San Francisco: Everything is Fine, and Nobody is Mad

That's it. I'm moving to San Francisco.

Maybe not immediately, and maybe not actually at all, but, oh man, it's been nice to daydream since getting back to Minnesota.

I was there over the weekend for a quick getaway to see one of my oldest friends, Chelsea. She'd called me around Christmas time and the conversation started normally enough:

"Ohmygod, hi!"- Me
"Ohmygod, hi!"- Chelsea
"Do you realize that there's a f#%!ing blizzard happening here right now?!"
"It's sixty degrees and sunny here."
"I call bullshit on your life."

We talked for a few minutes about some of our favorite conversational topics (drag queens, drinking during the day, hating people who have given us no reason to do so), but then she took a turn for the more serious:

"Just so you know, I'm not going to be sending out a Christmas gift for you this years, and I probably won't be doing a birthday present either."
"Don't worry about that at all! I totally get it, money is tight, and..."
"BECAUSE I'M FLYING YOU OUT TO SAN FRANCISCO IN APRIL!!"

"Ummm...I probably won't be sending a gift because I'm so poor that I just put peanut butter and jelly on a tortilla and pretended PB&J Quesadillas were a thing."

I flew out last Thursday, and I have to say that I was pretty nervous. I wasn't afraid of the flying itself, but I was concerned about flying by myself. I've flown before, but there's always been a chaperone leading me where I needed to be. This time around I needed to get up to the airport, get through security, get to my terminal, and get on the plane without a parent or teacher in a matching lime green t-shirt leading the way.

The whole thing went swimmingly though, and it proved to be a nice boost to my ego.

Except for the part where I didn't have anyone to ask for a ride to the airport shuttle in the middle of the day. The twenty minute walk to the bus depot, weighed down by my luggage, gave me plenty of time to have a "look at your life" conversation with myself.

My plane got in at around 9 pm on Thursday, and we fully intended to go out and tie one on...until we realized that we were almost thirty and had been traveling all day (also, my use of the phrase "tie one on" was just a nice reminder of being almost thirty). Simply wearing pants was taxing at that point, so we decided to grab a few bottles of wine, head back to Chelsea's place, and just sit on her stoop drinking and talking about life.

It was kind of the perfect evening.

Friday was our touristy day. We spent the day riding around on a double decker bus taking in all of the sights.

San Francisco is f#%!ing cool, you guys. Like, did you know that their financial district is built over top of what used to be a crazy pirate war zone? They just straight up built on top of sunken pirate ships, and now anytime any construction needs to be done, they have to bring in archaeologists to help recover freaking pirate ships!

Or that during the 1906 Earthquake/Fire that destroyed half of the city, to stop the blaze they ended up blowing up all of the buildings in the fire's path so that it wouldn't have anything more to burn? Then, the mayor, who was apparently a super shady dude, told everyone not to mention the earthquake to any of the insurance agencies. Apparently, insurance didn't cover earthquakes back then, so in order to get any money everyone in the city (including their newspapers) had to pretend that it was just a fire...and it worked.

That shit sounds like a movie Willem Dafoe would star in.

Friday night was our first night out on the town. We went out in The Haight, the neighborhood where Chelsea lives, and there were a few moments when the night got a little intense...

We had a group of Type A personalities, which can spell trouble on its own. What made it worse was that we were Type A personalities who were good enough friends that we didn't have any fears of doing and saying exactly what we felt. We threw about a number of frustrated snaps, unintentionally harsh responses, catty side eyes, and absolutely no apologies.

It was one such mini-meltdown that brought about what would become the theme for our entire weekend. I was calming Chelsea down after a perceived slight when another member of the group walked up asking what was wrong. I turned abruptly and yelled, "Everything is fine, and nobody is MAD!"

Seriously, try shouting it next time someone is getting themselves worked up over something silly. It works.

And it worked for us all weekend.

