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I’ve been dying to post this little t-shirt dress since I picked it up at Old Spitalfields market in London. It’s got lots of wee kittens and mice all over it, and it’s the nicest shade of blue. The print is what snagged me, of course, but it turns out to be a versatile little daytime number, great on a sunny day or over thick leggings with a cardigan or lightweight jacket for cooler weather.

These were taken in a little corner of our massive living room, beside a little window outside of which is our persnickety little lemon tree. The typewriter has been on here before, but the wonderful glass cabinet it sits upon hasn’t, I don’t think. It’s antique, along with the lovely green lamp – we found a pair of them and outfitted them with some simple, neutral lampshades (which are a hair too small I think, to be honest). I love this cabinet. We bought it from a dear translady in Noe Valley, she had piles and piles of gorgeous clothes and knick-knacks and accessories, but we ended up with a pile of queer books and two pieces of furniture!

Oh, Bird. He gets so very curious whenever there’s a FFAF in progress and he’s nearby. Nosy adorable bastard! As with many outfits, the accessories are really what make it: vintage Dooney & Bourke bag and slip-on dress shoes, a necklace by House of Harlow 1960, piles of bracelets and a braided leather belt to give the dress a bit of shape.

Let’s not forget the bold pink pout, courtesy of OCC’s magical lip tar in Strumpet! (I also have Grandma and Strutter and it’s definitely sweet, fancy love.)

We’ve got quite the three-day weekend ahead of us (and it’s only Wednesday). Somebody dapper from Can I Help You, Sir? is coming to town and good times will be had. There’s Mango for daytime dancing and margaritas, weather and earthquakes willing, dinner at Asia SF, a leisurely day trip into the wine country and it would be remiss of me to leave out UFC 134: Silva vs. Okami, which we’ll be postponing to Sunday for a little fight party get-together.

What have y’all got planned? East Coasters, be safe with that nasty mistress, Irene, on your tails – I know there are a lot of you out there, and we’re sending our love and well wishes.

Love,

FFAF

More and more and more sunshine. These were taken in a friend’s backyard. I’m standing in an empty fish pond and drinking a mocha from Martha & Bros., trying not to think about all the cocktails I foolishly consumed the night before, at both Mango and Cockblock, nor how I was still fighting a nasty summer cold.

M & I were waiting for them (“bcw” and Dr. Dyke, if you must know) to look after their kittens before we headed down to Jack London Square for the 2nd annual Eat Real Festival, an amazing weekend full of the greater SF Bay Area’s best street food carts, local beer and wine, entertainment and the most current, informative happenings in the world of slow food and sustainable eats.

This is FFAF’s 2nd year at the festival!

Wearing:

Levi’s Denim
Old Navy linen cami with pintucks
RVCA shirt w/ roll-up sleeves
Boots from Portland’s Rock n’ Rose
Bag by Emilie M.
Handmade necklace
Kenneth Cole sunglasses

It was a gorgeous day. We ate so much, we drank a lot, we all stripped down because it got so bloody hot, and we sat in the shade to watch the most incredible butcher contest I’ve ever seen before in my life (okay, so it was the only one I’ve ever seen). Another great year with the best friends at a superbly done event. GO OAKLAND!

Here are some fun pics from the day:

THE GOOD STUFF (brace yourselves, it’s PORK-O:

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:

Please to meet the wonderfully brilliant and gorgeous Kate. She came to stay with us for a few days and we had some excellent SF adventures together. The photos above are from a nice little walkabout we had through the Mission, in search of carnitas by the pound, chili/salt/lemon-drenched mango slices and Humphrey’s Secret Breakfast ice cream. It was overcast and cold, but we bundled up and dragged our hungover asses through the Mission and were met with much success (and an angry drunk, but that is neither here nor there). We stopped to take a few photos by some of the many, many amazing murals that can be found in our ‘hood.

Below, you’ll find Kate & I all sassed up and ready to go dancing. The tomboy snapped these before an epic night of Osha Thai (Kate ordered this massive fried rice dish served in half a pineapple! We all drank lychee cocktails!), a George Michael singalong at the Lexington and shaking what our mama gave us at Cockblock. It was all very wonderful and we had enough fun for the entire mafia. And then some.

CONFESSION: What a doozy of a weekend. The week prior? So-so. Taking tentative steps after my brink-of-death sickness and whatnot. I did manage to accomplish the following, I am happy to say:

• Making a delicious dish of scalloped potatoes from scratch
• Horseback riding in some semi-regular capacity on the cheap (I tried, got shot down – but I tried!)
• Finishing a re-read of Ayn Rand’s Anthem, which started in the tub last night
• Forgave myself for getting rid of an ashy purple velvet blazer and an asymmetrical dresses years ago

Back to the weekend! The lovely Kelly Alice (a dear friend) came to visit from back East, and we enjoyed fantastic conversation over breakfast, freshly baked Pithivier from Trader Joe’s with Peerless coffee, followed by noontime French 75s (with a few drops of rosewater, so lovely). KA was sort of shocked that I’d never really flat-ironed my hair before, so she busted hers out  – some fancy Solia model we heated right up to 450°F – and went to town on my glossy locks. It was amazing! We headed to Mango (an awesome lesbian tea dance on a lush patio featuring salsa and hip-hop with free BBQ) all dolled up with the tomboy on our arm and had a fantastic time.

Afterward, we took her to one of our favorite Mission restaurants and then, of course, to the obligatory stop at SF’s Lexington Club, the city’s only 24/7 lesbian bar. It’s a great dive with a super rad jukebox. (Note: The bartenders overrode my Patsy Cline pick, which pissed me off.) M & I danced, not that anyone else did (as per usual). Someone wanted to know what kind of shampoo I use. It was a great night!

Yesterday, we popped up to my mom’s house for a birthday party and had a lovely evening where dozens of family secrets were aired out in hilarious and hilariously tragic circumstances, and I had a beef bourguignon that changed my life. Alas, after a screwy Monday, I’m ready to get back to weekend shenanigans! Surely I’m not alone. XO!

PS. My kitten! The black one with the little white boots. She loves me so so so so so so so so much. She’s suicidal for me, even. M had to chase her back home because she tried to follow us into the street! When I come walking down the street, she comes bounding toward me out of nowhere to greet me and purr and rub against my legs. So precious. I love her so. She brought a friend over and they came into the house and miraculously, neither dog bit their heads off!

PPS. Drool.