Cheese! School! Cheese School!

Engh! Engh! Readers! Hey! (envision Arnold Horschack-esque sqirming and arm raising...)

Alert! There. Is. A. Cheese. SCHOOL. Two. Blocks. From. My. House. Where they teach you? About cheese? And how to eat cheese? And what to serve with cheese? And where you get to, again, eat really good cheese??? Head spinning. Palms sweating. Homer Simpson-like drooling beginning.

North Beach, you just earned another significant notch in your belt as being a cool place to live.

Chillin' smugly in my 'hood, yo

So get ME. My North Beach 'hood was recently recognized as one of the "10 Great Neighborhoods in America," in addition, notably, to the Pike Place Market area of Seattle. Can I pick 'em, or what?

As I'm spending more time wandering around North Beach, I'm finding my attitude about my neighborhood greatly improving - award or no award. When I first moved here I was all crinkly-faced and crabby because, after all, I do live one block away from this cheese-laden tourist fest and that's maybe not, well, the greatest thing. But as I'm starting to check out more of the surrounding areas, I'm realizing that North Beach is packed to the gills with charm and color and cuteness. I mean, where else can you have a church that resides at 666 Filbert Street that's just a few blocks from Kerouac Alley?

Next to-do is to explore some of the restaurants and bakeries in the area.

Open Letter to the movie"The Notebook"

Dear the movie "The Notebook,"

One might think that because you were only $10 at Target this weekend, that it would be okay for you to come home with me. The fact that I've become deeply crushy on Ryan Gosling lately made you all the more appealing - I mean seriously, look at him. Who wouldn't spend ten bucks on that?

And yet. Not since I went on that weird emotional Hallmark/Lifetime Movie Of The Week Tivo marathon last Christmas have I experienced such mindless, saccharin pablum. You, the movie "The Notebook," were awful. As in, You-had-me-at-hello/Bridges of Madison County cheese-coated awful.

Where to even begin here? Was it the utter lack of subtlety inherent in any Nicolas Sparks movie, or the total lack of sophistication and coherence that disappointed me most? You're telling me the best that a dark, brooding soul like Ryan Gosling can do on a first date is take his girl to Small Town Main Street and tell her how he used to lay down smack in the middle of the street at night and watch the traffic lights switch from red to green? He is supposed to be borderline retarded?

Remind me to write an open letter to James Gartner about his work in this movie and then roll it up and whap him upside the head with it. Ryan Gosling, we have to talk about this. Do you hear me, young man? Joan Allen and Sam Shepherd, don't think you're getting off easy, either.

Feeling like I could have just spend the $10 on more Method cleaning products and been a lot happier,

Beth

Well? Don't 'Cha?

God Bless You, Internet.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Don't ask me how or why I found this link, but are you aware that Richard Simmons sells dolls on his website? Dolls. On his Website. Seriously. Not only that, but the dolls are terrifying? This one here is Webby Debby. She looks like she's forgotten to take some of her pills that keep the devils away. What's up with the blue fingernail polish?

On the other hand, he also sells keychains, which somehow manage to have an ironic (and much less terrifying) charm to them. Who wouldn't laugh or smile when they pulled out their keys with Richard Simmons on them? Only the truly dead inside, that's who.

As for how I found his Website in the first place, let's just chock this up to looking for some fitness resources online and that no Web surfing experience around fitness would be complete without Richard Simmons. Isn't that right, Webby Debby? You love the Internet, don't you! What's that, Webby Debby? NO! No the devils DON'T want you to kill me. Put the knife down, Debby! Stop!

Open letter to my new dentist in San Francisco

Dear New San Francisco Dentist,

Look, you seem like a nice guy. You came highly recommended from not just one, but several of my co-workers. Your office has some fantastic city views. Also, may I mention that you look an awful lot like Stanley Tucci (pictured here) and that endeared me to you almost instantly.

And yet.

I feel like we have to talk about the absolutely ridiculous sales job you did on me during my "consultation" visit where you tried to convince me to spend $4,000 on veneers and "power whitening." If I may, sir, are you on CRACK? Four GRAND? ARE YOU HIGH?

