Happy Chinese New Year. It’s my year–the year of the rabbit. I don’t know much about the Chinese zodiac so I googled this which I thought was really interesting and funny!

Chinese Zodiac Folklore

According to one Chinese legend the 12 animals argued as to who would be the first animal in the 12-year cycle. The gods decided to hold a contest in which the animals must cross a river. The first animal to cross the river would be the first on the chart followed by the other animals according to their finish. The rat was the smallest of the animals and was expected by the other animals to finish last. Quickly the 12 animals jumped into the river but unknown to the ox, the rat had jumped on his back. As the ox was about to jump on the riverbank to claim first place, the rat jumped off his back and won the race. The pig that was very lazy ended up last. As expected, their peers often tease most children who were born in the year of the pig.

I’m in the top quartile of the zodiac so a lot quicker than the lazy pig. Poor pigs! You can read more including traits that coincide with your animal here. Great site.

The two highlights of my day: 1) Dean bought me exotic flowers. They’re bright-colored, pretty, and look poisonous! 2) Dean let me drink Provenance wine tonight. He wouldn’t let me drink last night, but he acquiesced tonight. I can’t smell it because I’m congested, but it still makes me happy.

Yes, I’m super bummed that it looks like I won’t be able to run a race on Sunday. It kills me even more because I paid for that shit. But I’ll get over it quickly because I’ll damn well sign myself up for the next most convenient race.

I’m sick. In my excitement to head to Tahoe for the weekend, I came down with a fever. I was raging red by the time I got up to the cabin. We also had Jack-in-the-Crack for dinner and it’s not like me to push away half of my chicken strips. That’s a big problem!

Then there’s the fall that momentarily paralyzed and has since handicapped me. I might as well carry a pink plastic thank you bag with a beheaded chicken inside because I look like an old hunched-over Chinese lady. I can’t figure out my meds. I get sleepy when I take them so I’m damned if I do, and in fucking pain if I don’t.

To end my day, I had my annual eye checkup. I am going blind! The vision in my right eye has deteriorated. The cornea in my left eye is flattening, causing my astigmatism to worsen. You can’t treat an astigmatism with an increased prescription so instead I have to test various torque contact lenses. Magnificent!

But I’m alive and there is no snowstorm in the Bay Area. There’s no dictatorship, no nation-wide protests. I’m sheltered, loved, and enjoying the healing power of wine.

Here’s the conversation between me and the injury clinic chief.

Me: Will I be ok to run the Kaiser 5k on Sunday?

Dr: (grunts humorously)

Me: But I ran the marathon last year.

Dr: You won’t be doing that. I can tell you that.

Me: But..

Dr: You sound like the 84-year-old man I had today. “But Doc, I have to go back to the mountains. I put in 40 days of skiing last year and I gotta do the same this year.” 84-years-old! Doesn’t know when to stop. Stop already! You too!

I bruised, broke (only God knows) my tailbone Saturday while snowboarding at Alpine Meadows.

Before I left for Tahoe on Friday, my coworker warned, “Be careful. It’s icy. Two of my friends have had concussions.” Wuh-woh.

Maybe I was so dead-set on avoiding my head (no helmet) that I whacked my butt on ice as hard as cement and tears came streaming down my face. I can’t remember the last time I cried because of physical pain. Perhaps during a brazilian.

Most people (almost all of whom have had the same thing happen to them) said to simply rest and take it easy. But one friend emailed me and said I should at least call the advice nurse. I did and she recommended coming in to see the doctor at the injury clinic. “In these cases, we want you to come in and get checked out. Can you come today?”

I’m home now, sitting in a position the doctor said was best (lean forward, toes on the ground, and heels up) with a brace around the bottom of my waist. The 400mg of motrin makes me nauseous so it doesn’t look like I’ll be up much longer.

I discovered that Hang Art allows customers to rent artwork. What a great concept. And if you decide after the rental period is over that you cannot part with it, then they’ll apply 50% of the rent you paid toward the price of the work. Awesome! I’m considering this piece by the artist Anthony May—colorful and modern. Makes you think.

Marky, Dean, and I went to Flour + Water last night. We got pizza, pasta, and greens. Here’s how the conversation went.

