I've Decided To Forgo Writing About Porn In Order To Write About My Sister

Isn't that so nice of me?

(DAMN DAMN DAMN! I originally tried to post this yesterday and it didn't take. Then I REPOSTED this morning and it wasn't the full, edited post but something I'd rewritten and blogger ate. I found it again, as below!)

Even though she doesn't even regularly read my blog, she just checks in once in a while and reads archives. That's why it took her three weeks to yell at me a couple years ago, when, on her son's birthday, instead of writing about my nephew I wrote a post called "Burrito Head" likening the aluminum foil they use to wrap burritos to the kinds they use at hair salons to do highlights. Oops.

So I didn't want to repeat my mistake and have her read my blog in a month and get mad that instead of writing about her visit to California, I wrote about porn. And not just regular porn, but midget clown porn. And then years from now when we're wrinkled and gray and talking to our grandchildren, she'd turn to me and say, "OH! And why don't you tell them about that time I stopped talking to you because you wrote about CLOWN PORNOGRAPHY instead of your FAMILY" and I'd have to defend myself against that accusation and what can you even say? To grandchildren?

My sister is coming to visit me!

As you know, I have two younger sisters, Healy and Sam. Both of them are terrified of flying -- debilitatingly so. Which, right -- has been a problem when trying to get them to visit me across the country.

Now, to be fair, I always knew this would be an issue when I moved to California. But back when I first left, I figured we'd work around it. So far that's meant I fly back East when I can.

I never expected to live in California so long. But here it is, seven years and seven months later, and I haven't moved back. And I'm married and have a house (with a guest room!) and am having a child and suddenly the circumstances are way different. I'm not quite the rootless, freewheeling single gal I was when I left.

You know what I mean.

So they're working on their nerves (via prescription drugs and booze and whatever else they need) and finally, my sisters are visiting me in California. Samantha is coming later this summer, Healy arrives today!

I can't really express how excited I am to see her out here. To have her meet the people who've shaped the last several years of my life, see where I lived, visit a few wineries and a LOT of SF bars.

Yep, I spent three-and-a-half years in that building. Yes, the hideously blue one. Next to the pizza place. Yep, with Encore Karaoke three doors down. Oh, look! It's our favorite tranny hooker!...

I wish I could add some poetics or special poignancy to this post, but I think that would require opening an emotional can of worms I'm not ready (or willing) to. My sisters and I have always been so close, and losing our parents so early only strengthened our bond. We still make each other crazy in a "I'm hanging up on you now" kind of way, but our core is strong. I recognize that I'm extremely lucky for this, and if I think about just how lucky I am, I'll start openly weeping.

Perhaps it's best just to post embarrassing pictures of them instead. (Coming soon!)

Anyway.

Just to bring this post back to anything of pseudo-relevance to your life, places I'll be taking my sister this weekend:

- Polk Street in general, where I lived the longest. Favorite bars ever ever? Lush Lounge and Vertigo.

- Dinner at Foreign Cinema. Folks who've been reading this blog forEVER know that I once tripped and fell flat on my face at a corporate party in front of an entire dining room. This took place at the Foreign Cinema. Now you know.

- If we can fit it in, we'll grab crepes at Ti Couz in the Mission. Nothing compares. It's charming, authentic, and unique.

- Zeitgeist. I wouldn't take my sister (and her poor, unsuspecting friend, who gets extra credit for agreeing to come to SF last-minute so she could accompany a terrified Healy on the plane) to just ANY motorcycle/hard rock/dive/beer garden. Only the best.

- Martuni's. This piano bar holds a special place in my heart because it was the first bar I ever went to in San Francisco. (Thanks, El_G!) The first couple times I went I was too scared to sing for anyone -- I hadn't performed in years. But one night I was pretty well loaded, and it was between Christmas and New Year's and I was feeling celebratory, and I finally went for it. By the end of the night, the piano player had me standing on my chair, acting out the Innkeeper's Wife part from Les Miz (specifically the part in Master Of The House). When the song (and complete Les Miz medley) was over, people equally as drunk as I asked if I had been on Broadway. It was a ridiculous question, but the best one I've ever been asked.

These days, my a cappella group will occassionally venture to the bar on otherwise quiet evenings to sing our hearts out.