Look, I get that you probably have French Impressionist paintings to pay off and kids to put through private school and all of that, I do. But to recommend a "treatment plan" that incorporated tooth bleaching before you've so much as looked at my chompers was a pretty giant red flag. Also, the fact that your financial assistant tried to pass FOUR GRAND off as being "very affordable" was hilarious at best and a little offensive at worst.

Piece of advice, if I may, sir? Wait until after my first cleaning and after you've taken a gander at my gums and teeth before going straight into the cosmetic dentistry sales job. Prove yourself as a dentist before you enter the world of Extreme Makeovers and FOR GOD'S SAKE don't go asking people for FOUR GRAND on the first date. That's just bad manners.

Ideally I'd like to go back to you for many years to come - provided I can get the bad taste out of my mouth from our initial consultation.

Cavity Free,

Beth

Three Days To Go....

Seriously, World at Large, I feel like a giant weight is starting to come off of my shoulders. I am decompressing. I am relaxing. I am taking naps every afternoon. I. Freakin'. Love. Vacation!

I still have three days left during my time off and now I'm starting to make a list of the things I haven't seen yet. Still, it's been a busy week so far:

Drove around town with my dad and stepmom. Reverted to being the same awkward, sulky 13-year-old girl I've always been when I'm around them.

• Saw the very impressive murals at Coit Tower
  
• Saw the California Palace of the Legion of Honor and ate a very fancy flank steak salad.

Ate dim sum in Chinatown

Had a drink at the Top of the Mark

Had a drink at the Bubble Lounge

Starting reading "Tales of the City"

Posed for ridiculous pictures at the Fairmont with my very fancy friends Jenny and Mark

Developed a full-on addiction with Grey's Anatomy. Seriously, where has this been my entire life?

Napped daily in addition to sleeping in

Watched documentaries on Frieda Kahlo and Diego Rivera and starting getting a little obsessed

Spent way too much on a new skin care line, bought from a woman with no eyebrows and neon green eyeshadow

Vacation: Or, how I learned to stop worrying and love San Francisco

I'll tell you why I'm learning to love this city:

Because in this random-ass store in North Beach you can (apparently) buy USED SKULLS. Used. Skulls. Cheaper/better than new skulls? How used are they, exactly? Human skulls, or more like cat/moose/monkey skulls? Can you buy them in bulk? How do I know these are quality skulls and not some cheap knock off?

Used. Skulls. 'Nuff said.

Vacation Lessons Learned the Hard Way

Lessons learned after spending two-and-a-half days with my dad and stepmom in San Francisco:

1.) If you're uncomfortable spending a mere 3 hours with your family during the holidays, you might want to reconsider spending TWO AND HALF STRAIGHT DAYS with them. Just sayin'.

2.) If you get talked into driving along the 49-mile Scenic Drive with your family while they visit you in San Francisco, you might want reconsider your plans. Strike that. You might want to run screaming into the Bay and drown yourself immediately. Reference Lesson Learned Number One and realize that being with family in small, enclosed places like rental cars is NOT SMART.

3.) Index cards of Topics to Avoid are helpful to bring along during long car trips with parents, including: "Why I'm Not Married Yet"; "How I Got To Be Such A Liberal, Feminist Democrat"; "The Gays;" "The Denver Broncos"; "What Exactly 'Public Relations' Is"; and "Where All of My Money Goes."

4.) Whatever you do, resist the urge to open the rental car door and tumble out onto the highway while the car is moving in a frantic attempt to escape the never-ending bickering over city traffic, narrow streets, the cost/scarcity of decent parking in San Francisco, and the lackluster map directions for the 49-mile Scenic Drive. Instead, channel your inner 13-year-old teenage girl and stare vacantly out the window for the remainder of the trip.

5.) Recognize that you're not a 13-year-old girl and HELL YES you will have a second glass of wine at dinner because, after all, your parents are paying for that dinner.

6.) Remember that Family Is Forever.

Reflections on Work and Change

Le sigh. More than a month has gone by since my last posting – how does that happen? I’ll tell you how, World at Large, I’ve been hella busy, that’s how. You look good – have you lost a little weight? Is that a new shirt? What’s shakin’?

