Another journey up to the city to meet friends. A forty-five minute drive along beautiful, winding I-280, singing to the radio at the top of my considerable lungs. Unfortunately, the DJs aren't playing anything I really like, i.e., nothing in my register. I turn off the radio and try to sing the way Alanis Morrisette does on Thank U. It's astonishingly hard to go from quiet to loud and back smoothly, and I probably look like a baboon as I practice this at 70 miles an hour. I decide the lyrics are terrible.
15 miles outside the city limits a red sportscar decides to switch into my lane with no warning and no indication he sees me. With only seconds to decide on a course of action, I jerk into the lane next to me, knowing there wasn't anyone there when I looked a minute ago. The sportscar swings back out of my lane with his own jerk to the wheel, and immediately pulls into the farthest lane where he lingers, hoping I don't see him. My neck starts to hurt, and my heart is pounding.
I pick up Lynn Peril and Jen Wade for tea at Lovejoy's in Noe Valley. We feast on scones and clotted cream while discussing online diary brouhahas. I incautiously bring up Jen's line of work in telling Lynn about a great entry she did called Mouse Bwains. Jen's somewhat tentative about discussing her work with lab animals in public since feelings run high in politically correct San Francisco. We manage to talk about it a little anyway after furtively eyeing the other tearoom patrons over the elegant Victorian sofa. Afterwards, we walk and talk while darting in and out of stores. I find a shop which sells bizarre Christmas ornaments: deep sea divers, black mammy singers, leering hamburgers. I tell them about the hairstylist who used to work over in that building who told me he couldn't cut my hair anymore because I had no style. We visit a vintage clothing shop. The window shopping is excellent, but the wind is getting cold and the clouds have moved in.
Lynn scores big by finding a Magic Date-ball, a extremely pink and glittery version of the old favorite. It is the essence of girliness. The sarcasm flows thick and heavy. Jen and I hear about how all the women in London are now wearing short skirts, black tights, and knee high boots. We are dubious about this fashion, but Lynn, who just got back from London, assures us it'll be here before we know it. Fashion takes about nine months to move from there to here. I privately resolve to start looking for boots. Jen, who is already wearing a short skirt and black tights, is ahead of the game.
Then we careen across town to Japantown so I can buy a copy of Totoro, and Lynn can buy some essential Japanese notepaper with inexplicable illustrations. Jen tries to buy ramen but is put off by the number of shoppers. I point out to her the amazing number of hamster themed stickers in the stationary store. Lynn and I tell stories of our bizarre past lives as paralegals, which is how we met, and the depths of idiocy to which certain kinds of attorneys invariably fall. My neck is still sore, but I don't care. I take them home, missing several turns because I'm too busy laughing and shrieking. Then I drive back down the peninsula, singing all the way. I finally get the soft-loud-soft part right.
