Also, this:

Y'all need to check out this song right now. I am not even joking. Was introduced to Arthur Russell's music this weekend, and holy shit. That's all I can say.

Nonstop YouTube listening party.

Things I forgot I love:

My gold signet ring. I've taken nearly a yearlong hiatus from wearing this guy, choosing instead to wear my stump ring (which, fear not, has not been stricken from the rotation). This weekend, I reincorporated him into my Accessories Schema, and I'm ever-so-glad that I did. Strikingly simple, daintily suited to my hand, the ring brings me back to late-spring of 2009, when I'd wrapped up my coursework and had put the finishing touches on my thesis and spent a few fraught weeks sweating out my demons in Northampton. The ring was a graduation gift from my mom; mom, who thought I should ask for something more practical (and less fragile?), purchased it at the behest of Ali, who understands my true, deep love for jewelry.

I remember walking through the Smith gardens with my dad and Donna. I wore straight-leg jeans, an open-backed, black, raglan-sleeve tee, and a black cardigan. The sun cast steep shadows onto the paths. We narrowly avoided collision with insects.

Post-graduation dinner: I forgot what I ordered. Steak, likely. Beer, certainly. My dad got lamb (rare) -- I remember being unnerved by the redness of the meat. Afterward, we trouped back to Ali's and my apartment, where we had chocolate cake with buttercream frosting, special-ordered from Henion. All of us in that sweltering kitchen, my elbows stuck to the vinyl tablecloth, cat hair clotting every corner and joint. Silence as we ate, and silence afterward.

To this day, I'm charmed by my decision to leave the ring unengraved. Blank, its face draws more attention than it would were it marked with a symbol. Blank, it could stand for anything. It holds a fingerprint for hours (sigh: why not longer?), only to be wiped clean: renewed.

DOOM IS NIGH, but my face is flawless.

(source)

Hi, friends! It's been a while, hasn't it? I've been busy updating I Eat, learning the ropes of giving foodie tours, and running, so DTR hasn't gotten much love. If one were to create a visual representation of this blog and its response to the lack of attention it has received, that representation would be a picture of all the plants I've allowed to die during the last year. Or something.

But so anyways, LAZINESS ASIDE, guess what? Judgment day is nigh! That's right: for those of you who haven't been paying attention to bus shelter ads, The Rapture is slated for 5/21/2011 -- a mere three days away. Are you prepared? Have you planned your last meal? Have you shredded every last page of your junior high/high school diaries so that future iterations of humans will never find those diaries and make fun of your now-deceased self? Good.

I'm also fully prepared -- just yesterday, I bought new mascara (Clinique High Lengths in black, natch) and also some facial illuminator. I've been plotting for months to get my paws on some of that stuff, and yesterday I realized that the world is going to motherfucking END -- if not now, when will I ever increase the dewiness of my upper cheeks/outer eye sockets?

Shopping under pressure usually raises my anxiety like whoa*, but Leila** set my mind at ease when she suggested I try Mineralize Skinfinish. Applied just above the blushline (who knew?), Skinfinish adds a soft glow to the normally drab upper cheek region. My days of having boring cheeks are OVER -- no longer will I have to rely solely on blush and bronzer to enhance my facial shimmer! Thanks to this product, a whole new area of my face can be radiant.

Seriously, though: how did I live without this shit for so long? I don't think facial illuminator even existed when I was Coming of Age -- we had to make do with old-timey cosmetics like rosewater and talc. I've only had Skinfinish for 12 hours, and I'm already thanking my lucky stars that a cosmetic chemist somewhere had the flash of brilliance to create such a product. My only regret is that I didn't jump on the Illuminator Train sooner; as it stands, I have only three days to enjoy the hell out of this product. In which case, I better get illuminatin'.

***

*And what greater pressure exists than trying to look good on the End of Days?
**Not her real name, but one that seems fitting for a MAC counter associate.

Sad but True:

DTR isn't getting the love it deserves. Poor middle child: I will make a good-faith effort to update you more frequently. No promises, though -- your siblings are more interesting and relevant than you. #burn.

Busy two weeks here -- no surprise there. Here is a recap (in brief):

1) My sewing machine arrived this week. (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!x1000.) Last night, Hook and I hit up Fabric Outlet in the Mission to get supplies for our first projects. I snagged an apron pattern and some cowboy-themed cotton (holla!). Gentleman that he is, Hook purchased sundry necessary items -- pins, good scissors, a seam ripper, a measuring tape, etc. -- in addition to material. Last night, I taught Hook how to wind a bobbin and thread the machine, and we each did a few lines of practice stitchery. Now comes the trickiest part: getting myself to use the pattern I bought rather than just messin' around/yielding crappy results. The second trickiest part will be disallowing myself from getting ueberfrustrated and giving up on whatever project I've started.

