A Girl...

Come and Knock on Our Door

Spring is back again and in between killing the newly potted flowers on our front porch (too little water? too much? slow wilting death by mariachi? small-scale staircase apocalypse?) and talking to each other like internet cats ("i'm on ur ladder changin' ur bulbz"; "i'm in ur bed sniffin' ur sheetz"),* we are soaking up warmth everywhere we go: golden glowy mornings in bed with books and teas; Saturday in the city with hot-hearted foreigners; a candlelight dinner with Simon's special wasabi garlic mashed potatoes... The coldest five minutes of the weekend was standing in the freezer aisle picking out Lean Cuisines, 4/$10, and even that wasn't too bad.

(i'm in ur sun, soakin' up rayz)

As down from the sky came the blessed, sweet sun, down from the frozen tundra of Canada came everybody's friend, the shiny, happy jenB! I promised her good times and good weather and crossed my fingers I could pull it off, and thank Jimmy it was nice out because the woman's child has of late taken to peeing on the office furniture, so giving her a pleasant day on the town was really the least I could do.

We picked up Jen and her friend (hi Pamela!) for brunch at Crepes on Cole and then explored the nearby Haight. Jewelry was purchased, shoes were be-cameled, and diner bathrooms were sticky. Faux hobos (fauxbos?) were everywhere, supine on the sidewalks with their blue hair and cardboard signs, and someone, somewhere was high; we windowshopped for bongs because that's part of the true Haight experience. The only truer San Francisco Moment we had was driving through the heart of the Castro--Gaysville, USA--and spotting a transvestite (pencil skirt, sweater set, conservative pumps, Mary Tyler Moore flip, but ALL MAN underneath). This is what America has to offer in lieu of sound healthcare and mounties.

I've never seen shoes with Bactrians on them. Camel toe, anyone?

A Junipesque moment.

We drove all over the city. We caught spectactular views from atop Twin Peaks; we admired the Golden Gate Bridge from both oceanside and bayside; we squiggled down Lombard street; we watched the waves lap in and out, in and out, and counted all the tiny white sailboats on the water. Simon enlightened us with sociohistoricopolitical lessons at every turn, and when he got out of the car to pump gas, the ladies and I talked about sex.

It was so nice out, even the hood of my black car reflected the blue sky.

We dragged the poor girls ragged and talked their eardrums numb and how did they repay us? By buying lunch and slipping a $20 in the glovebox and leaving a bag of Canadian candy in the trunk. Clearly, gluttons for punishment. Thank you, dear ladies, for the sweets and the cash and the lunch, but most of all for the pleasant company. You are proof that the goodness that travels through the cyber ether is just as potent in real life. XOXO

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At the top of this entry, I mentioned a candelight dinner, and even though it's a small thing compared to a day on the town with friends, it's worth mentioning for several reasons.

1. It was the first time we used our silver eBay candelabra. (Photo taken without a tripod. Booyah.)

2. I was wearing slippers shaped like moose heads and Simon was wearing yesterday's clothes again, but we dressed up the affair with placemats, fancy china, and "hats." (Also pictured, Simon's original-recipe wasabi/garlic/sour cream mashed potatoes.)

3. Simon plated up a Mr. 2 Big candybar for dessert, which came courtesy of Jennifer, she having remembered my reaction to it at last year's BlogHer, which can only be described as "lustful" even though it looks like nutty poop.

4. During dessert (Mr. 2 Big and a dainty glass of port), Eve threw up three times, a result of either (a) an intergastro explosion of uncooked rice that had spilled all over the floor and not been cleaned up, (b) her snacking on a sachet of dried sage that had also fallen on the floor and not been cleaned up, or (c) steak fed to her at the table during dinner. Suffice it to say, she was on our rug, barfin' her gutz. Not the perfect end to the perfect weekend, but close enough.

*You'd think a self-professed grammar nazi would hate this stuff, but it absolutely tickles me to death. It's like the glorious rebirth of my much-beloved Limecat, only better and sometimes with music!