On Monday night, after a lovely Memorial Day party* chez Mr. & Mrs. C and baby Pez, Astrid and I biked home through the Mission and decided to get dinner at Emmy's Spaghetti Shack. Neither of us had ever been before, and it was totally worth the hype. It's not the most extraordinary food you'll ever eat, but they serve really tasty, fresh grub, inventive drinks, and the space itself is really cozy. You've gotta get there super early to get a table, though. We'd tried before, and the line was out the wazoo. Anyway, Astrid got the pea soup with mint (deelish), a lavender martini, and a salad with arugula and speck (which neither of us had ever heard of, but A. wisely surmised the German origin of the name of this lovely, smokey cured meat). I got the spaghetti and meatballs, 'cause I'd heard their meatballs rock. And it turns out they are mighty nice, indeed, packed with lots of fresh chopped onions and garlic, and the spaghetti comes topped with a rich, tangy marinara sauce and lots of freshly grated Parmesan and minced parsley.
As I'm trying to be more mindful these days of how much food I shove down the gullet, I had a decent amount of leftovers, which the hipster waitress kindly packed for me in a Chinese take-out box. We wrapped the bill and departed, making our way through the crowd and out to our bikes. Before unlocking, I realized I'd left the leftovers on the table, and went back in to fetch them. The hipster waitress said, "It happens all the time," as she wiped the box off, having retrieved it for me from the garbage. I figured that if I get E.coli, it's my own damned fault. I put the box in my bike basket and we set off for home.
Not two blocks away from the restaurant, Astrid and I made a left off of Mission, and I hit a pothole. The take-out box went flying, and as I looked behind me out the corner of my eye, I saw the leftover meatball pop out of the carton, arch through the air, and bounce onto the pavement. Guess I didn't need the extra calories or potential E.coli infection.
xo
Bree
*B and I were expecting a Memorial Day Barbeque, not just a "party" featuring tamales and seven-layer bean dip. Not that the tamales and dip and mojitos weren't excellent, but, y'know, where's the *beef*? Oh yeah, it flew off my bike.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Sunday, May 20, 2007
The Saga of the Couch
Many of you who have been to my apartment know that I've had successive shitty futons in the living room for the entire five years I've been here. The last one was nicknamed "Jerry" by DJ, or maybe it was Bob, but regardless of who named it, I mean him, I mean it, I could never succumb to acknowledging the moniker.*
Now that Astrid and I are making a home together, we both immediately acknowledged our need of a proper couch. There were too many nights of Buffy watching forced apart, each of us sitting on our respective old stuffed chairs, separated by what seemed like miles (picture me in full dramatic pose, forearm on forehead, to cover my tragedy-stricken brow.) Anyhow, we needed one.
Astrid did some fine legwork on Craigslist and found a full-sized couch that we both really liked, which lived with its gay boy owner not three blocks away from our place (although I don't name objects, I clearly have no problem anthropomorphizing them). We made an appointment to look at it, loved it, and paid the deposit. A few days later, we ensnarled DJ into our very flawed plan to transport the couch atop Astrid's automobile and move it up the very narrow, steep stairway and into the apartment. This was to be accomplished inside a window of an hour and a half or so, after which we were supposed to go see the new Simon Pegg movie, Hot Fuzz.
DJ and Astrid sweated and grunted and shoved the couch in as many angles as they possibly could, for the better part of an hour, and the bloody couch would not get through the door. Our friend MJ, who showed up to join us for the movie, tried a few Rubik's Cubish (Cubist?) maneuvers as well, and even I made a couple token attempts, but when it comes to manual labor, I'm pretty much useless (I've never done a single pull-up; glad they didn't flunk me outta school on account of those Presidential fitness tests!) We'd measured first and everything, that was the bitch of it, but the couch simply couldn't get passed the funky door angles to have a chance to be dragged up the stairs.
In a last-ditch effort, Astrid and DJ tried getting the thing into the alley on the side of the house, so's to move it up the equally physically impossible back stairs; unfortunately, the couch got caught in the narrow corridor, snagging under a slat of fence, and in the dark, there wasn't a way to figure out how to pull it passed that point and onto the patio even to be able to make an attempt at the stairs.
Sigh.
After that, we sent DJ and MJ away to meet Bob for the movie. Sitting on the couch, which was relegated to the sidewalk in front of our apartment, Astrid and I fell into despair and frustration.