2) I got an awesome belt. Mayhap this doesn't deserve its own bulletpoint, but whatevs. I've spent ages searching for the ideal wide, brown belt (to be worn over dresses & tunics), and finally I have found it! Finally, I can get rid of that vinyl monstrosity from Target, the one with no loop to secure the belt tail and with the crappy plasticmetal buckle. Hallelujah!

3) I've been running outside. A few weeks ago, I took a weeklong break from exercise. Not by choice -- a college pal was in town for a day, then my family arrived 1.5 days later (and stayed through the weekend). As much as that sedentary stretch sucked, it reminded me how great a role exercise plays in my overall mood scheme. I hopped back on the running bandwagon and haven't thought about deboarding.

Confession: I haven't been to the gym in like, two weeks. It's not that I don't like the gym, but I like running outside more. The outdoors has trees and scenery, and it smells all floral and stuff (at least in the wee hours of the morning). I like feeling the sun on my face; I like running on actual ground instead of a rubber belt. I've also been scared of treadmills since my Treadmill Incident, so there is that...

4) I've been updating my other blogz. With frequency. Pat on the back.


It's sunny and 75 here. All I can think about is picnicking in Dolores Park. If this weather carries through the weekend, I am organizing a picnic. You are all invited.

Nap Nostalgia

Today's acute exhaustion got me thinking about naps: the best, the worst, the totally mediocre. Wait: does a mediocre nap exist? It seems to me that naps are either awesome, leaving the napper totally satisfied/refreshed/ready to face the world!, or that they're total shit. Some of you will disagree with me on this point, but late-afternoon-into-evening naps fall into the latter category. I hate falling asleep as the sun is fading and waking up in the dark: the disorientation I face totally outweighs any benefits of added sleep. I don't have quantitative data to back up this assertion, but late-afternoon-into-evening naps also cause me to become overheated*, a factor that further lessens the naps' appeal.

Some of my best naps took place in Seymour Library (pictured above). Senior year, thanks to my decision to complete an Honors Project, I had a private office on the library's top floor. Sparsely furnished though it was (the only pieces of furniture I had were a chair, a lamp, and a large table), the office was cozier than the sum of its parts. I found such joy in having a place that was completely my own -- a rare thing in college -- and I loved the security that came with a locking door. It's strange: Knox was a relatively safe place -- really safe, even -- so I'm not sure why I derived such pleasure from being able to lock my office door. I think perhaps I relished the fact that I could isolate myself: that no one could actually reach me, should I not want to be reached.

Annnnnnnyway: napping. I took some damn good naps in that office. Yes, I'll admit that, beyond the standard-issue furniture, the only other things I had in my office were mustard packets (for grab n' go subs), some pens, a fleece blanket, and a pillow. The fleece blanket wasn't even mine; indeed, I am to this day clueless re: its origins. But the blanket was thick and, when folded onto itself, made a decent mattress. After long stretches of writing or revising (or just staring at the blank wall, identifying micropatterns in the abraded paint), when my eyes would droop, I'd fold my blanket, spread it across the table, and "rest my eyes." I never napped for more than an hour, though I was once startled by a friend who roused me from slumber by knocking on my door. I'd meant to meet her for dinner but, lacking an alarm clock, slept through the date.

I miss that office. I miss the total seclusion the space offered, and I miss the absence of stuff. I'd like to have a table, three pens, and a few mustard packets.

Totally unrelated: I would cut off my arm for a hot ham and cheese sandwich. It's been years (YEARS) since I've had one. Whence came this craving? (Note: This is a true "cheese sandwich" post, LOLZ.)

***

*Which phenomenon may owe to the fact that I sometimes nap in my clothes.

SHOEZ.

It's been a while, mostly because I've been hard at work updating my other blog (garkyeats.com) and, with Hook, starting another project: bobowoes.tumblr.com. Yes, that's right: Bobo Woes: the small gripes that plague the lives of bourgeois bohemians. Check it out. You'll like it. YOU WILL LIKE IT.

