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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.

Well, kittens, it’s been one whole week since the coming and going of Pride Weekend here in sunny San Francisco, and yet again we’ve survived (but only just). In addition to the well-documented pants-off party, there was the Dyke March, complete with liters and liters of delicious bourbon slush painstakingly handmade by yours truly, being surrounded by the best of friends and scores and scores of homosexy women.

The highlight of the day for me? (Aside from the wrestling and making out with the tomboy and contributing to the amazing outdoor living room a friend orchestrated.) When the lovely and very, very talented Miss Dylan Ryan introduced herself to me whilst waiting in line for the loo. She is every bit as sweet and down-to-earth as she is epic lesbian porn star, and that’s saying something. Needless to say, if you click on the link it’s NSFW. I can’t wait to work with her more at this August’s Femme Conference!

There was also quite pleasant chatting with hot new lesbian blogging duo Catherine Perez & Aja Blue of Lesbians in San Francisco, who snapped this photo of M & I and gave us their rad new stickers for keeps.

We sat out of the actual march, which in retrospect I’m glad for, considering the terribleness of the shooting at the Pink Party in the Castro. Close friends of ours have talked about how there was a palpable foul energy and that they just got the hell out of dodge before things took a turn for the fatally worse, and you know what, y’all? I’m just not ready for the Dyke March to go the way of Pride Sunday or Halloween in the Castro, et al. I’m not. My heart can’t take it. This image from Fuck Yeah Femmes sums up my feelings best:

We stumbled home with friends in tow from Dolores Park, ordered in a vast spread from our favorite Chinese restaurant, and prepared ourselves for a long night at Mango’s Dyke March afterparty at El Rio, where we had a blast but forgot about the music being restricted to the super packed and sweaty room indoors, which meant less dancing for our group and more entertaining drinking games, like Truth or Truth (which was 100% sex-related questions, of course). Win!

These photos were taken on Pride Sunday, but obviously snapped far, far away from San Francisco.

I’m not sure what to say about Pride Sunday. We awoke at a reasonable hour that morning, still feeling rather drunk from the night before, and headed off to Bernal Heights for a proper brunch. There was no way we’d survive the day without a sound start, and Liberty Cafe did not disappoint. We emerged at Civic Center BART into the hot, sweaty, thronging clouds, and it was bad news bears. Too many attention whores, too many people too wasted, too high or both for their own good. Too few folks there for the right reasons, too little of the true spirit of Pride.

Even in the backstage sanctuary of Shadowplay, we couldn’t handle it. I have been going for the last eight or nine years and I’ve never seen or felt it that way before. We left shortly thereafter on account of the fact that we had a housewarming in Berkeley to get to, but I was glad for the excuse.

A long, lazy afternoon in a picturesque, wholesome, all-American park on a gorgeous sunny day was the perfect antidote to Pride’s overwhelm. (Note: That doesn’t make me any less gay, you must understand, it just makes me OLD.) The housewarming was actually a picnic on a lovely green lawn, with tours of a friend’s new apartment on the hour. There was a tasty spread of snacks, including delicious sweet roasted almonds which pair exquisitely when wrapped with Prosciutto and a small hunk of Dubliner cheese, and sweet tea cocktails. It was heavenly, and her apartment looks like something out of my House Beautiful magazines. It made us threaten to move to North Berkeley, which is something we never, ever thought we’d utter!

Alas, these Pride pics are less debauched and clearly lacking in sequins or rainbow garb, but they are very full of happy, gay frolics in the sun. They’ll just have to do!

This rain is SUPER messing with my nudie girl and / or bright coral Spring steez, yo. SERIOUSLY. It angers me. There’s a silk Kensie dress just hanging all limp and sad in my closet, UNWORN and longing for sunshine. (Like this, but so much better.) Today it poured and poured like my tears during the Lost finale on Sunday night, but I decided the following:

SUCK IT, MAN, I’M WEARING A TINY COTTON DRESS.

Also? Suede boots. And then whenever I had to go outside, I threw a raincoat on and jabbed the sky with my nautical H&M umbrella. So there.

Thursday: Hot.
Friday: I don’t remember.
Saturday: Sunny, cold.
Sunday: Sunny, windy, cold.
Monday: Shitty, overcast.
Tuesday: Rain, BS, delayed flights.
Wednesday: Isla Mujeres, please?

In case you’re wondering why it’s been six long days since my last post (which came, I might add, in a bit of a blog post blitzkrieg as inexplicable as Jupiter’s missing belt), we’ve been entertaining a lovely houseguest since Friday night. We’ve been very fancy. Flitting from this open house to that apartment showing, signing leases and dancing at lesbian MEGAparties like Mango and Les Beaux, discovering delightful new bourbons and making new friends, visiting cemeteries and attending dance recitals and good heavens, there might be more but I’m exhausted just typing it out. Plus, my neck hurts and it’s the tomboy’s fault. (Insert telling lesbian smirk here.) Bygones.

