The Chocolate Weekend

My weekend rocked pretty hard. On Saturday I went to Tru spa to get a manicure with an adorably pregnant friend. (I secretly love hanging out with pregnant women, because they're the only people I know who need to pee as often as I do.) We had dinner at the Neiman Marcus cafe, and then I Muni'd up to the Marina to attend a chocolate party/benefit for CityTeam.

The chocofeast had already been raging for hours by the time I arrived---it looked and sounded a lot like a college frat party, complete with red Solo cups, but there were no kegs. Just 40 pounds of velvety Belgian goodness in various forms---candy bars, crepes, fondue, a chocolate fountain. The place was packed wall-to-wall with people, but I managed to find Engi'dear and some other familiar faces. We stayed until the party ended and helped clean up, so it was almost 2 o'clock in the morning when I finally made it back to the East Bay and climbed into bed.

But I still managed to make it to 9 am service on Sunday, as did Engi'dear. The church bulletin mentioned that there would be a tour of the Scharffen Berger chocolate factory in Berkeley after second service, and Engi'dear suggested that we go. I happily agreed. And while we were hanging out in the gift shop, waiting for the rest of our tour group to show up, he asked me for my number. Score!

After the tour, we drove back to E-Ville, where we had lunch. The conversation was really good---a pleasant surprise, given that I'm freakishly shy. (Kjerste has got my back on this.) And then the bill came.

I knew I had to do The Reach--that thing where you start making the slow-mo grab for your purse, hoping desperately that he'll stop you. I didn't want to assume that it was a date, but I also felt certain that if he let me pay for myself, it was a definitive sign that we were just buddies. And I don't want to be his buddy--I wanna be his girl. So I just about did the dance of joy when he said "Sorry, I'm gonna have to be that guy," and picked up the tab. I'm determined to keep my expectations modest here, but as gestures go, that was much more romantic and hopeful than, "So, with tax and tip, your half works out to $16.59."

He dropped me off at my sketchy apartment, which is probably especially jarring to him because he lives in Piedmont (Man, where were you when the Cohos were booking their reception venue?)

Just can't wait to see him Wednesday. Cutie.

Challenge!

I've been thinking lately that my life is a little light in the challenge department. And without challenge there can be no triumph. Or growth! So I've decided to get on board with Suziemusi's Fabulous Campaign and choose some mountains to climb.

Short-Term Challenge: I'm participating in National Novel Writing Month. This basically entails cranking out 50,000 words of marginally coherent fiction in the space of 30 days. That's about 175 pages, so yes, it's as crazy as it sounds. Fortunately, the emphasis is on quantity, not quality. I've convinced my sister to join me on this mad adventure, because she's a voracious reader and a great writer, and hey, the baby can change her own diapers for a month (right, Banana?).

Long-Term Challenge: A friend and former co-worker of mine spent months training for this year's Nike Women's Marathon. But shortly before the race, she and her husband received the happy news that they were expecting, so suddenly running 26.2 miles wasn't such a good idea. But she has vowed to run in 2007, as kind of a post-baby victory lap.

And in a moment of insanity or clarity, I told her I would run with her.

Never mind the fact that I'm not actually a runner. I can become one! I already have to run for my BART shuttle most mornings, so that's a start. Next year's race is in San Francisco on October 21, 2007. Is it even possible to go from couch potato to marathoner in the space of a year? I have no idea, but I'm sure as hell gonna try. So, if you see a sad-looking girl shuffling around Lake Merritt some Saturday morning, asthma inhaler in hand, don't laugh. Do stand by with your cell phone, so that you can summon emergency medical personnel to the scene.

The primary goal: make it to the finish line (where there will apparently be a handsome man in a tuxedo, handing out commemorative Tiffany necklaces to the finishers. This sounds like a fable that race officials tell the ladies to keep 'em moving, but it's true.)

The extra-credit goal: Match or beat Oprah's 1994 Washington marathon time of 4:29:20.

Cue "Chariots of Fire" theme...