1960

I've been watching Mad Men.
As a result, I find myself wanting to be charming and have long red fingernails and wear pencil skirts and heals all the time.
Somehow, I don't think it's going to happen.

My tummy hurts.

I hate being sick. You hurt and it doesn't go away until you get better, which can take days.
I especially hate being sick so far away from my mother and all my loved ones, who will make my bed and rub my back and tell me what to do to get better.
Right now, I want my mommy.

Update

I realize that I didn't write a follow-up to either of my two last posts, both of which require updates.
First of all, my new roommate has convinced me that sex addiction is, in fact, a real thing. After listening to Loveline with her for a couple of nights, I'm inclined to agree. (P.S. Am I the only American in who managed to go through high school and college in the past fifteen years without ever having listened to Loveline? I mean, I was certainly aware of its existence, since Dr. Drew wrote an advice column in my favorite teen magazine, but I never listened to it before moving into this apartment.)
More seriously, though, I'm starting to find a life for myself in San Francisco. I have a home (complete with bunnies!), I have a grocery store (two, if you count the produce market where I buy the vast majority of my groceries, as well as the standard big-box grocery store, where I buy my cereal and my milk, and my cheez-its when I desire them), I have a place to go for a run and a place to do my laundry. I am exploring a different neighborhood each weekend, and finding at least one lovely sight or delicious taste in each.

My friends are exactly what I'd hoped for when planning a cross-country move. They are fun, and supportive, and have all been just wonderful in helping me learn San Francisco.
I'm still figuring out what my life will be, but all in all, I think that this time in San Francisco will be pretty okay.

Are you serious?

Is this really true?
Is sex addiction even a real thing?
Celebrities are weird weird people.

Sometimes

Here is what I wrote two days ago:
Sometimes I think that moving across the country, breaking up with your boyfriend, and starting a new job are too many things to be doing all at the same time.
Most of the time, though, I think that those things are all okay, though certainly hard, and that the real trouble comes when you don't know where to live.
I've always suspected that I am not the couch-surfing type. I hate feeling like I'm imposing. I hate not knowing where I'll be in a week. I hate depending on my friends, and not knowing exactly how they feel about having me around. Melissa and Sinny are being amazing; both of them have welcomed me into their homes with open arms.

Here is how I feel now:
At least I have a place to live!
This is really great. My new roommate seems really nice, the apartment is really cute, and there's a grocery store only a block away.
Everything else is still kind of scary and overwhelming. How do you meet people in a new city? How do you make new friends?
At least I'm not homeless anymore, though.

I may be homeless, but at least I'm homeless for a reason

Note: I wrote this on the plane from Boston to San Francisco yesterday. Now I'm here, crashing on my amazing friend Sinny's couch, looking for a place to live. Good times all around.

By the time my sizeable* readership lays eyes on this blog post, I will have landed in San Francisco.
Can I just take a moment to realize that this is the first time I have opened Microsoft Word since I graduated from college, since I wrote that unfortunate paper on the mating habits of songbirds in the course of eighteen hours?
Anyway, I guess I’ve talked a little bit about moving to San Francisco here, but I’ve never really gone into why, exactly, I thought it would be a good idea to pack up and move halfway across the country, leaving my family, boyfriend, and all familiar territory behind.
Ooh! There was just a call for a doctor on board and there were THREE! Luckily, all that happened was a flight attendant got a minor puncture wound. I saw it because, even though I’m not a doctor, I was sitting near two of them. I love being in the middle of all the excitement.
But anyway, as scary as moving across the country can be, and trust me, not knowing where I’m going to live or who I’ll be friends with**, I don’t really feel like I have a choice. I need to do this, to prove to myself that I can. I spend a lot of my life thinking about child development, and what is and isn’t appropriate. Learning to take care of myself far away from anything I know feels like a developmentally appropriate step in becoming the grownup I’m supposed to be. I’m terrified, but I’m also really excited. San Francisco is going to be my practice city. It’s completely new to me, and I’m going to get to figure it out on my own.
Postscript: I had In n’ Out as soon as we landed, and DAMN, the fast food is good in California.

* The thesaurus also suggested as synonyms for “large” the following: titanic, elephantine, mountainous, and economy-sized. While my readership (of approximately ten people) might be huge, it is not quite economy-sized.
**To be fair, I DO have friends in San Francisco. Wonderful, amazing friends who are letting me stay with them while I find an apartment.

I am not a food blogger

Just clarifying. I don't enjoy cooking enough to have a whole blog about it. Also, I kind of don't know anything about cooking. And also, I like the kitchen to be clean. Don't chefs have to be willing to cover their homes in flour or something?
Nonetheless, grilled peaches are delicious.

I really like them, especially with ice cream.

I also like them in my backyard.

Actually, for that matter, I'm rather a fan of my backyard.

I think I will miss it when I move to San Francisco.
But I'm still excited to move to San Francisco.