Me: The food here is totally mediocre. I don’t understand what all the hoopla is about this place. This pizza is lame. This crab pasta? Are you kidding me? I can’t even find one piece of crab in here. They must use imitation for the flavoring. The best thing we’ve had is the spinach. That’s pretty pathetic when the side dish is the best tasting thing on the menu.

Marc: You know what your problem is? You don’t like quality.

Me: That’s why you’re my friend.

Dean: Whoah, hey, what does that say about me?

I believe the real problem is that people can’t think for themselves. So they rely on others like the Chronicle’s food critic Michael Bauer to tell them what’s good. Oh, Michael Bauer recommends Frances and to try the bacon beignets. Those beignets are crap! Bacon Bites are better than the food they serve at Frances. Or how people identify their next book to read by Oprah’s Book Club. Think for your friggin selves! Her choices are lame. I applaud the author who refused to have his book deemed an Oprah choice. He didn’t want his work of art pooled in with the crap she reads.

That’s not to say that I refuse to be mainstream. I go mainstream if I like it. Like Britney Spears. LOVE HER! And proud of it.

Get out there and take a stand, people. Be opinionated.

My ex saw me. I knew he saw me. I ducked. He continued walking. Better to ignore than acknowledge.

We were together ten years ago. He looks exactly the same. Same haircut, same muscular frame. It’d be better if he had changed–gained weight, changed his look. That way there’d be a clear delineation between the now and then.

But it’s strange seeing someone from your past, looking like he was plucked from 2001 back when you were together and in love. And you both look like you did back then, in the same city, but married to different people.

That was one relationship I knew wasn’t long-term. I was insecure, immature, and biding my time until I went to business school so I could forget about him. Yet I thought I “really” loved him. That’s what I wrote in greeting cards when I signed my name. I love you!

My, how I’ve changed.

I’m happy to report a financial milestone. We have saved enough for a down payment on another home! Whoop-whoop. The Lean Cuisines, Folgers coffee, dumbed-down wedding, and dented car are all worth it.

There are no plans to sell my condo on Geary. I expect that to continue paying for itself and earning us money. My real estate agent calls it my MooMoo because it’s our cash cow.

So I’ve been haphazardly looking at properties on Zillow. There are exceptional deals out there for nice places. But then I keep reverting to the NYTimes calculator on whether it’s better to buy or rent…and no matter how I spin it, we can’t justify buying a home. Our rent is $1,700 which includes parking. We don’t pay for utilities or water or garbage. We don’t have whopping property taxes due twice a year. And we’re a cool cable car ride away from work. Why buy?

I think buying property has been one big joke. In most instances, it’s better to rent than buy, so why were we told it was so important to buy a home? At least I was told that myth. Makes no sense.

Dean took me out last night to perk me up. Get out of the house for a change of scenery, he said.

We decided on the new restaurant hot spot Cotogna. OpenTable didn’t have a reservation until 10:30pm, but we went anyway. Figured there’d be seats at the bar at 9.

I was driving and pulled up to a vacant metered parking spot on Pacific Avenue. As we got out, there were two men in suits walking in the direction of our car. I glanced up to see my ex-boyfriend, then ducked undercover, making sure he and his colleague had walked out of view before standing back up.

“That was an ex-boyfriend,” I quipped to Dean.

“Another one?!”

“No you’ve met him before.” I reassured him.

“This is progress. Now instead of meeting new boyfriends, we’re cycling through ones I’ve already met. This is good.”

I’ve been depressed the past couple weeks. Mostly because of my job.  I don’t feel appreciated. I don’t see any career progression. It’s sad that your self-esteem can be so closely tied to your career. I should just get over it. So many people who don’t have jobs who would do anything to be in my position, yet I’m a whiny bitch about the situation. Ironically, I’ve been approached by recruiters and hiring managers and I don’t do a single thing about it. I don’t return their calls. I archive job emails where I’m the perfect candidate. I’m smack in the middle of career stasis.

I wish I had one of those personalities where I could be light and carefree, but I don’t—which is why I take Wellbutrin.

Feeling glum, an email came through from a friend on the other side of the world. She ended it with, “Much love to Aunty Vixen from mini-fans Rowan & Jordan.” That one tiding changed my attitude momentarily. So many things in life to be happy about. Stop your crying.