In sartorial news, I have a new shoe obsession: Swedish Hasbeens. I'm late to jump on this boat*, I realize. I never jump on a boat until it has reached its final resting place (i.e., port of destination) and been totally roped to the dock. Anyway, anyway, I need to convince myself not to buy these shoes! Here are the cons I've brainstormed so far:

1) I don't need any more shoes. Ever.
2) These puppies are kind of expensive (for clogs, anyway), and shouldn't I be saving for retirement?
3) If I order online (which I'll have to do, unless I want to journey to Saks), I won't be able to try before I buy; if the shoes don't fit, I 1) must acquit; and 2) will have to return them via USPS, which is always a pain in the arse.

On the other hand:

1) Ohmygodtheseshoesaresocute, and they come in such vibrant shades!
2) No one never really needs new clothes; if I stop buying, I'm just hindering the growth of our already draggy economy.
3) But these shoes come in such vibrant shades.

Verdict? I'll think about it. I could just buy the Hasbeens and "let god sort it out," god being my bank account. Ehhhhhhhhh.

***

*In case you were curious, "jump on the boat" is a portmanteau meaning to jump on a bandwagon after that bandwagon's ship has sailed.

Our mutual mural dislike

Sunday was a momentous day, not only because Hook and I ran a 5K* but also because the weather was summery. Non-Californians, I'm sorry: I know you're up to your navels in snow. Minor wars are being waged over shoveled-out parking spots, and Seasonal Affective Disorder is striking down all but the most robust souls. On Sunday, it was 72 and sunny here. After we'd run and collected our swag and walked back through the park to get showered and dressed, Hook and I had lunch at Magnolia. Magnolia is, at best, average: their beers are solid, but their menu lacks and lacks and lacks! I'll explain it like this: most of the dishes on the menu seem alright, but for one (or two) ingredients that are totally offputting. Arugula, baby beets, goat cheese, candied pecans, and dressing? Sure! Oh, with a poached egg? NO! I cannot wait for the poached egg trend to fizzle, let me tell you. Scrambled, fried, even over-medium -- fine. Poached eggs have the texture of mucous.

Back to the story. H. and I sat outside to capitalize on the summery weather, and what did we see but a mural in the process of being painted. How interesting, is what I would have liked to think. Instead, I thought, How douchey.


"I hate murals," said Hook, verbalizing my judgmental inner monologue.

But wait! Before you pigeonhole us as a bunch of asshole haters of public art, hear me out! During the course of our brunch, Hook and I compiled our list of reasons why MURALS SUCK:

1) They incorporate lame themes. This qualm is a tricky one to articulate, so let me say this: I like diversity, friendship, togetherness, cooperation, compassion, empathy, etc. as much as the next lady, but I hate hackneyed representations of these here abstractions. It's not so much that I mind murals' tendency to depict Themes of Unity, but the means in which they do. Really, do you think it's clever to slap up a rainbow of kid-sized palmprints meant to signify the exuberance and joy of Kids Working Together? How many of you really feel that compassion is personified by a lopsided caretaker reaching out to a grandmother whose face sags under waves of bloodhoundlike wrinkles? If you're going to create a piece around a Big Theme, move away from well-established symbolism and make your own meaning. This leads into justification two, which is...

2) The quality of the "art" is middling to poor. When was the last time you saw a mural that made you think, "Whoa! That's awesome -- I'd like to have a print of that!" Or even, "Hey, that's pretty good -- props to the dude [or lady] who painted that." What's that? Never? In my 1.5 years here, I've seen exactly two murals that I've liked enough to considering hanging reproductions thereof in my own home. TWO. It seems to me that many mural artists, carried away by the grandiosity of theme they're stretching to depict, lose focus and let slide their artistic skillz. Or maybe the skillz weren't there in the first place.

3) Mural artists can be self-satisfied. This really only applies to the Mural Artiste we saw on Sunday, who was swigging from a can of PBR and fist-bumping passersby, even though the "face" he'd outlined looked like it had been drawn by a child. A PBR-swilling child.

I wrote this post at the risk of sounding like a massive asshole: I'm aware of this. And as I said, it's not that I don't like what murals (in many ways) represent -- community unification, kids working on projects, togetherness, what have you. I just wish that, in their quest to promote Positive Values, murals could look nicer. Pretty things are what we respond to best, and the only two murals I've seen here and loved are not at all related to unity. One depicts a series of woodland creatures, and the other features a robot. I'm pretty sure that "Unity" > robots, but I want public art to confirm this suspicion. Step it up, mural artists.


***

*And I'd be lying if I told anyone my performance was momentous, unless "momentous" euphemizes "pretty fucking bad."

