A Girl...

The Future Is Now

Weekends like last one are a gift to blogging, or at least to bloggers, or at least to me. No lengthy meanderings through the back alleyways of my mind here; just a handful paragraphs about what I did and who I did it with and why--a snapshot of life to share with stranger-types, which is why I started this website to begin with lo those many years ago. What we have here is not a Deep Thought nor a meme (although I have a good one all queued up for you), but something comfortably and confidently in between, with pictures to boot. It's the sort of thing a surfer might skip over for its lack of drama or meaning, but compared to the recent alternative, I'll take it with a smile.

Friday after work we came home and had seared tuna steaks and rice and roasted red peppers and avacado while we watched The Apartment stripped down naked in front of the space heaters for it is raining again and ball-shrinkingly cold. At 10 or so, we headed for the pub my friend Wm bartends at, and there we played Trivial Pursuit with three friends (I lost!) and then partook of some semantic-wrangling sophmoronic conversations with the locals while they smoked clove and champagne-dipped cigarettes into my hair. I left my camera at home in favor of immersing myself in the scene rather than floating about its edges as usual. Free drinks and free cookies all night long = the good life. We got home at 2 a.m.

Saturday afternoon we decided to initiate the Great Car Search of Aught Seven, which has formerly been known as the Great Car Search of Aught Six and of Aught Five. I've been talking about getting a new car since the first second-Bush administration, so it was a long time coming that we forayed out to look and test and compare but not buy me a car. That last part is foreshadowing for later, when I testdrive a 2007 Civic LX at 4 p.m. and become the proud owner of it before the sun sets. I could go into the process in detail (why the Civic, why not a hybrid, why not used, why I didn't do anything other than drive it for ten minutes before I gave the thumbs-up), but the important part is that I have a brand-spanking new car that has survived two days under my ownership without being scraped or crashed or turned over into a ditch. (It's not that I'm a bad driver but that I'm superstitious.) Picking the color was one of the hardest parts (it's never simple with me), but when forced to choose ("invisible" was not an option; I asked), I managed to conclude that black is the least offensive color, and that's how I ended up with the shade "Nighthawk Black Pearl," which makes my pudgy little vehic sound like a pirate ship. Fine. Whatever. The guy who sold it to me was named Merlyn, no kidding.

Saturday night, Simon left me at the dealership to sign financing papers with blood while he picked up his musical equipment from the practice space. He had a gig that night and we were running late, which means we went unshowered to a show, still surrounded by the aura of pub smoke from the night before. (It's a good thing we love each other because no one else would have us for the stink.) For dinner we ate our homemade PB&Js and bananas when we got to the bar, which totally secured our place in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. The bar was packed (it was the band's first Saturday show at this venue), and there was a cover charge and everything. At one point, the barstools were full, patrons were standing in every empty space, and those who couldn't fit onto the packed dance floor were swinging their honeys on the adjacent patio or in the back poolroom. Strangest of all, there were five tall guys we called "the gauchos" for their wacky outfits that included wide-legged pants, rows of mariachi-like silver buttons, and big black hats. They looked just exactly like these guys except only one of them had a top hat while the rest wore wide-brimmed chapeaux of the type that try to kill Johnny Depp. The guys turned out to be members of the guild of German travelling craftsmen (actually from Germany), which apparently has something to do with Freemasonry. All I know is that the ladies dug 'em, they danced and drank all night long, and the cops had to kick both them and us out at closing time; we got home at 2:30.

Sunday morning we borrowed some kids and went to the park. Simon wouldn't let the nine-month-old go--he fed him, strolled him, supervised his eating of sand--so I played soccer and built damp sandcastles and counted things (in both English and French) with the three-year-old. Our two-hour gig turned into more like four, partly because it takes three-year-olds for-frickin-ever to walk to the park and partly because we stopped on the way home to have bagels and coffee and juiceboxes and milk at a cafe. We sat on the tall barstools facing the street and Simon had a thumb war with the mighty one, while I wrangled the wiggly one and tried to prevent him from eating the large wooden button on my coat. No one spat up, no one cried, and Simon performed the most brilliant meltdown-avoidance maneuvers, and with such finesse, that I was a little awestruck. He also taught them how to properly wear fireman helmets; what the word "monolith" means (from the Greek); and when we returned the kids to their parents he volunteered to babysit whenever he has a free hour between the time he gets home from work and I do (in my new car!). Yes, gorgeous and generous too.

Sunday night we watched the Oscars, made tacos, and then went for a drive through the fog and the drizzle and the tall redwoods and eucalyptus of the Oakland hills. When we got home I fell into bed and was asleep before I knew it. Sure beats living in a van down by the river.

More on Flickr if you dig it.