Go back to paving hell with them on January 1.

Making resolutions is silly for the most part, but I still like doing it. So there. I'd like to consider my 2013 ones accomplished :P Here's to a new life in Great Britania!

1) Climb a V7
Last year's goal was to climb just one V6 and I ended up getting five sends under my belt. Emphasis is still on staying injury-free!

2) Read 52 books 
My third year doing this, and I don't think I've regretted making room for reading while waiting for planes, commuting, etc. A quarter of my books were in French, which has been a nice way to brush up on vocabulary. More non-fiction needed though!

3) Write and publish 3 pieces
I decided against doing NaNoWriMo this year, but work gave me the chance to publish a bit about gay refugees in three countries and on what resources can assist them in the Bay Area. Looking forward to writing something about killer robots.

4) Keep in touch with friends & family
Everyone says that moving is tough in the first year, and I don't want to lose the excellent support system I have in the Bay Area. Plan on seeing more blogposts from me, and we will all keep talking, even if it has to be while wearing silly hats on Google Hangout. And come visit in London, even if I'm living in a British hovel! I'll make you some cat food pâté and some shampagne (it's the latest thing, you put a drop of shampoo in a whiskey glass, some cubes of ice, and a few glugs of vodka).



I moved out of the Oakland co-op yesterday. Going to miss that frigid little double room :(

Pretend you're a tree and I'm a lumberjack

I haven't posted in a while, and I swear I'll try to be better about it. Still waiting for a proper English summons, but this has been an incredible year, despite the many frenzied scuffles. Or is it because of? 

Lots to stick in a scrapbook if I had one. 

There are nights where I'm watching the Goonies while doing a passable imitation of a beached whale full of Thai food. And spooning is a magical phenomenon that can manifest in a one-foot width of sofa. 

Blinking awake in a rainy Berkeley morning with Tyler squeaking about everyone needing to get a fucking room, Jesus Christ. 

Chris is also up and buzzing about like Martha Stewart, frying up fluffy omelettes dripping with gouda and smoked turkey and caramelizing some raspberry banana pancakes. Many Saturday mornings where I feel incredibly lucky and I don't want it to end, and I'm hugging him close as we fall asleep again.

I stumble to the bus home in a carbo-stupor, overshoot my stop, walk along the 580 from puddle to puddle while continuing to read Molière plays.

And then we're on a mountain, looping around and the earth is indeed round in addition to green and being half sky.

There was a confusing night by the BART station bar after the dairy eating contest. The earnest poetess makes eye contact and announces to us, "I wrote two poems, one from the airplane to the wind, the other, the wind to the airplane." 

We try to leave, but we are locked in, garlands of chains and requiring a key, flashes of Triangle Fire. Poetry night with too much lighting is not a great combination.

And we're walking along burnt hillsides, filled with plebian scramble for brunch and I finally pick up the little tree I wanted for hanging necklaces and trinkets. 

Separate hikes, don't get it twisted. I still have a soft spot right there for the fire trail behind the Berkeley stadium. And there you run into Christian singles.

California is gorgeous, and it'll always be home. My safety net, those people you call as soon as something particularly good or awful happens to you, they're all tucked into the Bay Area crannies. I know you people will change and grow, but I want to have cake, eat it, and have some for breakfast as well. 

Can't you all just fit into a suitcase, stay quiet, and then emerge with a clowncar roar in Heathrow? Work on it, especially since Cirque is in town for pro tips. 

I swear I'm dressed for a costume party in the picture below. I'm a saint, a Russian one, patron protector of domestic workers. Fur coat and tea cup make me domestic, right? 

We wandered into the soupy rainbow lights of the theater, and led everyone back to the table laden with food. There were Oakland dock cranes and Sutro towers, and dresses, chocolate brownies.

I finished my second year of reading a book a week (currently on my 56th book)! Kicked it into high gear in October and November thanks to Talia (and to getting fired ho ho), and I ended up racking up solid slabs of literature. A quarter of my books this year were in French, which means that my reading skills are coming back! 

Once I tackle de Beauvoir's Les belles images, we'll see what I can engulf next. Reading French lesbian literature means I learn words like "un godemiché," but then I wrap up the book with the feeling that I just peered too deeply into someone's life and something blinked back. Messy, messy. 

There's a lot o' eating going on: goat vindaloo, sopa de res, bacon muffins with egg surprise. Even as a morning person, there's something amazing about waking up at noon, wallowing in warm sheets until hunger strikes, and then having delicious Salvadorian soup before realizing the sun sets in an hour. 

More friendsgivings than I can consume turkey for, but I will always have room for more persimmon pudding with boozy cream. We contributed flawed rugelach, doubling and halving various things, but it's hard to mess up raspberry jam, walnut paste, bittersweet chocolate, served warm from the oven. For another, pan culde bread pudding with orange flower water and cranberries. 

Possibly overkill, but buying conches en masse ("two in each color, yes.") meant that David and I got matching heart cookies made out of very very white flour dyed very very pink.