Tiny tiny

Last night, Hook took me on an impromptu date to see "Tiny Furniture." OK: I knew [almost] nothing about the movie before I got to the theater, but am I glad I went? So very glad. Lena Dunham's conceptualization of post-graduate life is schlumpy, monochromatic, and startlingly accurate. Her dialogue is sharp without seeming like a total artifice; her hair is pleasantly unruly. I was impressed by the casting decisions made here and even more impressed by the characters' shoes. Related to shoes (and mostly unrelated to other aspects of the movie), I loved Aura's wardrobe and wanted to reappropriate it all for myself. That blue v-neck dress with the white rick-rack along the hems? Mine. Those oversized, hammered-silver hoops? Mine. And that white blouse with the multicolored trimmings along the edge of the collar -- oh, yes! "Tiny Furniture" made me want to be a better man. Scratch that: it made me want to wear nothing but 3.1 Phillip Lim.

I'm pretty sure it's a "girl thing," but sometimes, I have the feeling that I want to jettison my entire wardrobe and start fresh. Hook doesn't know what I'm talking about. "But I like your wardrobe," he says. "You always dress well." Hook is a good boyfriend, and I am glad he feels this way about my sartorial choices, even when I do not! Lately, though, the urge to discard and reamass has been strong. Like, planetary gravitational pull strong. I don't even know what that means, but it sounds about right.

Late-week good news: I got a promotion! I'm starting in my new position on Tuesday and am the most excited! I just hope my new desk has an accessible outlet and room for my coffeemaker.

Buttons and bows

I went for a haircut today, considering drastic change -- think bangs, heavy and angled. I envisioned myself with spidery lashes, dramatic blush, aglow in the awesomeness of My New Haircut. Much to my disappointment (though not to my surprise), my stylist told me that dramatic change is hard to achieve when one is growing one's hair to Maximum Length.

"Wear braids," she suggested, "or get a new headband."

By means of compromise, Betsy cut my bangs so that they fall straighter and heavier. Eager to uphold my end of the bargain, I got two headbands: one leopard, and one black with an oblong plume of iridescent feathers. Oh, how I wish I could be one of those girls who look [somehow] normal while donning the most outlandish crepe flowers and bejeweled bobby pins! Alas. I'll start small and work my way up. I've got my eye on a golden headband with a trio of enameled blossoms, each with a rhinestone in place of the pollen, but that would be too much too soon.

The importance of REM sleep.

When my alarm went off at five, I was deep in the middle of prime REM sleep. How do I know? Because I was also deep in a dream. I dreamed that I was commissioned to write a review of the latest Lorrie Moore novel. I'd just begun reading the novel, the female protagonist of which was complaining about her clumsy but well-meaning boyfriend (a cement mixer -- that's what I dreamed: that this man was a "cement mixer."). The boyfriend, aiming for creativity, embroidered on the ass of a pair of sweatpants the phrase "Annie's Mannies." Annie was the novel's female protagonist, and "mannies," in my dream world, was British slang for ladyparts. "Annie's Mannies" amused me ALL DAY LONG.

Can we please start referring to ladyparts as "Mannies?"

I am glad that I got my ass out of bed in time to hit the gym, but I am bummed that 1) I could not continue the above-described dream; and 2) I was so fucking tired all day long due to my truncated REM sleep. Ah, well. It's nearly bedtime. Hook brought me some flourless mocha chocolate cake (eff yeah!), I volunteered at the Bike Coalition, and I've got half a gallon of OJ in the fridge. Life is good.

Striking vs. Standard: Continued Examination of Why Striking-Looking Women are More Attractive Than Their Standardly-Beautiful Counterparts

This article (er, blog post from OKCupid, via The Hairpin) corroborates what I've maintained for a long time: that striking-looking people are perceived as more attractive than their still-attractive-but-more-conventionally-so peers. Funny that I encountered the post this morning, just hours after Hook and I had a conversation about practically the same thing.

The scenario was this: it was post-Jeopardy time and Hook and I failed to turn off the TV. "The Bachelor" came on, at which point H. and I started speculating about the female contestants' motives and looks.

"How weird," I said, "that some of these people QUIT THEIR JOBS for a shot at a dude they have not met IRL."

"No shit," said Hook. "Also, most of them are not that attractive."

In keeping with my NY's resolution to be more positive, I played the role of Devil's Advocate and tried to defend the looks of some of the ladies. "They're not terrible," I said. "They're conventionally-good looking." That is, they all have long hair and symmetrical features. They're universally thin, and they seem to shop at the exact same mall. Who knew that attractiveness so relied on the ability to snag a bunch of shit from BCBG? Moreover, who knew that actually bucking the attractiveness norm set for us by shows like "The Bachelor" may actually have a more positive impact than adhering rigidly to it?

