Taking the plunge in the City by the Bay; meth, penis socks and a guy jerking off

Well, we finally took the plunge and actually moved to the big smoke. Though the big fog would be more appropriate. 

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The apprehension I felt while looking at potential apartments was not abated by the man who dropped trou and started pooping against a wall as I walked past on my way to a viewing. And this seems to be irksome, but entirely too comfortably tolerated by all the current inhabitants of the city! There really is no excuse for shitting in the street on a busy Thursday afternoon? 

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Pretty much anything goes in SF, which makes it a fascinating and vibrant city, and I really don't want to lose my current mixture of fear, respect, awe and intrigue, but it looks like that feeling wears off pretty quick. When regaling my City chums with stories of men hanging out in the park wearing only gold lame penis socks, trainers, a small satchel and a hat (Seriously??? A hat??? If you're worried about sunburn I've got a better solution. Clothes. Also, a bag?????? When you left the house this morning and wondered where to put your keys and your wallet, didn't your mind immediately leap to 'trousers' rather than 'over-the-shoulder canvas bag') their shrug is always punctuated with the same "that's San Francisco" refrain. Really?? You've become THAT accustomed to street-pooping that its just one of the quirky features of the City?? 

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The latest tale of incredulity comes courtesy of a close neighbor who found a dude wanking next to the front door of his apartment block (I feel like the term "jerking off" really doesn't sound graphic enough. If you're "jerking off" then you're just messing around, being a bit of a scamp. A man pleasuring himself in an apartment doorway is most definitely "wanking"). Yup. That happened. 

I really REALLY don't want to become numb to this City and its inhabitants. Firstly, shitting in the street is fucking disgusting and we should all be horrified and do something about this before we welcome the Bubonic Plague with our apathy. Secondly, if all of the craziness becomes second nature then what's to enjoy? The uniqueness of a man in a gold lame penis sock having a picnic in a public park is one of the reasons people still flock to SF, and if you're not still amazed by the City then maybe its time to move on. 

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Travel winge 10

And there was me thinking that the international home of logic and engineering would furnish me with a pleasantly efficient airport experience. Ding dong, you're wrong! Lets recap the basic principle of the US - everything has a price. However one feels about this approach you do get used to it, so when faced with 3 hours in Frankfurt airport, nowhere to sit and have a coffee within 3 miles of the gate (seriously - its a fucking huge airport) and a husband who can access the business lounge we assumed that a guest pass would be available for purchase. Lets face it - its money for old rope - $30 for an automated cappuccino and some mixed nuts.

Turns out Lufthansa (who own the lounge) will not be pressured into delivering a good service, even if one is prepared to pay. They are the only lounge I have ever come across who don't offer guest passes that can be purchased. Seriously? The vibe I got from the little fräulein at the desk was that if I'd wanted access I should have bought a business ticket in advance. These are the rules and there is simply no way round them. And no questioning them. And no disobeying them.

K Lufthansa. Whatevs. Your breakfast was an abomination, FYI. Please do not serve "pancakes" (LOL - I question the validity of that description, but ok) with a sticky strawberry syrup to people who have just woken up again. I was finding little sticky patches on my clothes/skin/hair for DAYS.

Also, apparently, smoking rooms are still a thing in certain european airports. Seriously, I thought we'd evolved beyond that?? Like hot boxes of cancer.

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Like Tinder for serial killers

We survived. In a city full of meth addicts with mental health problems I ostensibly invited anyone with an internet connection into our home to look at our things. I concede that statement is a little dramatic, but this is basically what Craigslist is all about, if you believe everything that you read on the internet. And I do. So, shit.

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I had been informed by a number of well-spoken, middle class types that we could "donate our unwanted couch to a charity", a statement that is always followed by "its tax deductible" as if I know what the fuck that means. I mean, I know what I'm supposed to do when people say that - you raise your eyebrows, turn down your mouth and nod, silently implying that you hadn't thought of that option, but this news about tax deduction will certainly make a difference to your decision. It would honestly make more sense to me if they said "give me your couch and I'll give you my half-drained Caramel Macchiato". At least I understand the value of the things we're talking about in that statement enough to be able to weigh up the options. Anyhoo, I digress.

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So, needless to say we had no intention of handing our couch over without even a Starbucks in return. Instead, in a vain attempt to recoup some of the cash that we threw at it, we sold it. And where better to sell it than on Craigslist, the match.com of the house-bound, technically-minded psycho-stalker. Why waste your time pounding the street for your next victim when you can select them online and make just one trip with your bloody axe?

It was a solid klippan with a clean beige cover that would have looked very happy in the IKEA showroom, as long as you didn't remove said cover and spot the disturbing mystery stain, made significant worse by my efforts to clean it. So, photos were taken. A description was crafted using my very best pseudo-sales-assistant-ese, and the responses started to drip into my inbox.

I was initially a bit worried about being able to spot the frauds and fakes, but it turns out its suuuuuuuper easy.

