Wednesday, September 27, 2006

B is for Bitchout

nice to customers!

The new Bloomingdale's is open! I feel so complete. I actually stumbled on the grand opening yesterday as I wandered aimlessly downtown to find a fancy dress for the many fancy things I must do this fall. I just waltzed right in the only open door, which happened to be in an alley behind about ten delivery trucks belching exhaust onto those of us crafty enough to find the entrance.

My verdict yesterday? Fan-fucking-tabulous. I have been waiting for this moment all of my adult life. Literally! A store less cheesy than Macy's, less frumpy than Nordstrom, and less godawful expensive than Saks or Neiman's. It's not Barneys, but it'll do. There are shoes that I would wear, intersecting with shoes that I can actually afford! Amazing. I spent a few hours poking around as one of the only customers, with a whole staff of hyper-solicitous salesfolks fawning over me. Not bad. I even found a dress I liked, that I decided to come back and get the next day when I had time to try it on.

Bad, bad idea. If you were anywhere near 5th and Mission yesterday, you know exactly what I mean. Where there was no one yesterday, there was a giant line of Bloomie's-lovin' consumers snaking all the way down Mission Street and back into the alley where I sneaked in yesterday. There were security guards posted everywhere and they were not letting anyone in who didn't have some kind of card and who didn't park their ass in that line for a few hours. Apparently people had been there since 6am. What the f---?

UPDATE: Here is a picture from today's Chron.

Once again, I say, ARE YOU PEOPLE FREAKIN' NUTS? The store--it's not going anywhere! They will still have zillions of pairs of black boots next week!

I walked up to the salesdude guarding the Jessie Street door and asked precisely that. He said, they were offering some kind of special promotion where people who opened Bloomingdale's charges yesterday and brought some kind of special card got in "by invitation only." You would not fucking believe this line. It was "by invitation only" the way McDonald's is "by invitation only." I think all of Walnut Creek and most of Milpitas were waiting to get inside. I mean, it's a nice store, but come ON.

Of course, I determined immediately that I was not going to wait in no stinkin' line. I went up to the door guard/sales manager and told him that I had a kid to pick up from school and a busy life and my ass was not going to be spending the next two hours in line so I could walk out with a few perfume samples. I would either be let in to spend my many dollars of cold hard cash on a dress that I had been lovingly sold yesterday, or I would walk up the street to buy another dress, never, ever to return to Bloomingdale's.

Apparently no one (except me) wants to be a dick on the first day. To the guy's credit, he let me in only if I PROMISED to go straight up to the Fancy Dress Section and buy only the dress and nothing else. Well, the joke's on him, I tried on lipstick too! But I did get out in time to pick up Gianni.

So two thumbs up for the new Bloomie's, one for nice stuff and the other for customer service!

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

Running with Tinkerbell

For reasons that are not entirely clear even to me, I have decided to run a half-marathon in November. I have been more or less retired from racing since my high-school track days. Even then one could argue that I was semi-retired, 'cause it's not like I really tried. Despite possibly having some aptitude for running, I was just getting my jock card punched in sports-crazy southern Indiana, where if you didn't do SOMETHING you weren't worth knowing. Anyway, I digress, because other than running the San Francisco Marathon in 1998 just to prove that I could, and getting up to do the Run to the Far Side every Thanksgiving weekend (there's just something about running next to people dressed up like giant bananas and insects and dogs in suits riding a bus that makes life worthwhile) I mostly just run for my own enjoyment. And so I don't get fat.

But a few weeks ago my friend Atoosa, with whom I run on weekends, asked me if I wanted to do a half-marathon with her and a few of her friends, and I thought, why the hell not? It turns out that Atoosa can only do a race the week that I'm out of town, and she's out of town for the race I can do, so we are not actually running a race together, but now I have got the bug so far up my butt that I want to run a half-marathon that there's no turning back.

I started training a few weeks ago and realized something I'd forgotten in all of my years of leisurely running--training for a race makes you HUNGRY. Like, all the time. I feel like I have a tapeworm. I'm constantly starving and shoving snacks in my piehole all day long. It's just bizarre to polish off a big meal and still be like, mmmm, when's the second course? Excuse me, I need to go eat something now.