Anyway, my coffee break is almost over, and I digress. Know this, ladies: not all dudes are into flat-ironed hair and spray tans and knockoff Tiffany jewelry! At least my dude isn't, and this is just one reason I love him.

MINITRIP!

Yes, it's that time again: minitrip time. Hook and I are heading to LA tonight for a weekend of Jandek, Pinkberry, and [not too much] general debauchery. True fact: I have lived in California for one year, five months and I have never been to LA. How is possible? Eh, I don't like to leave the city like, ever. That is a lie. I actually don't know how I've never been to LA, but this situation will be rectified in mere hours!

Project ROC is going well in the sense that I 1) bought the product; and 2) have used it consistently since purchasing it. The package claimed that positive results will be seen (in most users) in four weeks. FOUR WEEKS? Do I look like I'm made of time, or something? In four weeks, I'll likely have forgotten all about this Very Important Self-Beautification Initiative (VISBI).

Until I start seeing miraclework on ma face, I can distract myself with this, which will make my face shiny in all the right places (and in a non-sweaty, ungross way).

For real, though, you guys.

Heh @ my inability to start Roc Plan ("RP") yesterday -- instead of hitting the drugstore on my afternoon break, AS and I went to Safeway so I could get an apple, she an Odwalla bar. (Note: I realize that these details aren't critical to your understanding that I failed to buy Roc cream, but a concrete excuse makes me feel better about failing to fulfill my own expectations.) Am I perhaps dragging my heels because I do not want to acknowledge the possibility of crows' feet on my gd face? Might this be the vainest blog on the In-ter-netz?

I've decided that any skirts I buy henceforth must be biking compatible. What makes a skirt biking compatible, you ask? It must be machine washable, cut wide enough to allow for leg motion, and preferably not too short. It must not be made of a fabric easily torn, snagged, or marked with indentations. I realize that this buying strategy markedly limits my potential wardrobe, but it's cool. Biking > pencil skirts, for real. Pencil skirts are the enemy.

This blog is fast becoming a true Chronicle of Consumerism.

Starlet preferences

Hook and I had a random little conversation last night -- a chat spurred by Hook's sighting of my copy of "The English Patient." (Note: Yep, that sentence is circuitous, but I'm only just now making coffee & my brain no is work good.) Hook was like, "Oh, The English Patient, eh?" To which I responded, "Yes -- it was one of my favorite movies in high school." I mentioned too that I always thought Kristin Scott Thomas was really pretty. To which Hook responded, "Her? I always thought she was kind of plain." ICE BURN! Noting my crumpled look, H. amended, "I mean, plain-pretty. I mean, not hot-hot, but hot."


Now, I didn't say KST was hot, but I do think she's a lot better looking than many female celebs out there (Kardashian clan, I'm looking at you). Hook's assessment started a longer assessment of which female celebs are the most attractive. My picks were SJ, Uma Thurman, Chloe Sevigny, Kate Moss, and Zooey Deschanel. Hook's picks were SJ, AMY ADAMS*, Natalie Portman...and I think that's it -- he may have listed more if I hadn't been talking so much.

Where am I going with this? Oh, yes: Hook noted that all of the celebs I found most attractive have "extremely thin faces" (his words). (Note: I would argue that SJ has a normal-width face, but that's one woman's opinion.) "I mean, their faces all look gaunt," he claimed, bringing up a pic of Uma Thurman. "I don't like seeing people's bones." This sentiment interested me -- that some of the [arguably] most attractive female celebrities are judged (by one male, at least) as having faces that are too narrow. What other celebrities might be judged as less attractive than People purports them to be? I'm curious. Also, I still don't understand the fuss about Natalie Portman and I probably never will. Being a brunette myself, this quandary is doubly disappointing.

***

In related news (or semi-related: take your pick), today is the day that I'm going to start using Roc under eye cream. There: I've said it. For most of my early twenties, I fretted not about crows' feet but about the possibility thereof. Examining my face this weekend, though, I think I've found crows' feet for real. Faint though they are, they're there, and I'm going to lotion the hell out of them until they reabsorb into my skin. Heh.


*Y'all, Amy Adams looks like a grown-up marching band girl. Enuff said.

New year, new projects.