I went upstairs and brought down some beers and A's computer (yes, so we could watch a Buffy episode.) We ordered a pizza to the couch. We asked passersby if they'd like to buy it. Some of them sat down and chatted with us: it was a happenin' scene.
At about 1:30 am, we decided to surrender the couch to the fates, and dragged the cushions upstairs in hopes that the bare springy frame would be less attractive and thus less "scoreworthy" for the would-be takers. I still had hopes to re-sell it on Craigslist to someone with a bigger doorway; Astrid held out for the impossible dream that we'd be able to get it upstairs if only we tried hard enough. The night passed, and the couch was still there when we woke up. There was minor forensic evidence suggesting someone had made it their bed for the night. Astrid had a study group that day, and I was around at home, peeking through the window periodically to see if anyone had claimed it. No one had. When A came home, she utilized CL yet again to procure us some movers who showed up in the evening and managed to get the couch through the alley, and up the back stairs. They strained, walked on top of the railings, lifted the couch clear over their heads to maneuver the tight corners, and did contortions to their bodies we had no right to have asked of them, but by god, they got that fucking thing into the apartment.
After we paid and handsomely tipped the movers (nearly doubling our expense for the couch), Astrid escorted them downstairs. When she came back up, we embraced. I was so in awe of Astrid's persistence, so relieved and extatic to have the couch we wanted sitting in our living room, so fucking in love, and, quite honestly, slightly terrified. The feeling welling up in me in that moment may not have been unlike Ceeb's when she suggested that the 'Flix account she shares with Dax felt like a real commitment [though I'm certain my comment was less "couched" (groan!) in sarcasm than was Ceeb's.]
Standing next to our new couch, I looked at my beautiful girlfriend, shook my head, and said, "Baby, you know this means we're married, right?"
xo
Bree
___________________________________
* Though this is totally irrelevant, it might also be acknowledged that I've never been one to name inanimate objects like cars or favorite gadgets, much less crappy futons, though I did name my menstrual cycle as a teenager, at the behest of my Jewish youth group cohorts, all of us agreeing on the ritual as a counterpoint to the guys naming their penises. Among our group's cycles were "Amethyst" and "Wawona;" mine was "Marguerite."
Now that Astrid and I are making a home together, we both immediately acknowledged our need of a proper couch. There were too many nights of Buffy watching forced apart, each of us sitting on our respective old stuffed chairs, separated by what seemed like miles (picture me in full dramatic pose, forearm on forehead, to cover my tragedy-stricken brow.) Anyhow, we needed one.
Astrid did some fine legwork on Craigslist and found a full-sized couch that we both really liked, which lived with its gay boy owner not three blocks away from our place (although I don't name objects, I clearly have no problem anthropomorphizing them). We made an appointment to look at it, loved it, and paid the deposit. A few days later, we ensnarled DJ into our very flawed plan to transport the couch atop Astrid's automobile and move it up the very narrow, steep stairway and into the apartment. This was to be accomplished inside a window of an hour and a half or so, after which we were supposed to go see the new Simon Pegg movie, Hot Fuzz.
DJ and Astrid sweated and grunted and shoved the couch in as many angles as they possibly could, for the better part of an hour, and the bloody couch would not get through the door. Our friend MJ, who showed up to join us for the movie, tried a few Rubik's Cubish (Cubist?) maneuvers as well, and even I made a couple token attempts, but when it comes to manual labor, I'm pretty much useless (I've never done a single pull-up; glad they didn't flunk me outta school on account of those Presidential fitness tests!) We'd measured first and everything, that was the bitch of it, but the couch simply couldn't get passed the funky door angles to have a chance to be dragged up the stairs.
In a last-ditch effort, Astrid and DJ tried getting the thing into the alley on the side of the house, so's to move it up the equally physically impossible back stairs; unfortunately, the couch got caught in the narrow corridor, snagging under a slat of fence, and in the dark, there wasn't a way to figure out how to pull it passed that point and onto the patio even to be able to make an attempt at the stairs.
Sigh.
After that, we sent DJ and MJ away to meet Bob for the movie. Sitting on the couch, which was relegated to the sidewalk in front of our apartment, Astrid and I fell into despair and frustration.
I went upstairs and brought down some beers and A's computer (yes, so we could watch a Buffy episode.) We ordered a pizza to the couch. We asked passersby if they'd like to buy it. Some of them sat down and chatted with us: it was a happenin' scene.