So where to begin. Oh yes, there’s this workaholism THING. I’ve been working at an absolutely dizzying pace for the past two months. A migraine and carpal tunnel-inducing pace to be precise. The pace, the demands, the responsibility, the constant pressure to prove myself, and the unceasing fear that I’m going to f*ck something up have kept me up every night since I got here. I can safely say that I’ve never felt so overwhelmed, frustrated, disorganized, terrified, out of my element, and put to the test as I have these past two months.

Unfortunately work has been almost all I’ve done since I’ve arrived. I feel like I’m on the world’s longest business trip, where I go to work and then come back to my sterile hotel room to do some more work and eat room service and then go back into the office the next day in my little rental car for more work.

But, lest this turn into a virtual pity party for the local yuppie, let me acknowledge publicly that I do see a silver lining among all of these workaholic-fueled clouds. I haven’t lived in a new city for almost a dozen years. The last time I packed up and moved I was a baby bunny rabbit of 22. It’s been waaaay too long since I made any sort of life-altering decision and those sort of events don’t come easy, or often.

So, yes, it sucks right now. It’s hard and scary and gritty and all uphill. But I need to hold on to the part of me that knows that it won’t always be that way.

Back to – ahem – work for now. Did I mention I’m on vacation for 11 days starting next week? Did I mention that that thought makes me grin ear to ear?

Muppet Adventures in Denver

It's not too often I'm able to report on Muppet-related adventures, but when a good friend of the World of Beth alerted to me to the fact that she hosted Kermit the Freakin' Frog around the top spots in Denver.....Well, hell, folks. That's worth posting on the blog!

Amuse yourselves with pictures of Kermit meeting top Colorado government officials, scaling the rocks at Red Rocks and attending a Rockie's game. I think my favorite is the one of him looking up at the big blue bear at the convention center. Might have to make that my computer background for when I have tough days at work.

Snaps to you, old friend, for showing our little green felt buddy around town. That's AWESOME!

Revisiting the Corey Cold War

For those younger readers of the World of Beth, allow me to share a history lesson from the days of 1987. America was in the midst of a Cold War. The country was divided into a bitter rivalry. The world had Corey-mania. Families and neighborhoods and entire communities were shattered by the division between those pre-teen girls who had deep gooey crushes on goofball Corey Haim, and those (like me) who were more enamored with the darker, sulky soul of Corey Feldman. Seriously.

And now, because history repeats itself every 20 years, we’re revisiting the Corey Cold War in the form of A&E’s “The Two Coreys,” which might be the most pathetic and entertaining show airing today. It’s set up basically like an Odd Couple Meets The Now 35-Year Old Lost Boys, where Corey Haim (fresh from rehab, natch) moves in with Corey Feldman and his very hot wife, who is like 21 or something.

First off, it's alarming to note that these boys actually look exactly like they did 20 years ago. Okay, for the most part. Okay, so Corey Haim is a LOT rougher around the edges than he was in Lucas. But still. Corey Haim is all hapless and goofy and actually pretty sad because he’s a little, um, washed up and Corey Feldman is all goth and smoker-voiced and vegan and actually pretty sad because he’s, um, the more successful of the Two Coreys apparently. By Corey Standards, that is. Don't even get me started on the episode where Corey Haim loses it and starts crying when he finds out he won't be cast in the Lost Boys 2.

Don't judge me too harshly, World at Large, but I can’t get enough of this show. It's like a train wreck that's sponsored by Tiger Beat magazine, and who among us mortals can resist that?

Beth’s fake nails: Fuhgettaboutit!

And so, just as The Soprano’s ended its triumphant run on HBO, my experience with having acrylic nails has come to as close as well. RIP, Carmela-inspired talons!

Let’s face it….they weren’t really ME to begin with. I’m all for the idea of taking better care of my appearance and spending more time pampering myself…but I’m not sure if having to deal with “fills” and “sets” is worth the trouble. The removal process itself was a little alarming, in that you soak your fingertips in a clear toxic liquid that basically melts the plastic off of your nails. That. Can’t. Be. Healthy.