"Hi, I am very interested in your IKEA KLIPPAN SOFA, GOOD CONDITION!!! IDEAL COUCH FOR BEDROOM, STUDY OR HALLWAY. Please send me more details. Thank you."

Yeah. Unless there is an automated search bot out there who is looking to furnish his first apartment  with simple and stylish furniture on a budget, I call bullshit on that one. And the five others I got that were nearly identical. I'm still trying to work out what the scam is.

There are also the people who want to beat you down to a fraction of the price. Yeah, no.

That only leaves us with one potentially genuine offer, and I was cacking myself at the arranged hour as I waited for god-knows-what to turn up outside our apartment block to view my wares clutching either a small wad of cash, a meat cleaver, or both.

The old man had already helped me carry the sofa downstairs to the lobby (no need for my crazy new friend to know which apartment we actually inhabit) and I was MIGHTILY relieved to see a clean and normal looking lady approach with a fistful of dollars. I left her waiting for her ride, sitting on her spanking new purchase on the sidewalk. Happy camper.

So relieved was I to have the whole process dealt with that I didn't check the notes until I got back to the apartment and it turns out she snuck a fake one in there, but thats probably Karma for the big fucking stain on the seat.  Meh.

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This is why I will never go to Carl's Jr. I know when I'm not wanted.

Unless you're advertising a veterans charity I am a firm believer that humor sells almost as much as sex. I love a funny advert. And, though you may assume by my witty repartee that I confine myself to more cerebral comedy I am always up for some toilet humor. I draw your attention to this, which made me laugh for about 10 minutes:

And some days I long for just one car dealership or hair dye company to bite the bullet and buck the trend of facile nonsense. Ugh.

But, none of this should interfere with the main purpose of the ad - to make me buy your product or service. Arby's - big BIG props to you for acknowledging Jon Stewart's 16 year assault on the quality of your product and embracing the free publicity. Seriously, jolly well done.

Not so well executed are the adverts that opt for funny over competency. 

One would assume that making your employees look like incompetent bellends would also be a no-no in the Big Book of Advertising. Join me as we enjoy this, or indeed any, offering from Drivetime.com:

Wow. I don't think I'd trust you to wipe your own bum, let alone finance my car? I'm kinda impressed you ladies managed to get out of the house this morning without hurting yourself? Please untie me from this gurney, I would rather get the bus home, if its all the same to you...

Maybe I just don't have enough of a sense of humor, but its like the ad executives just gave up?

What's even worse than this, though, is the smug commercial. Two things that do not make me want to engage - me thinking your employees are incompetent idiots, and you blatantly disrespecting your existing clients. To actually make these the fundamentals of your advertising campaign smacks of incredible arrogance. 

Lets move on to the Lotto advert. Nice and short - it should pretty much sell itself. 

"Play the lottery and you could win $x". 

But then it continues, with an unnecessary amount of incredulity, "You're still sitting there? Maybe you didn't hear?" 

Excuuuuuuuuse me? Who the fuck do you think you're talking to? Perhaps I'm being too sensitive, but, if you want me to engage, how about we dial down the arrogance a smidgen?

Next we have the match.com adverts where Mr Random McRandom stops women in the street and asks if they have any experience with match.com. Responses from the general public vary, but the sarcastic response of Señor McRandom can be paraphrased into "duuuuuuuuuuuh, do you even HEAR yourself?" 

His response to "No, I would rather meet someone in a bar" is "and how's THAT working out for you?" Um, rude. You can check that fucking tone at the door, sunshine.  Or his response to "Actually  my sister found her husband on match.com"; "Riiiight, you don't think you might want to try it then?" If its populated with sarcastic, smug arseholes like you, then I'll pass. 

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Its one thing to have confidence in your product, quite another to produce the advertising equivalent of stuffing your tongue into your bottom lip, making a "duh" noise. 

I appreciate that I'm not the target audience for this nonsense (I am clearly NOT welcome at Carl's Jr unless I am 23 and wearing a bikini?) but I don't really understand who these are aimed at? People with so little self-respect or sense as to be influenced by a smug git verbally tossing off in their face? Nice.

Hey fatty boom boom

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My husband has informed me that I am too quick to judge the fatties. When the slimming advert with Marie Osmond came on and she starts whinging about how bad she felt when she looked in the mirror I, allegedly, without missing a beat, started singing "Hey, fatty boom boom" to myself. Maybe I did, maybe I didn't. Either way, I'd like to point out the the reason I notice the butter balls is that the stereotype that all Americans are fat is far from the truth (despite what all their tv would have you believe! Seriously - think of all the sitcoms from the past 50 years. Male lead = fatty. Female lead = totty. WTF is with that?)

Yes, there are fat people in America (the fattest people I have EVER SEEN were in Texas), but there are also lots of skinny people and everything in between. Some of this is genetics, some of it is cultural, some of it class, some of it is career/lifestyle choice and some of it education. The poorer areas tend to have more fat people because they eat a cheaper diet that tend to be poorer quality and full of fat, sugar and salt to make crap ingredients taste nice.