Hell yeah, 2o11: you're off on the right foot! I say this despite my inability to get up before 2pm yesterday, thanks in toto to our celebration of the new year/A-ron's 30th birthday. Gotta love Latin American Club and their generous Manhattans, but you know it's going to be a rough morning when you walk -- in stocking feet, no less! -- from the bar to 16th and Valencia for a bacon dog. Bacon dogs have become shorthand for the best [worst?] nights.

I set only one formal resolution this year -- to work out four times/week. No reading goal for 2011. I was 1.5 books short of my goal for this year (and one book short of reaching the selfsame goal in 2009). It's not as though the absence of a reading outline will discourage me from reading. On the contrary! I think that not having pressure re: how much reading I must accomplish might actually spur me to exceed my own unspoken expectations. We'll see.

But back to the exercise goal. I've devised a plan for myself, my mom, and my sister: we're each going to set a goal (any goal) and keep each other posted on our progress via weekly emails. If we achieve our goal 80% of the time, then we'll take a trip at year's end. Our destination of choice will either be Hawaii or Alaska. Ali's pulling for the latter, but I think Mai Tais on the beach might be a nice way to cap off a year of fitness.

We're listening to a Kamikaze Hearts album, blogging (me) and browsing for guitar accessories (Hook). The heat is on; I could go for a nap. Still, the year is young enough that the desire for sleep is outweighed by the desire to be ultimately productive! And so I will.

Dueling Bus Rides

On the sad days that I don't bike to work, I take the bus -- two of them, actually. Most often I'll take the 21 and the 8BX, though sometimes I'll catch the 30 (or the F, if I'm feeling masochistic). Today's two bus rides were vastly different in quality and tone. Examples:

On the 21, the sassy lady driver remarked, "Oh, you look so cute!" as I swiped my Clipper card. (Nothing to start the day like a random compliment, eh? Note: I feel as though I should now spend more time planning my outfits to garner more compliments from city employees. Maybe. 2011 project idea?) Though the bus was crowded, each patron remained in his/her personal space. Bus was quiet, but for the sound of the wheels on the wet street and the occasional sniffle.

On the 8, I was pushed/jarred by a minimob of old, fish-smelling ladies. In fact, one of them [accidentally?] whacked me with her umbrella, which action caused me to glare meaningfully in said old biddy's direction. When I was finally able to snag a seat, I was promptly surrounded by a cluster of middle school boys who smelled like The Devil Himself. Don't kids these days know anything about hygiene? Has brushing one's teeth fallen out of favor among the under-15 crowd? Who knows. One thing is for certain: KIDS SMELL BAD.

I'm hoping for sunny weather tomorrow. Muni avoidance is my overall MO.

I'm BA-ACK!

If only to kvetch about a few things(!)

In all seriousness, I've lately been wanting to post about things unrelated to gastronomic happenings -- my recent move, what I'm reading, and Things I Find Annoying. (Note: My plan is to relay the Annoying Things in a manner both comical and straightforward. That's the plan, anyhow. Advance apologies if my kvetching gets way out of hand, but what are blogs for if not to vent one's frustrations to the world, right?)

So like, this afternoon, en route to Borders to pick up my holiday cards (watch yer mailboxes!), I decided to get my eyebrows done. It has been weeks since I've had my brows groomed -- eeeeek! -- and they were starting to look as they did when I was in grade school (i.e., before I was allowed to partake of any cosmetic rituals). No problem, right? WRONG! Not only did my brow lady bruise the hell out of my right browbone -- how? God only knows -- but she managed too to drip wax in my hair. How is possible? This lady grooms brows for a living! I'd assume that her fine motor skillz, after years of waxing brows (and other things), would be more honed, but no. Nope! To remove the wax from my bangs, the Brow Lady used oil -- a ton of it. Which was great, given that I was to leave directly for the mall. There are far worse things than going shopping with grease-slicked bangs, but let me assure you that the grease-haired shopping experience is not a pleasant one. I mean, in case you had any doubts.

Adding to my general bitchiness was the group of guys smoking a blunt at the back of the bus. (Note: I was sitting in the last row of seats; these duders were a seat ahead of me.) Don't get me wrong: hypothetically, I have nothing against blunts. Do what you feel, right? Just don't do it on the damn bus, especially if the weed you're smoking is skunky and terrible and clouding the rear section of the vehicle. ACK.

OK, I'm better now. Those were my two main gripes. They're over now. Thanks for reading, if you made it this far. (Note: If you made it this far, mad props. I almost didn't make it through that bitch session, and I'm the aggrieved!)

