The exciting conclusion of my seemingly never-ending quest to get to The Presidio. Don’t forget to read Part 1 and Part 2!

After my many attempts to find Presidio, certain historical accounts, both fictional and non, started to make sense to me.

I understood, for example, a bit of how Moses felt, wandering the desert for 40 years.

I have a better inclination of what drove Dorothy down the yellow brick road in the company of three gay mutants.

And perhaps the greatest fictional work of young souls leaving home in search of themselves, (I speak, of course, of Britney Spears’ Crossroads), was now more achingly beautiful that it had ever been.

After a day spent pulling out my hair and kicking the innocent, I met up with my husband and we had dinner with some friends who lived outside of the city. I told them about my mishaps.

“Why the fuck would you want to go to the Presidio?” they eloquently inquired.

I told them about the views. I might have omitted all the stuff about Duran Duran and caramel apples. One of our friends shook his head, explaining that most of the Presidio wasn’t that great. I should just go to Golden Gate Bridge. And when I asked him about the bridge and surrounding park in further detail, he explained something to me that might have made my head explode. All the positive attributes I had accredited to the Presidio? They applied to Golden Gate Park.

So, naturally, I decided to go there.

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Today’s post is the “exciting” continuation of my attempts to get to the Presidio, which I first wrote about yesterday. Enjoy!

After the complete and colossal meltdown of that morning, and a realistic assessment of the poor parenting I provided for my imaginary children, I was able to pull it together a bit.

A sushi roll, a handful of blueberries, and a quick pep talk from my utterly confused but well-meaning husband (”Um, why don’t you just take a cab?”), and I was ready to give it another go. I was once again determined to take public transportation for a multitude of reasons:

• My aforementioned belief that Duran Duran sings Mysterious Ways. In other words, I am stubborn.
• The Presidio was too far away. I am pretty sure a cab there would have cost me several thousand dollars.
• I love saving money.
• Taking public transportation builds character.
• Hopping into a cab seemed somehow tantamount to cheating.
• I find the rantings of crack addicts interesting.
• I had already spent so much damn time trying to get to the Presidio,  that I felt compelled to waste a little more.

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I have, on occasion, been known to get a idea stuck in my head, and no matter how crazy, random, scientifically inaccurate, or illogical, I cannot seem to shake it. I once claimed China was an island (thank you, American school systems!). I am convinced, to this day, that Duran Duran sings Mysterious Ways. I actually refuse to accept that it is anyone else. I’ve considered amassing a fortune (by whatever means necessary) and paying Duran Duran to record Mysterious Ways, thereby proving the accuracy of that notion (let’s face it: you’ve never actually seen U2 sing it, right? So it could all be a hoax).

And after a few minutes editing Wikipedia, I could actually be right about all this stuff.

Occasionally, I get a crazy idea in my head that turns out to be correct (like the time I got into a screaming match with a kid in middle school, after I claimed that spiders weren’t insects. Take that, Vipul Shah). This is awful, because then I start to lack the necessary dose of self-doubt that people who entertain crazy notions should have.

So, when I got the idea to go to the Presidio because, I assumed, there would be amazing things to do, fantastic views of the Golden Gate bridge and lots of food vendors giving away free caramel apples exclusively to girls named Geraldine (what? It’s my fantasy), I never for a second questioned whether or not it would be a worthwhile trip.

Let me just say, my excitement was ill-advised. (more…)

Thanks to my eagle-eyed readers, who are able to not only identify themselves, but other things as well! – I learned some fascinating things this week.

Remember how I freaked when an adorable gal asked for a photo with me? Well, it was kindly sent my way. While my face looks utterly confused, I look skinny, despite wearing horizontal stripes. I’d consider that a win.

See? I TOLD you she existed. And she's cute, too.

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I am always amazed when I rifle through old vacation photos. There are pictures of Rand and myself from only a few years ago, but, dear god, it might as well be a lifetime ago. As I stare at them, I wonder what exactly we were wearing. And what’s going on with our hair.