THERE IS SOME SERIOUS HAIR TOSSING BELOW. I WARNED YOU!

Last, but not least, one of my most beloved PJ Harvey numbers, which feels good on today:

PS. The morning after hair, per the comments section:

Femme Confession: Lord have mercy, what a weekend. After my last blog post on Friday night, I:

• Threw a hissyfit on the internets because no one would go with me to Meet In The Middle in Fresno; felt better after I saw that a National March For Equality is planned for October in Washington, DC, felt better after I received a fantastic thank you email from Michael Rowe himself, felt better after a dear friend was inspired to write an article after reading my blog.
• Went on another fabulous SF date with the tomboy on Saturday night – drinks and pool at El Rio for the SF Dyke March benefit (the new design is so great!), followed by a stop at Luka’s in Oakland for wondrous dinner of seared halibut and lamb chops drowning in the most amazing gravy the consistency of broth atop a pillow of mashed potatoes, with their signature chocolate fondant to-go!
• Found a pair of ancient prescription contacts in the earthquake kit, put them in, suffered through wear for appx. 4-6 hours despite the fact that they felt sort of like having an itchy sweater ON YOUR EYES, took them out. Riveting stuff, I know.
• Met with friends for a Bon Voyage brunch at T-Rex in Berkeley before one of them is off to Turkmenistan for two whole months (want to eat their petite beignets every day for ever and ever, amen). Conned my girls into seeing a matinee of Star Trek, which was surprisingly fantastic. I am not at all a Star Trek fan, but really enjoyed all of the awesome space explosions and black holes and terrible monsters and shit.

Tomboy Confession: Today I learned that Spock is a fucking badass and I have Skinny to thank! I want to watch all the episodes ever made of Star Trek. YES! I hope he beats up a lot of loudmouths then goes back to being quiet and creepy! I told Skinny I am going to cut my hair like him, and now she’s so scared!*

*Hi, this is Skinny. I assure you that there will be NO photographs of M with atrocious Spock hair INCLUDING the Betty Paige bangs because that would be wrongful and also grounds for divorce. Such as.

When: Sunday, Feb. 15th, 2009.

What: High-waisted metallic skirt from Target, striped sleeveless blouse by Georgiou Studio, vintage woven metallic belt and metallic chevron knee-high socks from Barney’s. Vintage I.Magnin coat and bag by Emilie M.

Confession: M & I had a total blast at Cockblock last night. It was fantastic. I drank 84,000 recession-priced Jameson & gingers, we danced like filthy rotten sluts (she was packing and I was very much enjoying that fact) and we were pleased with the number of fancy tomboys wearing bowties or neck ties with fancy sweater combos. I hope everyone else had a nice Valentine’s Day!

Today, when I finally woke up at noon to my tomboy setting a hot cup of perfect coffee down next to me in bed, the last thing I wanted to do was get into the shower to head back into the city for more debauchery, but that I did. We did. It was Salsa Sunday at El Rio, and people were expecting us! After ordering a coke and some Cheetos (shut up) I was good as new. We took over the back room, including the DJ tables, and ended up across the street at El Patio for some delicious El Salvadorian food. So good. So much fun.

When: Saturday, July 26th, 2008.

Femme What: Black cocktail dress by Fire, black lace and pearl necklace from Spoiled! on Broadway, pink snake skin sandals by Max Studio, creamy vintage cut-out belt and wooden bangle bracelet.

Also, I apologize that my shoes are in none of these photos, but they are exactly like the ones pictured below, but in a frothy pink snakeskin instead.

Femme Confession: How many mimosas can one kitten drink during brunch? 84,000. That’s how many. I also bossed the bartender into adding champagne to one of their signature guava cocktails, to make a sort of guava French 75, and it was fucking spectacular. In full view of our company at the table, M grabbed my tits multiple times, citing the non-fact that I was “flirting with her” and I apologize publicly for that, but do at least thank your lucky stars you weren’t subjected to her hand up my dress at Mango (a tea dance with salsa and hip-hop music for lesbots at El Rio in SF). Tsk, tsk, tsk.

Tomboy What: Brown linen pants from Banana Republic, Ralph Lauren Chaps shirt, plaid brown Aldo shoes. And a brown Guess watch the femme gave me. Mimosas courtesy of Lime.

Tomboy Confession: Hello, brunch! Anyplace that is willing to give you bottomless mimosas for $6 deserves a medal of honor, or at least a remedial arithmetic lesson. Seriously, Lime, you are bad at math, but we love you for that! I ordered huevos rancheros, but I got this really interesting set of white testes with runny yolk inside on a bed of black beans, with guacamole and salsa slathered on top. They meant THAT kind of huevos. OK! Lesson learned! Although the ambiance “music” made me slightly nauseous (at least 3 different Britney Spears songs played within a mere hour-long period, which is too much for any person with unwaxed body hair to bear), the eye-lock with the endless champagne-seas kept me focused on what was really important: jogging the liver in preparation for outdoor drinking and dancing.