paint-by-number dreams

We rented a house in Napa for the weekend.  Went wine tasting during the beautiful sunny day, then hightailed it back to our awesome home base to spend the night cooking and feasting, blasting music and dancing, hot tubbing it, and drinking more wine.  Lots more wine.

I’m not afraid of being a grown-up anymore.  Whoever said that college is the best four years of your life is a fucking idiot.

(photo by Abe K)

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fuckyeahmodels

justbesplendid

holy bay to breakers.

I came to San Francisco for a guy.

Not entirely, maybe not even primarily, but partly.  I scored a great internship out here, I knew I loved the city, one of my fun college roommates lives here, and I was restless and looking for an adventure before law school.  I even asked myself — because I’m not a total idiot — “If he doesn’t want you, will you still be happy there?”  The answer was, “Yes.  I think so.”  But I’ll be honest: when I envisioned my life here in the weeks leading up to my move, he was most definitely a big part of it it.  I wondered how I’d get furniture into my new apartment; I figured he’d help.  I worried about making new friends; I trusted that he’d introduce me to people.  He told me he wanted me here.  It was supposed to be our chance to find out if we could work in real life, not just for brief, honeymoon-like fragments of time in foreign countries.

I got here and he changed his mind.  I moved three thousand miles and he changed his mind.  He changed his fucking mind.

So I carried my own goddamn mattress up the stairs.  I deciphered the instructions for putting my furniture together.  I familiarized myself with my neighborhood — adjacent to his — all by myself.  I spent a few weekend nights home alone.  I brought a peanut butter sandwich with no jelly to my first day of work because I couldn’t open the stupid jar.  I stood in the kitchen that morning on the verge of slightly pathetic tears, staring at the jelly and wondering how the hell I was going to make this work.

The next day I struggled to twist the lid of the jar for about ten minutes, my hands burning, until it opened.  I vowed to say yes to any invitation I got, and I did — I said yes to a night out with coworkers, a date with a random guy I met in a bar, happy hour with my roommate’s brother.  I finished decorating my room.  I found cafes and grocery stores where I liked shopping and parks where I liked to read.  I figured out public transportation.  I became good friends with my roommate, a gift from the Craigslist gods.  I found out that my coworkers are wonderful and friendly and awesome to hang out with.  My old college roommate, fortunately, was also here to introduce me to new people and provide moral support.  Now if I stay home on a weekend night it’s by choice.  I fell in love with my internship, and I picked up a second one that gives me the opportunity to write for a national audience, something so frightening and exhilarating and empowering that I’ve become addicted.

Before I came here in March, San Francisco was him.  The only time I’d been here before, I’d spent basically every day seeing the sights, going to lunch and dinner, drinking wine, and sleeping with him by my side.

But now San Francisco is mine.  I came to this city because there was a guy here; it’s now the halfway point of my adventure and I have a life here instead.  I am so happy.

i don’t hold you down

maybe that’s why you’re around

but if i’m the one you love

think about me

- Fleetwood Mac, “Think About Me”

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wellllll.  hello there, boys.  you look absurd.  but let’s play anyway.

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what a weekend.  birthday parties, margaritas, eating cake with our hands, 60s music, a hot-bodied naked man on a bike, a long walk by the ocean, white dress and derby hat ridiculousness, drinking cocktails out of mason jars, delfina, a baseball game, and sunshine, sunshine, sunshine.  happy may, everybody.