In five years, a city doesn’t change much, if at all. Trees are barely taller. Roads are virtually in the same condition. Five years in the lifespan of a building are insignificant, especially in cities that have been around for hundreds of years. The landscape remains static.

Seattle from above: 2005

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Seattle from above: 2010

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While we were down in San Francisco last week, we attended a charity event that a friend of ours was hosting. A lot of people in attendance at the event were from Rand’s industry.

I used to be petrified of these sort of social gatherings. Rand usually got swept up in conversation, leaving me in a room full of strangers (the real clincher: many of them knew who I was, and I knew no one. This meant that EVERYONE KNEW WHO THE LOSER STANDING ALONE IN THE CORNER WAS. I couldn’t even hide my social ineptness behind my anonymity). After a while, I realized I had to adapt to survive, and I started chatting people up like a bubbling moron. Someone would ask why I was at the party, and I’d explain my connection to Rand.

“Oh, you’re Mystery Guest!” they’d say, referring to the screen name that Rand had given me on his blog several years ago. I would smile and nod. They’d inevitably be his customers or clients (remember, the party was hosted by a friend of ours, and the guests were all people in the same industry as Rand). We’d chat a bit about his company or the industry as a whole. Run-off of my husband’s internet start-up fame. They’d look shocked when I explained I knew next to nothing about SEO.

But last weekend, at this particular party, something very peculiar happened.

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Folks, can I take a minute to praise the French? (Note: I have never been to France). They are responsible for such wonderful things as croissants, Pasteurization, and taking the entire month of August off for vacation.

A lovely people, indeed.

The French are also repsonsible for coining a term without which I would be seriously concerned for my mental well-being. But because the French have given something I experience on a near-daily basis a proper name I no longer feel alone in my crazy.

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"Yes, sir! And may I say, you can go fuck yourself as well!"

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I just finished reading The Devil Wears Prada. I wasn’t all that impressed, by either the book itself or the supposedly heinous things that Andy, the protagonist, had to do to keep her high-powered boss, Miranda, happy. Most of the time, I simply furrowed my brow and wondered what all the fuss was about. Because while most execs are a bit nicer about it, the requests made of Andy were not, to my ears, unreasonable at all. The insane (and insanely specific) requests, the attention to detail, the frenzy to get it all done, even the temper tantrums, were not new to me in any way.

Because, dear readers, in a previous life? I was an executive assistant. And man, do I have stories. Reading Prada got me thinking of some of the things that I (or the senior assistants under whom I worked, if there were any) had to do in the name of executive travel.

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Note: My legal team has advised me to put a disclaimer at the beginning of this blog post, so here it is – this entry is in no way an admission of guilt, nor can it be admissible in court, because, um … it’s heresy or something. No, that’s not it. Oh, yeah, I remember – it’s a work of fiction. Yup. If anyone asks, this is fiction. Also, those counterfeit Louis Vuitton handbags? I’m totally NOT planning on selling them on eBay. That is all.)

Have I mentioned how good I am?

I mean, technically good?

As in, I rarely ever, every break the law? In that respect, I’m an angel. By all other definitions, I’m basically on par with people who eat puppies and talk during movies (Quiz time: guess which of those activities I do regularly!). But that’s beside the point – as far as the state of Washington is concerned, I’m hardly evil at all.

At least, I was. Until tonight. Because tonight, in my very own home, a law was broken.

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"Artist's" interpretation of Steven Slater exiting the plane.

Upon hearing about the Jet Blue fiasco of this week, I instantly began frothing at the mouth, as I usually do when travel-related Dick Moves! happen, and I have fodder for my blog.

I’ve since wiped away the foam from my chin, but have maintained a healthy state of righteous indignation.

Dick Move, Jet Blue Passenger.

Yup, that’s right, I said passenger (Didn’t expect that, did you? Yeah, my blog is full of surprises. Unless you read the titles of posts.)

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