"BUT I WANT TO HAVE BRUNCH AT THE PLACE THAT MAKES MY FAVORITE MIMOSAS!!"

"Everything is fine, and nobody is mad."

"THAT HIPPIE MOTHERF#%!ER WAS JUST A DICK TO ME!!"

"Everything is fine, and nobody is mad."

"I WAS DANCING WITH A GUY, AND THEN...HE....WALKED AWAAAAAAYYYYYYY!"

"Everything is fine, and nobody is mad."

#FirstWorldProblems

I got my first experience of The Castro on Saturday. For those of you who may not know, The Castro is San Francisco's gay neighborhood (gayborhood). I'd been looking forward to this part of the trip for months, and it did not disappoint.

Immediately upon entering The Castro we noticed a huge line of people that went three blocks before turning down a street we couldn't see. Thinking it was the line for the place where we were going for brunch, we investigated, and found the line came to an end at a movie theatre where they were doing a sing-a-long showing of Frozen. Then, right after we turned the corner from the theatre, we nearly collided with a hot dude walking around completely naked, save a sequined pink sock on his wang.

I honestly can't decide between wang guy and seeing a sing-a-long of Frozen as the gayest moment of the trip.

Saturday evening we spent back in The Castro, wandering into whichever gay bar caught our fancy. The whole night ended up being a bit of a blur, but I remember trying to discretely take a photo of a gogo boy in his underwear to send to a friend back home before getting frustrated, turning the flash on, standing directly in front of him, and shamelessly snapping a photo before shoving a wad of singles in his briefs.

I also remember two lesbians who were so obsessed with how cute my Minnesotan accent was (apparently 10 years is long enough to pick that shit up) that I was honestly a little afraid that they were going to try to abduct me.

Then there was the hot guy in the cutoff shirt with the huge arms that "Dirty Dancing'd" Chelsea in the street.

The resulting head wound was a minor one, and we ended up hanging out with him for awhile after. 

Well...Chelsea hung out with him for awhile. I hung around just long enough for him to buy my drink before I said, "I really can't talk to you with your nipples looking at me like that." gave them a tweak, and went to find the rest of the group.

The last clear memory of the night I have was while walking to the bar where we ended up dancing until bar close. I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see a wide eyed little queerling asking me, "Ummm, excuse me, but can I ask you some advice? I just bought Molly from some guy up the street for $20. Do you think I should take it?"

I just learned what Molly was last week, so I was absolutely not equipped to be answering this boy's questions. Weirdly, I was a little flattered that he apparently thought I looked worldy enough to be able to provide some insight. Truthfully, he probably thought I looked fatherly...homeboy was young. I really didn't help matters by immediately exclaiming, "ABSOLUTELY NOT! WHAT ARE YOU THINKING?! WHERE ARE YOUR FRIENDS?! WHO IS TAKING CARE OF YOU?! YOU DON'T BUY DRUGS FROM MEN NAMED SID!" and then I just kept repeating, "Oh my god, STRANGER DANGER!"

Luckily, a member of our group had a bit more knowledge on the topic than I did. She gave him a whole list of warnings and instructions, insisted that he find his friends and a bottle of water before doing anything else, and we sent him on his way.

If the photos on my phone are to be trusted as an accurate representation of how the night ended, we had a blast! Also, if the time stamps on the photos on my phone are to be trusted, I spent a solid 5 minutes taking photos of the mirror ball. 

Whatever ego boost I'd gotten from my painless travels a few days before was lost on Sunday when I was flying home. I made my flight with only moments to spare. My train was late, I realized my driver's license was expired as I was trying to get through security, I got off the train at the wrong terminal, some lady sneezed on me while I was putting my bag in the overhead compartment, and I didn't get a chance to pee before getting on the plane (my seatmates seemed unfriendly, so I didn't want to ask to get out).

I made it home though. Home to a snowstorm, a ceiling that was still leaking water, and a dwindling bank account. 

Reality sucks.

It can't hurt to start sending my resumes out that way, right?