Here's some good news: I registered for the Kaiser Permanente 5K, to be held Sunday, February 6th at Golden Gate Park. I've only run one 5K so far (the one associated with the SF Marathon), and while I achieved my goal of completing the race without stopping to walk (DER), my time wasn't what I'd have liked. My goal for this race is to shave 2:30 off of my previous time (which shall go unnoted). Lofty? Yes. Achievable? I think so, especially considering the amount of time I spend biking (cross training is good, right?), my renewed enthusiasm for strength training, and Hook's and my New Year's resolution to actually start the Insanity program. (Note: Since receiving my Insanity DVD set in the mail, I've done two workouts. OK, one. The other "workout" was the fit test, which I pretty much bombed.)

That's the scoop here. My plan is to reinvigorate this blog while continuing to update Garky Eats. Lofty? Yes. But lately, lofty is my MO.

New Project Underway!

Hey, y'all! It has been a while since the last update here on Deciduous Trees Restock, but for good reason -- I've started a new food blog here, and I have actually been updating it. Food blogging is something I've wanted to do for quite some time (and I've made some half-hearted attempts on this ole' blog), but I've started in earnest. So check out the latest addition to the Garky blogosphere and let me know what you think(!)

Restaurant Review: Roam

Having read the Chronicle's review of Roam, a new "artisan" burger joint in Cow Hollow, I cajoled Hook to take me on a date there! (Aside: not much cajoling was needed: Hook likes me almost as much as he likes burgers.) I was pretty pumped for my meal; Britt Billmaier touted the place as being both eco-conscious and offering healthy options*, and any place that makes their pickles on-site ranks pretty high in my book.

H & I arrived shortly after five; the dining room was about half full. We both ordered buffalo burgers: his came with just cheddar and mine was a "Pacific Blue," which came with blue cheese, watercress, tomato, caramelized onions, and steak sauce. We also shared an order of plain old fries. I seriously considered getting a milkshake with a bruleed marshmallow(!), but opted not to. Our food came quickly, the burgers nested in brown paper envelopes, 1950s-style, the fries garnished with parsley.

On the whole, I was pleased with our meal. My burger, which I'd ordered medium, had no pink in it, but oh, well. The bun, a chewy, pillowy, sesame-seed-encrusted delight, was quite evidently baked that day. The sweetness of the onions balanced nicely with the tang of the steak sauce, the peppery bite of the cress. I wish the burger had been served with more steak sauce; I am a steak sauce fiend, and this sandwich had just a dab poured onto the top of the bun. The tomato, too, was pale and toeing the line of mealiness -- not what I'd expect at this point in the growing season. Our fries were solid: crisp, uniform in size, and on the salty side. OH! I almost forgot this detail but I'm very glad I didn't! When ordering, I requested a pickle (wanting to see how these pickles measured up to Hook's and mine) and I didn't get it. Major burn.

Roam's atmosphere left me feeling ambivalent. The furnishings and decor were spot-on: very minimal with natural wood and light fixtures crafted from repurposed Mason jars. The music, however, was not. I don't know who thought reggae would be an appropriate choice, but it seemed really out of place, given Roam's focus. (After further considering the restaurant's location and the demographic of that area, I can see why reggae might be chosen. But really? Surely, there must be a musical middle ground that appeals to both aging frat dudes and also to everyone else.) I suggested that Iron and Wine or Bonnie "Prince" Billy or Bon Iver would have been a better choice. Hook agreed that the choice of music was odd, but I don't think it vexed him to the extent that it did me.

My overall rating of Roam is three and a half out of five. The burgers were solid but certainly not enough to warrant another special trip to Cow Hollow; quoting my dining companion, Roam is "like a more upscale Burgermeister." At the end of the day, I agreed with Hook when he posed the quasi-rhetorical question, "What makes these burgers artisinal?"

What, indeed.


*Looking back, I'm not sure what Billmaier was referring to as "healthy menu options." The Farmers Market salad, perhaps (sans sliders)? Or the seasonal veggies? Because everything else was pretty damn heavy. This isn't bad -- far from it! I like my burgers thick & juicy! -- but I find it strange that this restaurant was promoted, in the first paragraph of the review, as having healthy choices when the bulk of the menu items are fried, fried, fried.

Yogurt Roundup

Like most people, I'm very fond of my routines. I look forward to my early morning bike ride, my post-workout tea and oatmeal, weekend walks downtown and evening "Forensic Files" marathons. (Aside: I realize that the elements of my routine listed here make me seem like a 38-year-old, but it's cool. I'm practically 38.) One major component of my routine -- weekday, at least -- is Greek yogurt. At some point, perhaps a year after trying and becoming obsessed with Greek yogurt, I became that Person Who Eats Yogurt Every Day. Prior to the transition, the exact time of which is unknown to me, I wondered about these yogurt-eating people always mentioned in women's magazines. Who the hell eats the same snack every day? I wanted to know. Well, I do.

