year of life for four babies being raised in four very different corners of the world; San Francisco, Mongolia, Nambia and Japan), but through a bunch of the scenes in the movie as well. It was so great. I loved it. Max was fantastic.

SCENT: I really want this Victoria’s Secret experiment to be over and done with. You know, just the other day I was recalling my past refusal to walk away from something until I was absolutely convinced I had exhausted every available option (and unavailable, for that matter) and how absurd, unnecessary and masochistic it was, and this experiment is giving me the nagging s(c)en(t)sation that old habits die hard. So, it’s much too late to undo today’s torture, but I cannot promise completion at this juncture, folks.

Without further ado, I give you Dream Angels Divine and Very Sexy Hot. The former is awful and harsh. If powder settled into crepe-y skin could be bottled and made into a WMD, Divine is it. Vile. VS Hot comes out with a few intriguing top notes – marigold, freesia, berry (note again the lack of specificity regarding type)- but never softens into something softer and more complex, it just stays sharp and not in a good way.

CONFESSION: Despite the return of the fog (which also hosed my beachy wave plans for yesterday) and the fact that I cannot take BART like I want to into Oakland because our SF parking permits still haven’t arrived, today was excellent! The morning coffee was delicious, I was productive before leaving for an appointment in the East Bay, my amazing threader at The Brow Lounge saw me even though I was 15 minutes late (I went to the wrong location, and yes, I will continue to see her as she has been the boss of my eyebrows for, like, four whole years – the second longest long-term commitment of my life after M, if you must know).

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CONFESSION: My feet are shrinking or something. There are two or three pairs of shoes, including these, that have suddenly loosened, or something. Last night M & I took the BART thing to San Francisco, to see Polly Jean Harvey perform with John Parish at The Warfield. It was a wonderful show, save the filthy stinking hippie sitting next to M (we took balcony seats just to avoid that sort of thing – it is, it seems, inescapable – also, do people smoke pot at all shows at The Warfield or was it just this one, even in balcony seats? Not that I take issue with it in general, but these folks were ultra attention whore-y about it).

While it was almost radically different from her solo shows (this tour is for their new album, A Woman A Man Walked By, and only songs from their two albums were performed), the constancy of her voice and onstage presence remain the same. My favorite part of the show was when the lights went completely black, the band started to play Taut and as the lights flickered back on erratically, PJ was revealed as a tiny black puddle center stage, curled into a tight little ball and as her voice undulated with the lyrics so did her body, and as she tore into the near-vulgar line “Jesus save me,” she clawed her way toward the mic stand, rocking back and forth on her knees and then finally standing, barefoot. It was brilliant and so incredibly creepy. She danced around like an undead gypsy ballerina throughout the whole show, and of course the performance for the title track of the new album was just perfect.

Also? I want her hair. What?!

Femme Confession: I’m in love with lots of things this weekend. I’m in love with my “rich girl red” manicure and pedicure. I’m in love with all-girl roller derby. I’m in love with my now-dead birdie ring (it didn’t make it past the post-roller derby dancing at The Cat Club). I’m in love with my tomboy and the pretty loverbird pendant my petite made me for Mother’s Day and the fancy new tripod that M got for me. I’m in love with the fiery roses they gave me and with Selby and Sarah for being such fabulous friends. I’m in love with San Francisco, as ever. I’m in love with the fact that M & I got to sip champs at the roller derby, of all places! Bonus on an already spectacular weekend chockfull of awesome. Here’s the tomboy…

Tomboy Confession: Volcom pinstripe slacks, English Laundry shirt (thoroughly inspected by the fem for quality of stitches), Banana Republic jacket, cool captain hat bought from The Hat Guys after some drunken expedition, riding BART back home (she is referring to the time some hipster douche stole her awesome jacket with our keys in it from the Rickshaw in…2006? We rang up a friend of mine and crashed at her house, watched Pride & Prejudice (BBC, of course) half-naked with her roommates shushing us until nearly dawn. The next morning we did a joint walk of indignant shamelessness to BART to get back home to our spare keys. It was pretty awesome, considering the circumstances). Kenneth Cole boots. True story: the guy who works at the liquor store on Folsom street  has the same hat as me! We took a picture together! Hilarity. Roller Derby is fucking awesome! You want to go to there!

When: Friday, Nov. 7th, 2008.

What: Skinny jeans from Zara, striped sweater by Split. Suede and patent boots by Restricted @ piperlime.com.

Confession: You would think this outfit wouldn’t be too bad for a Friday night protest, right? It’s relaxed, comfortable, but still stylish. Well, guess what? These are not 3.5″ heels, as noted on the website. These are 3.5″ heels on top of a covered 1″ platform, which means that I walked my happy ass up and down THREE WHOLE MILES of hilly San Francisco terrain in 4.5″ heels. Holy Jesus Christ. I got so hot, and the cotton/acrylic blend of this sweater did me no favors. I SWEATED THE INK OFF MY FUCKING BART TICKET, Y’ALL. (This is me afterward, by the way…well, a few blotting sheets later.)

Anyway, it was worth it. Nothing could dampen the sight of thousands of people streaming down the streets of the Castro, united in the fight for equality. Friends, lovers and families like ours. It felt so good to be there and part of an effort to not back down, not be silenced or defeated. It brought tears to my eyes and was exactly what I needed to shake off the depression I’ve been in since Tuesday night.

So, the other part of this confession is that when I ordered these boots, I consulted with M first, same as she consults with me before ordering new shoes. I wanted flat boots, ones in gray or dark red or blue to tuck my skinny cords into and stomp around in. But she kept vetoing all of them, freaking out at the “skin-like folds” or calling pair after pair of sexy, gorgeous riding boots “ugly,” insisting that they looked like galoshes. Finally, I found these ones, which to me felt like cheeky Little Lord Faunterloy-inspired boots, so I showed M and she loved them.

It wasn’t until I put them on after they’d arrived that I realized she totally tricked me! They weren’t flat at all! Drats! I still like them a whole bunch, though, and I’m glad they survived 3 miles of marching and a muddy Dolores Park.

PS. MAD PROPS TO BANGIEB, who logged into FB as me via cell to mobilize SF “Jezebels” since I was sitting in traffic and unable to do so myself. Thanks, B! We love you and you were right there with us tonight. We talked about you at least 84,000 times, and said “vulgar” and “I really just don’t know why ___” lots, too.