I'm assuming the stereotypical high-fat American diet stems from a time when people were living harder lives and burning more energy. I'm not suggesting that people were scoffing Big Macs 100 years ago, but they were probably eating deep fried chicken, grits, buttery mash, deep fried dough. It wasn't a problem when we were still living in small rural communities, chopping down trees for fire wood and milking cows, or in crap, developing cities where we woke up early to stoke the coal/wood fires, walked to work, worked our arses off and then walked home. Eating high-fat, high-carb food was necessary you give you energy (although I'm fairly sure they had other problems, like rickets). Now people drive to work in sedentary jobs, eat at their desks and drive home to a ready meal (I know we don't all do that, but plenty of people do. I'm generalizing. This is a "do as I say, not as I do" situation, yeah? Calm the fuck down, people). High fat, high carb diet, with more processed sugars and added flavorings, but with no intention of using the calories to move around a bit.

Part of the problem stems from the fat pride reaction to fat shaming. I am super chuffed for everyone who is happy with their body, irrespective of girth, but when social media highlights a stream of chubsters in banana hammocks and bikinis with empowering statements like "big and proud" then the world starts to think thats how everyone in the US looks/feels. And don't even get me started on the "only at Walmart" meme. Hilarious, but if you've never been to a Walmart then you start to believe that it represents the average American.

The biggest issue here is that there are proportionally as many stupid knob heads outside the US as there are within it, so the stereotype prevails, because its easier to believe it than not. So, next time you want to judge an entire nation on one mutable physical trait, don't, just don't. It makes you look like someone who's never left the village.

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I, however, have learned nothing, so am off to throw donuts at the lumbering butter balls in the park. Good day.

Still overly sensitive, then?

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There's a new perceived slight that I am unnecessarily sensitive to, and I blame my Britishness. And I will be using British actors to visually represent my distress - only they can fully embody the anguish that I feel! 

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Lets set the scene: you're in a shop being served by one of the shop assistants, or in a hairdressers being shampooed. Another staff member leans over to the person currently serving and, within very clear earshot, asks "will SHE be paying by credit card?" or "how long will SHE be?"

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Guys, I'm right here. 

My mum would have a fit. "Who's 'she'? The Queen of Sheba? The cat's mother?" And it really does smart when someone refers to you without acknowledging that you are still fucking there and you can actually fucking hear!

I'm used to being referred to as CUSTOMER ("My CUSTOMER will be paying with buttons and belly button fluff"), or LADY ("My LADY will be here for another three or four hours to give me time to tame this unwieldy bird's nest"). Otherwise you may as well ask "is this dick'ead going to be much longer?"

Seriously, manners, yeah?

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But what of the little red biros? What will become of them?...

A jolly little update from the DMV. As part of the unpredictable odyssey of changing from my maiden to my married name I had the pleasure of revisiting the DMV. Twice. In one day. I have been informed that I have visited the DMV more times than a normal Californian would do in a decade. Hey ho.

I have to admit that booking an early appointment is THE ONLY way to do this. I had to wait for a few weeks for an appointment, but the ease with which I strolled to the front of the queue (**actual experiences may vary) and was sent to a booth within 10 minutes was totally worth it.

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Sadly, updating one's driving license when not currently an American citizen seems to be such an alien task that they don't carry all the pertinent information on their website, so I was not equipped with my I90 (my actual visa, inside my actual passport with my actual new name in, plus my old passport with my old name, plus my actual marriage certificate were not enough. Neither was accessing my I90 online, despite the fact that it is an online form that you have to print out at home. M'kay.) This meant that, having been ushered swiftly to the front of the queue I was told to book another appointment and come back again. Swallows throbbing rage. I smiled, went to my car and booked another appointment later that day at a DMV much further away. Still, I was adamant I was going to get this shit sorted in one day.

Seriously though - as if they don't get thousands of people in the same position as me? Non-citizens who want to legally update their details using their passport - the document that allows them into and out of any country in the world. FFS.

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Anyhoo, off I trot to my next DMV appointment, a myriad of documents in hand. This is the low point of the day - finding a parking space at the DMV. Yes, the place where you actually get your license, that is not on any public transport network, and that expects you to bring your own car in which to be tested, does not have enough parking spaces. Let me repeat that to allow the irony to fully sink in. The DMV does not have enough parking spaces. Are you fucking kidding me?

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So, having nearly caused an accident in my frustration, and swinging the car round to nab a space, I get in, am swiftly moved from one booth to another, getting rubber stamped at each stage, and come to the highlight of my day: discovering that the theory test can now be completed on a computer!! Welcome to the twentieth century, DMV!

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I'm genuinely relieved that they've advanced to this stage - I was starting to get worried. Although now I'm sad for the little man with his red pen who spent all day marking people's tests. What will become of him? And his box of pens? Who will feed and cloth the little red biros?