Equal Footing: The Problem with Sex and The City

Having a vagina at times can be difficult, case in point, the Sex and The City 2 premiere. SATC2 is basically one giant honing device for vaginas making all females powerless in its estrogen fueled aura. Even I as a beer swigging, sports crazed tomboy whose greatest joys are often fantasy football related want to see this movie. When getting coffee this morning, I gazed upon the West Portal Cinema Marquee seeing “Sex and the City 2”. My heart instantaneously leapt, some thing that is usually reserved for Patrick Willis tackles or Tom Brady touchdowns. Why this draw? Why this magnetism? WHY? Fear not, I have finally figured it out. The Sex and the City franchise to women is what Lethal Weapon and Road House is to men. Don’t believe me? Turn on either of those movies in the presence of a heterosexual man and watch as his body and brain furiously focus on the magic of Mel Gibson’s Martin Riggs or rugged awesome of Patrick Swayze’s Dalton. Absolutely helpless are their testosterone riddled minds. This has amazed me for years since there was no female equivalent, until now. Now ladies, we have the Sex and the City franchise. We have our kryptonite in the form of Manalo Blahniks, Cosmopolitans and girl talk. And we are all defeated.

My Name Is Maggie, And I Am A Bagelholic.

Because of a work meeting, while John got coffee at Peet’s, I took Maggie into Noahs for bagels. As soon as she had a look at the bagel display window she began to point while simultaneously humping my hip and repeating “baaayyylllll”, “baaaayyylllll”. A few weeks ago Maggie received her first taste of boiled and baked doughy goodness instantaneously falling in love. I ordered her a plain cinnamon raisin with John's toasted pumpernickel with butter and plain blueberry. Usually plain bagels are handed you immediately while you walk down to pay. But today some lady starts asking questions about the cased salads. Because who doesn’t want lettuce at 8:00 a.m. The Noah’s assembly line only prepared for toasting, cream cheesing and buttering came to a halt. Maggie did not take kindly to this, looking around and becoming increasingly agitated. She looked to me with fright pointing and saying “Bayyyylll, Mamba. Bayyylll.” while we moved to pay. "BAAYYYLLLL!!!!" Dude, I get it, you want a bagel. I ordered okay, it’s not my fault some fifty year old woman started going on and on about whether she gets a free bagel with her chicken caesar. Finally bagel man realizing the error of his ways, as my Tasmanian bagelholic reached higher and higher pitch, handed over the bag. Placated, Maggie smiled and said “tank you.” At least she is a polite bitch.

A New Love

This past weekend after seeing the maniacs of Bay to Breakers, we headed to the Park Chalet. When one surrounds themselves with public drunkenness, it is only rational to achieve similar status. It being Bay to Breakers, there were a few special treats at the ole Chalet, namely, Leblon Cachaca. Which is like rum in that it comes from cane juice, but not rum, but Cachaca, the liquor of Brazil - DON’T CALL IT RUM (even though it is classified as same by the US because Cachaca is not recognized). I armed with strawberry and John pineapple we sipped. We sipped some more. Then we smiled at each other like that time the kids slept until 8:00 a.m., that one glorious time in over 400 attempts. But do I care? Nope, I have Leblon. So suck it sleeper inners with your non-baggy eyes, and your no kids, and your need for alarm clocks. I have my muddled pineapple Leblon Cachaca splendor.

The Law of One More Time

Last night John had a work dinner which meant I had both kids myself. Aside from Owen asking every ten minutes or so “Where’s my Daddy?” it went well. By the way, the answer to that was “He is working Owen." and not "He left dude, because you are annoying with your incessant Where My Daddys? Also, he is Maggie’s Daddy too (I think).” After reading him Trees, The Counting Book, Charlie Harper’s ABCs, Curious George Goes to the Library (and wrecks havoc), Good Night San Francisco and tucking him in thirty-three times. Not an exaggeration, each night Owen requires that he is put to bed with his four blankets. All which are from his baby days, three being large swaddling blankets of the same variety and the other a super soft baby blue blanket that he rubs with fervor of a teenage boy.

Owen: One More Time.
Me: Okay.
Owen: One More Time.
Me: Okay.
Owen: Three More Times. (Smart Ass).
Me: Okay, last time.
Owen: One More Time.
Me: Last time.
Owen: One More Time.
Me: Last time, Owen.
Owen: Okay, Mommy. I miss you.

Finally out of blanket tucking hell, I escaped to the kitchen to finish dinner for tomorrow (Baked Ziti). There was an intention to make something to eat. Instead due to the heavenly quiet, I went the single girl route and poured myself a giant glass of wine. Then another. “One More Time”, indeed.

The Long and the Short of It.

Friday was spent in a salon chair where I was given exactly what was asked for, “Shorter. Like a ponytail, but not the actual pony tail. Not a bob.” Famous last words, for Rihanna I am not. Although repeatedly told it looks great, cute and modern, every look to the mirror elicits the same response: cringe, scowl and what the hell was I thinking. This immediately followed by the googled factoid that “human hair grows 1/2 inch per month” and October is totally right around the corner. In five short days I have purchased clips, barrettes, bobby pins and headbands. Simply put, this hair cut is not me. I am a bob, not a longish pixie. I tried the pants on and guess what? I HAVE A FUCKING MUFFIN TOP. But I resolve not to cry, not to bitch, not to tackle a long haired girl with scissors for cheap extensions, I will wait this out, one half inch month at a time. And that is the long of it, the short of it is obviously my hair.

The Killer Whale Roll

Bay Shabu Sushi Sake is a restaurant in San Francisco that has a food challenge. You devour the Killer Whale Roll in thirty minutes or less. The $29.95 Killer Whale Roll is four pounds of sushi comprising shrimp, crab, eel, spicy tuna, vegetables, avocado, and tobiko. No one can help you in the endeavor, it is just you and this:



Egads! That thing looks like a post nuclear attack apocolyptic slug. When stopping by the front door today, I saw this posted:




That right there my friends is the Killer Whale Challenge World Champion. "He eat it in 14 minutes, 20 seconds." (That's what she said.) Now my question, you think that guy is really on the Track Team?