Things I have learned from the Missed Encounters section of the San Francisco Craigslist:
1) If anyone, anywhere, for any reason makes eye contact (but especially on public transportation), that is clear code for let's meet and get freaky.
2) It is okay to strut, suck, and fuck in near-public (gym showers, someone's front yard), but asking for a name is way too risky, and must be done after the fact, by means of anonymous advertising. Tell me what I said about your piercings, the ads say. So I'll know it's you.
Oh, San Francisco. You're my otp.
Sitting in my uniform, cancelled for the first four hours again. I have about five tabs open for various posts on popsoundboard and one for bossymarmalade's new timbertrick (yay!), and I have asparagus and red potatoes roasting in the oven. Hopefully that works out: I have no oil, so I slathered everything with bleu cheese dressing, which is my favorite food accessory anyway. We'll see! So far nothing is smoking!
Oh, wait. Potatoes take about nine times longer than asparagus, right? Damn.
Last couple of days I was in Milwaukee. Nice trip, if sudden and impulsive and nonsleep-inducing. It went down like this: Sunday, waiting for frausorge to stop over, it occurred to me that I could hire a real estate agent, sure, but what condition was the place in? After almost two months and a crapload of flooding (so I hear), would an agent even want to haul people through there? Also, half the paperwork I needed to sign contracts was in Mke. So I stuck the envelope with the key in my bag, to bring to the realtor rather than to mail, and after we got done having dinner at a truely fab chinese restaurant and talking, talking, talking, and lesa headed out, I climbed on BART in the early morning dark and headed for the airport.
Yeah, and glad I did, because when I ripped open the envelope and stuck the key in the lock at my condo, it didn't work. I had the wrong key! Was going to send my realtor the key to the lovely corporate housing here in CA! O Lord, hear my Tale of Duh. I can't even... well, I found the correct key in its Milwaukee hiding place (kitchen counter) and drove it over to the realtor, and cleaned up some and weeded, and let's hope it sells. The realtor seems to think it will, but then, her 6% is riding on that thought, I guess.
And yet -- damn, it's such a pretty place. If only Wisconsin weren't so Wisconsinlike so many months of the year. Y'all, somebody's house floated away a couple weeks ago. Here we just have swarms of earthquakes: pshaw.