Okay, now that I'm back, I'll share my moment of the week, heck, the whole month, that happened while I was training for this blessed event. I was out running the Lyon Street Steps. If you don't live in San Francisco, these are some steep motherfucking steps that climb a big hill next to some gorgeous mansions and kick your ass all the way. When you get to the top, there's a gorgeous view of the waterfront. It's both heavenly and vomitous all at the same time. Anyway, I was coming down the steps, and this woman was running up. She was very California blonde, all tanned and fit and dressed in matching workout clothes and barely breaking a sweat. She was keeping a steady pace and in one hand she was carrying....

Wait for it...

A chihuahua. I shit you not. It was very Paris Hilton. I really thought I'd seen the chihuahua as accessory to just about every occasion, but I was wrong. At least she did carry the thing freehand and didn't have it in a little Adidas bag, or wearing a matching LuluLemon dog track suit or something. If you think about it, it was practically subdued.

All I'm saying is that if I'm on the last mile of the half marathon in November and a kinkajou named BabyLuv passes me, I'm gonna be really pissed.

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

Look What the Stork (or L. Ron Hubbard) Brought!

It's a big week for celebrity babies and I'm just catching up on news of two little bundles of...something.

First, my brand new copy of Vanity Fair came on Monday. Along with the usual stories about rich old white guys and Eurotrash, there's that Suri Cruise right on the cover! Man, what a cute baby! Who apparently was born bundled with Photoshop! I haven't seen that much airbrushing since Miss December! How many blemishes does a baby need to hide? Now really. If that's our standard, if I'm ever photographed for Vanity Fair I should just put a bag over my head and be done with it. Still, I begrudgingly admit that little Suri is one adorable little muffin. Well done, you Scientology freaks!

And as anyone who reads Perez Hilton knows already, life at the Spears-Federline double-wide just got a little cozier with the birth of little Sutton Pierce Federline (love the name!) on September 12, two days before big brother's first birthday. (All the cool kids are born in mid-September! Maybe Sean Preston and I can have a double B-day celebration! With a pony!)

Anyway. Congratulations to Britney and the Federchimp! Mazel tov! Many happy returns!

Now please stop breeding. Or at least slow the fuck down.

Monday, September 11, 2006

A Quiet Day Is A Good Day

Today is September 11, if you didn't notice. As much as I'd like to say I've been out hugging firefighters and singing "God Bless America" through a megaphone, I've had a nice, mellow day and that is truly a gift that I appreciate with all my soul after months of suckiness. In fact, I'm still anticipating the roundhouse kick to the head that seems to come with every calm moment lately, but hopefully it won't come this time.

Five years ago, I was getting ready to drop then-11-month-old Gianni off with the nanny for the first time. It was the first day I'd ever been apart from him for an entire day and I was, honestly, feeling guilty that I was feeling so happy that I would be away from him. I woke up that morning, and my first thought was: Free at last! I was already planning all of the amazing child-free things I'd be doing that day (Long lunches! Naps! Porn!) when my phone rang. It was my sister, calling at 7:45. I thought: someone died, since that's the only reason anyone is allowed to call me before 8:30. Someone died, all right. A lot of someones. She was calling to make sure that we were not driving on the Golden Gate Bridge, and that someone was not blowing it up right at that moment.

And then it hit me: oh my God, I'm leaving my child with a stranger and the world has gone nuts. I can't do this! Serves me right for being so gleeful at the thought of ditching Gianni to live a life of grown-up leisure.

Then I got it together--I have to do this. We have to keep on truckin'. So I scooped Gianni up, and drove him out for his first day in the care of someone else. He had a blast. I walked around Golden Gate Park, crying and listening to the freakish lack of air traffic noise from above.

I never imagined on that hellish day that I would wake up five years later to a similarly calm and sunny day and actually have that adult free time I'd planned so diligently before. (Okay, no porn, but maybe tomorrow.) My son was off at kindergarten, my daughter with HER new nanny. I was alone, listening to the silence again. And this time, it was good. I hope that the families of those who died on 9/11 are getting their peace too. Times a hundred.