Also, noting that on the manicurist’s table where I was undergoing the removal/melting process, I noticed the little jar of acrylic powder which was (hopefully?) mis-labeled as “ACRYLIC POWER.” Have I just had some of my power taken away by a $10 process at my "Fancy Fingers" salon? Let’s hope I stay strong after the process….

Beth's First Wild Parrot Sighting

It started off as a pretty ordinary day...went to work as always...decided upon driving home to expand my knowledge of area Target stores (including one that was recommended to me in Colma, no less, where 73 percent of the residents are, ahem, dead...)...bought some cat litter and then returned my Flexcar to its parking lot to head home.

All was normal and ordinary.

And then I heard the screeching. And then I saw people (okay, tourists mostly) looking up curiously. And then I saw them. A flock of brillilant green parrots swooping overhead - the very same parrots from that great documentary a few years ago, "The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill." I forgot what a cool film that was - check out the trailer online and I challenge you not to get a little teared-up. Wild parrots clearly rock the house...and apparently they live right in my neighborhood.

Very, very cool.

Once again my hipster street cred is shot all to hell....

....as I sit on my sofa this afternoon finishing the latest - and final - installment of the Harry Potter empire and have tears streaming down my face.

Oh Harry. I'll miss you.

Jake Gyllenhaal Knew What He Was Talkin' Bout

Dammit, Payless ShoeSource.

I thought it was over between us. I went without you for a long time. We're no good for each other, Payless ShoeSource, I know that as much as you do. Face it, you're cheap and poorly constructed and when I walk around with you for too long, my feet reek to high heaven from pleather held together with stitches made by a Third World 8-year-old factory worker.

And yet, there you were, on a sunny Saturday in downtown San Francisco while I was wandering aimlessly. Whispering to me. Luring me in while you looked all cute with your shelves packed with ballet flats. And suddenly I was back in your arms and all was right with the world.

I'm not proud of our reunion. Okay, I'm a little smug about my $18 silver ballet flats and $15 black patent leather Mary Janes. They are cute as hell and I admit you can satisfy me in ways that Zappos and Endless and Nordstrom just can't. Why must you continue to tempt me and keep this blasted love affair alive, Payless ShoeSource?

I wish I could quit you, Payless ShoeSource.

Open Letter to Cheyenne, The Stylist Who Cut My Hair Yesterday

Dear Cheyenne,

First off, sir, props for being enough of a diva that you can actually pull off the name “Cheyenne.”
Um, yeah….so on that note about the bitchy diva-ness. I really didn’t appreciate the attitude you dished up to me when I came in for my haircut. I get that I wasn’t wearing a sassy halter sundress with stilettos like many of the other patrons there, and I get that my DIY color-from-a-box needs a touch up, badly. I get that my Payless sneakers and Maybelline lip gloss weren't real appreciated in your posh Aveda-centric world.

But bee-yotch, please.

I deserve a pair of snaps and a “You look gorgeous, girlfriend!” just as much as every other customer that perches on your stylist chair does. At the very least, I deserved a freakin’ handshake when I met you for the first time rather than a head-to-toe glance at my outfit, not to mention some conversational small talk while you cut and style my hair. For $95, you could have at least pretended to be somewhat engaging rather than merely showing off how stylish and cutting edge you are. We get it, okay?

Smell ya later - the hunt for a great stylist in the city is back on, big time.

Best,
Beth

Open Letter to the Electrician Who Wired the Kitchen in my Apartment

Dear Electrician,

I ask you, was there some sort of random shortage on electrical outlets when you were tasked to wire up my apartment?

Surely there has to be a logical reason as to why you put just one, single, solitary outlet in my kitchen. Really, just one outlet in which to plug things in? What is this, the third world? Is this some sort of test to see how creative I can be with my electricity consumption?

Your excruciatingly minimal outlet allotment means I can’t (for example) brew coffee and make toast at the same time. This hardly seems like a particularly exotic or demanding request. And yet, you deny me that simple pleasure and force me to take my toaster into my living room and utilize those outlets in order to toast. That is just downright madness. You, sir/ma’am, limit my ability to simultaneously brew and toast. CURSE YOU AND YOUR ENTIRE ELECTRICIAN FAMILY!

