The San Francisco Chronicle

Two sure signs you're in San Francisco:

1.

2.

You know, you take a whirlwind trip to other coast.

You survive The Feet, you arrive at your hotel with the $16.95 a day internet and the view out the window of another hotel room.

You do a little shopping, you manage to stay awake long enough to wish your friend good luck on her book reading, open your eyes at 11 for the arrival of your pregnant friend who is a far more intrepid and less complain-y traveler than you.

You arrive at ABC thanks to a real live San Francisco hippie cab driver in time for your segment - and a fire drill.

Outside ABC studios

ABC studios outside ABC studios

You realize that you missed Katie Segal by one day, and instead get to share the massive green room buffet with a gorgeous personal trainer-slash-mom who puts our thighs to shame.

Ritz crackers! Triskits! Planters! No expense was spared.

The link is up. The dirt? Unfortunately, there is none.
So lame when TV hosts are actually nice, isn't it?

After the show you skip the Web 2.0 conference in favor of the LSD channel in your hotel room and a few minutes of Gigli.

We were way too not on acid to be watching this as long as we did.

Seriously. Gigli. I couldn't make that up.

Later you get wined and dined at a totally killer restaurant in the company of delightful friends old and new (Victoria! Shoot me your url)

Amy needs to learn a little something about dining with bloggers.

Well, it is San Francisco.

You manage to scam a stretch limo back to the airport as the sun rises out the tinted windows.

Too tired to even steal a swig of Jack.

But in the end, the most memorable part of the entire week was coming home to your daughters, one of whom is saying dada like a pro, and the other of whom managed to make a card for you on which she wrote MOM all by herself for the very first time.


The lives we lead.