Last week, Lucky (the [big] grocery store nearest my house) was sold out of Dannon plain Greek yogurt. This had never happened before, so I picked up a few Chobanis and decided to return a few days later, assuming the stock would be replenished. Yesterday morning, making a 7:30 run for coffee, milk, and Aquaphor, I checked the yogurt case. Still empty of Dannon! This led me to kvetch to Hook about how Dannon has the best product for the price point and shame on Lucky for not restocking like a normal store. My kvetchings, in turn, led Hook to prompt me to write about my system of evaluating Greek yogurt, whose intricacies I will share with you now.

Yogurt Roundup: The Best Greek Yogurt for Your Money

1) Dannon 0% Plain Yogurt. In the early days of my Greek yogurt consumption, I would never have guessed that Dannon -- plain old Dannon -- would reign supreme in my self-determined yogurt hierarchy. While it's true that Dannon is the best-selling brand of yogurt worldwide (who knew?), it seems, in some ways, mundane. I grew up eating Fruit on the Bottom, you know? I didn't initially trust Dannon's ability to produce an authentic-tasting Greek yogurt because I'd come to associate the brand with the marginal yogurts of my youth.

But the product speaks for itself: Dannon's Greek yogurt is thick and creamy, possessing an almost custardlike consistency. There's very little excess liquid, and the yogurt is tart but never sour. Additionally, one six-ounce carton costs a mere $.99 at Lucky -- about half the price of other, arguably-more-desirable brands (which I'll get to in a moment).

2) Fage 0%. I love Fage: the texture is incredible, the taste is spot-on, and the packaging design is lovely to behold. I don't love that a 5.3-ounce carton of Fage costs $1.79. I'd have ranked Fage as my top yogurt were the price-per-package a bit lower, but sadly, Dannon dominates in the cost category.

3) Chobani 0%. Texturally, Chobani is very similar to Dannon and Fage; tastewise, it's a bit tarter. I've found that Chobani has more liquid than either of the two brands previously listed, and I'm not a huge fan of this runoff (which I either drain off or hastily mix in to the yogurt, though I've been told that one should never stir Greek yogurt prior to consumption! I do not remember who told me this.). In my neck of the woods, a six-ounce carton of Chobani costs, on average, $1.69 -- which means that, in a battle with Fage, Fage will win any day. (Aside: Chobani does have a Pineapple yogurt that is tasty as a dessert, but is a little too sweet for a coffee break snack.)

4) Trader Joe's Fat Free Greek Yogurt. At $.89 per serving, Trader Joe's Nonfat Greek Yogurt (Plain variety) leads the pack in terms of price. In other areas, though, the yogurt falls flat. I've found TJ's Greek Yogurt to be runnier than the others listed, and the flavored varieties (Pomegranate, notably) miss the mark, both in terms of tangyness and in mimicking the flavor they're meant to mimic. Not wanting to be wasteful but also not really digging the Pomegranate yogurt, I actually left a carton of this in my office fridge last week, hoping someone would sneak off with it. As of Friday afternoon, it was still there.

5) Greek Gods Nonfat Plain Yogurt. I'd like to rank Greek Gods yogurt higher -- really, I would -- not least of all because their packaging is eye-catching (who doesn't love the bright colors combined with drawings of the gods?). My biggest qualm with this yogurt is its relative dearth of protein; yes, a six-ounce serving of the nonfat, plain yogurt is a scant 60 calories, but it also only has six grams of protein -- hardly more than a regular yogurt. Moreover, the flavored varieties (Fig, Vanilla, Honey Strawberry) are pretty damn caloric: one cup of the Honey Strawberry has 310 calories and 15 grams of fat (basically equivalent to a half-cup serving of premium ice cream, which at least seems properly indulgent, unlike this yogurt, which masquerades as a health food). At $1.49 for a six-ounce cup, Greek Gods is not the priciest of the competitors, but the quality of the product doesn't justify the cost.

***

So there you have it -- more than you ever wanted to/needed to/thought you'd know about my Greek yogurt preferences. I'm always on the lookout for new products and I'm planning to try two brands (Brown Cow and Oikos) that I haven't tried yet. For the time being, I'll stick with Dannon.