At about 1:30 am, we decided to surrender the couch to the fates, and dragged the cushions upstairs in hopes that the bare springy frame would be less attractive and thus less "scoreworthy" for the would-be takers. I still had hopes to re-sell it on Craigslist to someone with a bigger doorway; Astrid held out for the impossible dream that we'd be able to get it upstairs if only we tried hard enough. The night passed, and the couch was still there when we woke up. There was minor forensic evidence suggesting someone had made it their bed for the night. Astrid had a study group that day, and I was around at home, peeking through the window periodically to see if anyone had claimed it. No one had. When A came home, she utilized CL yet again to procure us some movers who showed up in the evening and managed to get the couch through the alley, and up the back stairs. They strained, walked on top of the railings, lifted the couch clear over their heads to maneuver the tight corners, and did contortions to their bodies we had no right to have asked of them, but by god, they got that fucking thing into the apartment.
After we paid and handsomely tipped the movers (nearly doubling our expense for the couch), Astrid escorted them downstairs. When she came back up, we embraced. I was so in awe of Astrid's persistence, so relieved and extatic to have the couch we wanted sitting in our living room, so fucking in love, and, quite honestly, slightly terrified. The feeling welling up in me in that moment may not have been unlike Ceeb's when she suggested that the 'Flix account she shares with Dax felt like a real commitment [though I'm certain my comment was less "couched" (groan!) in sarcasm than was Ceeb's.]
Standing next to our new couch, I looked at my beautiful girlfriend, shook my head, and said, "Baby, you know this means we're married, right?"
xo
Bree
___________________________________
* Though this is totally irrelevant, it might also be acknowledged that I've never been one to name inanimate objects like cars or favorite gadgets, much less crappy futons, though I did name my menstrual cycle as a teenager, at the behest of my Jewish youth group cohorts, all of us agreeing on the ritual as a counterpoint to the guys naming their penises. Among our group's cycles were "Amethyst" and "Wawona;" mine was "Marguerite."
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Master and Servant
Yesterday was a day of celebration in the Astrid-Bree household: Ms. Astrid took her oral exam and is now an M.A. in comparative literature!! She read a core book list of thirty works and had to prepare a 20-minute presentation in a specialty area. Yeah, she's smart 'n' shit. Yesterday proved big for me, too: I got a phone call from the clinic director of an M.F.T. training program where I interviewed this week letting me know they want me to come work with them! I start the internship in August! So, while Astrid is now a master, I have become an indentured servant, and will be working 20 to 25 hours a week at the clinic for free. And getting good clinical training, I remind myself.
Astrid and I celebrated by eating orgasmic tapas at Ramblas and getting drinks with Calisto, Dave, DJ, and Raquel at the Lex.
Anyway, hurrah!
Astrid and I celebrated by eating orgasmic tapas at Ramblas and getting drinks with Calisto, Dave, DJ, and Raquel at the Lex.
Anyway, hurrah!
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Malaise
I feel a familiar setting in of the doldrums which hasn't visited me in a long time. The weather isn't helping (cold, wet, icky. It's fucking May, okay, weather?) Now that the funeral is over, there is less chaos and tension, but there is still a faint sadness permeating everything. I picked up my studying yesterday for the first time in two weeks, but in class, I felt removed, wondering why I was even there, wondering what good it does for people to be trained as psychotherapists, when we can't control the fucked up things that happen to people.
I dreamed about Andrew last night. I was with a bunch of people, and we were lost on our way home, as if we'd never been there before. I don't know which "home" it was supposed to be, but it was apparently somewhere between Los Gatos and San Jose, and off the Monterey Highway (where the cemetery is), and there was a beach. A beautiful beach, mind you, but a dirty, rocky beach, not a smooth sandy one. Mom was there, and Andrew was sitting by her. We all acknowledged that the problem was that he was misunderstood somehow, and Andrew, with relief in his voice, said, "Yeah, THAT'S the issue!"
I dreamed about Andrew last night. I was with a bunch of people, and we were lost on our way home, as if we'd never been there before. I don't know which "home" it was supposed to be, but it was apparently somewhere between Los Gatos and San Jose, and off the Monterey Highway (where the cemetery is), and there was a beach. A beautiful beach, mind you, but a dirty, rocky beach, not a smooth sandy one. Mom was there, and Andrew was sitting by her. We all acknowledged that the problem was that he was misunderstood somehow, and Andrew, with relief in his voice, said, "Yeah, THAT'S the issue!"
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