she simmered so soft with her weapons of tin

Operation Unsweetened Shredded Coconut is successfully complete. Best part of the mission? I did not actually acquire the target- bro-seph fetched it for me instead. This is highly unusual for the hermano. The big sister-little brother dynamic dictates that the younger of the two is the leech. However, bro-seph argued with me when I told him I could buy shredded coconut at Trader Joe's. Apparently, unsweetened coconut is a hard-to-find item. He claimed that it could only be purchased in specialty stores. Then, since it was beautiful outside yesterday, and since he wanted to rub in the fact that he was working from home, he visited a nearby Indian grocery store. I still believe Trader Joe's may have carried the item, but it was one less errand to run.

My cousin K and I were talking last night about all these endless goals we keep setting for ourselves. Real undertakings that require carving out a piece of yourself to go the extra mile. We have both been at this for awhile now, and we are both tired. We both have been stuck in a rut of feeling guilty about not being more productive. But I realized last night that, while we both beat ourselves up about that, we are both employed full-time in fairly demanding jobs and are trying to make radical changes in our spare time. Maybe this is not the time to allow myself a little forgiveness, but when I realized that, I suddenly felt a little less weary, a little less rundown. Something about recognizing that some of these tasks are herculean is strangely comforting.

Last week I took what felt like a vacation. Following on the heels of A N N A's birthday celebration, I again saw Chai, mind-bendingly enough, on the west coast. It really was a convergence, everyone arriving from every which direction: maisnon from the Peninsula, ads by BART from the East Bay, Yasmine from Walnut Creek by car, Chai by taxi from downtown, and me predictably by foot.

Just in case anyone from the blogosphere should ever meet me again, I should point out the running joke that is a well-known fact to most everyone who knows me: I am so territorial about my neighborhood, it is ridiculous. I try foolishly transparent tactics, like suggesting restaurants in a three-block radius of my apartment, or convincing people that the places in my neighborhood are highly BART-accessible. When that does not work, I try what I like to now call the Williamsburg-approach, which basically boils down to "but my neighborhood is just cooler."

Technically, dinner last Friday was not in my neighborhood, just slightly out of the normal bounds. Lime is slightly too polished, just a bit too loud for my neighborhood. The restaurants in my neck of the woods are loud, but it is because of chatter, not because of music. Even given the techno-style, I liked the place- at this point, maisnon selects restaurants better than I do. Give that girl a key to the city, because she is a local at this point.

A pack of women asked me if I knew it was Women Wear Red day. I actually did know, but I fibbed and said I did not. Why? Because I was not wearing red, and, well, because I am a jerk. In exchange for this lie, I received a commemorative pin from the women. Talk about your negative reinforcement. Anyway, the incident immediately convinced me this restaurant was a good selection.

Everyone rocked, as usual. I do not know if I am blessed with good fortune, but every person I meet from the blogosphere has been wonderful. Chai has so much positive energy, I am afraid she is going to open her mouth and blind us all with sunshine. Maisnon has a million things to say that will cause your sides to split with laughter. ads makes subversive comments that always make you feel like you are in on the joke. Yasmine, who I had met for the first time, was flawless and had the kind of style that makes me sigh and think- why do I have four pairs of athletic shoes and one pair of earrings? But in a good way. I had nothing to contribute, except a railing diatribe about some inconsequential encounter from work. However, as is often the case, everyone was patient and kind. How many patient and kind people do you meet in the world? Even though I like to issue disclaimers about how meaningless this space is, I should note that I remain grateful at the interactions that have resulted from it.

As is often the case, I walked home with my iPod serenading me. It was late, but just late enough that things in the Mission were coming alive. Hipsters were spilling in and out of bars. Yuppies emerged from taxis. Couples fought and made up on the sidewalk; I sidestepped them on my way. I was still wearing the pin from Lime, shaped like a red dress.

When I go on such walks, my mind jumps from one thought to another. My thoughts turned to the red dress, which reminded me of the term the silent killer. And that reminded me of the joy that kills. And eventually, that story led to one last foray in 55:

If it was a matter of joy that kills, for what was she joyous? That remained the question, decades later. Was it the promise of freedom or the return of her steady companion that surged through her veins with such force? Her troubled heart gave out, perhaps from confusion: which had she really wanted more?

To maintain a truly randomized post, I will leave you with a crazy portion of an e-mail exchange with SP, who is still harping on about climbing Kilimanjaro:

We have to do something. Remember how fun almost getting jacked by the taxi guy in Lima was? Good times.

I am thinking that going on a short hike with her this weekend might quiet her down for now. Or add fuel to the fire. That is the trouble- you never can tell.