I hope when you return home from a hard day of electrical work to your posh, space-age multiple outlet-laden kitchen that you remember just how truly blessed you are when it comes time to utilize the food processor AND the Foreman Grill AND the bread machine. All at the same time.

Some of us, you see, are not so electrically fortunate.

Best,
Beth

Shaken but not stirred yet: Beth returns!

It’s been two weeks since last I posted and boy, have I ever heard about it from you loyal readers. Enough already! I’m baaaaaack! Hmmm, where to even begin? Let’s start with a basic needs overview:

Shelter: Good progress here – I’m basically all moved in and trying to get used to having my apartment overlook the Loudest Street EVER. Seriously, Bay Street? You can’t cease with the motorcycle revving and delivery truck beeping and drunk people shouting for just a few hours at night? Other than that, things are good, except I feel like I live in a shoebox that smells like a cat box. Apparently the key to living in a small studio is that you keep it immaculately clean otherwise it's all downhill from there, quickly.

Transportation: I’ve had two flings so far with my boyfriend Flexcar and our love proves stronger than ever. Flexcar’s quite posh in the Bay Area with their green Toyota Priuses, which are SO shmancy that they don’t even use normal keys to enter the vehicle or start the ignition. Take that, fossil fuel guzzling cars with your archaic, metal keys. Pffft. I’ve also figured out two bus routes to get me to work, one of which is packed with tourists, the other which is packed with, ahem, exotic views of Chinatown and roasting rotisserie ducks hanging in shop windows.

Clothing: Hate all of my schlumpy Seattle clothing. Need razor sharp wardrobe ASAP. Everyone here is very hip with great shoes and great hair and clear skin and trendy vintage wears. Donations for my Bay Area makeover will be gladly accepted.

Books: Found a Half Price Books (my happy place) in Berkeley, which was strangely disappointing. Clearly someone sent around the memo that day that Beth had some extra cash so they hid all of the good stuff in the back rooms.

Earth: The World of Beth survived her first 4.2 magnitude earthquake at 4:40 this morning with nothing more than a slight rattling of my windows. I rolled right back over and went to sleep and tried to ignore the fact that animals are supposed to have a sixth sense about these types of things and warn their humans about them…and Puff just kept right on snoozing next to me. Damn that cat.

Hot Shins: Beth Freaks Out Until Her Stuff Arrives

So, um, apparently when I was joking about my movers selling my sofa in Mexico to buy weed, I might not have been entirely off base. Without much explanation, my sketchy-sketch movers showed up two days late which - admittedly - is better than never, but it was a very hectic day yesterday while I waited on sharp, pointy, angry eggshells to get a call back about the whereabouts of my worldly possessions.

To kill time, we sat near my pool, and I proceeded to get very sunburnt shins which is proving to be a very random and unsexy place to get burnt. It was disorienting to then go out later in the evening for fireworks - after being sunburnt on a sunny, warm day - and find it so cold that you need a coat and scarf. San Francisco, you're one strange cat, you know that?

The good news - at last - is that my stuff arrived (relatively) safe and sound and today has been very much like Christmas except that you're opening boxes you packed yourself of your own stuff. Still, stuff! Let's hear it for kitchen pans and picture frames and books and towels and stuff!

Big time Sanity Props are due to Heidi Jo, who did an excellent job at distracting me and keeping me from going off the deep end these past few days. You, my friend, deserve a case of Elizabeth Spencer, for all the work you did these past few days.

Chillin' on the sofa tonight with a Bud Light (the drink of the choice for this trip) and some episodes of Entourage, having dropped Heidi off at the airport. Feelin' scared. Feelin' exhausted. Feelin' overwhelmed with potential and that's scary and exciting and wonderful and intimidating and then right back to scary. Can't overthink - gotta just get out there and experience whatever is thrown at me. As the card on my fridge says, "You must travel in the direction of your fear."

For tonight though, I'm heading in the direction of my bed and we'll take it from there.