Vintage Bree: The Communal House orWhat's on Your Bookshelf?

When I first moved to San Francisco in September of 2000, or "Y2K" as some were known to refer to it, I was paying next to nothin' to live in an anarcho-syndicalist communal household in the lovely and rapidly gentrifying neighborhood once known as the Fillmore, now known as Duboce Triangle, and fondly referred to by many of my friends as TriBeSa, the Triangle Behind Safeway. Well, it wasn't really anarcho-sydnicalist, but a watered-down communal post-punk socialist sort of arrangement. Décor included a taxidermied white long haired cat on the mantel and decaying linoleum in the kitchen and dining room. There were four of us in the house, including myself, cute lil gay Spencer, and Émile & Jaqui, a nonmonogamous straight/bi couple who were the longest running denizens in the house. I was paying like $300 a month for a pretty sweet situation, save for the aggravation of living with Jaqui, who was the only housemate I've ever had who I didn't get along with. At one point, late in the game when I'd long since decided to find another living situation, Jaqui derided me in one of our house meetings by suggesting that I must have grown up in a "flophouse" because I put my feet up on the living room ottoman with my shoes on.

But here's why I am compelled to write about this experience: when I first moved in, before the petty battles with Jaqui (because I wasn't clever enough or stylish enough or whatever it was that doomed me never to make the grade with her) the four of us had amused ourselves with an exercise. When I moved in, and set up all my stuff and unpacked my boxes and stocked my bookshelves, we walked around the apartment scoping each others' libraries to see what books we had in common. This was evidently a long-standing tradition when new housemates moved in. It turned out that the only two books each of the four of us owned at that time were The Marx-Engels Reader and Switch Hitters, a book of erotic stories in which gay male authors write dyke fiction and lesbian authors write gay male fiction. So at least we had liberal arts degrees and smut in common. This leads me to wonder what books my readers might have in common with their housemates. If you're interested in investigating your mutual bookshelves and care to leave a comment, please do. In this age of Shelfari and other virtual bookshelves, I challenge you to do the physical work of perusing the real-world library of your housemates or live-in significants and let me know what odd combinations of shared literary enthusiasm you've got.

Doing this exercize now, I see that Astrid and I both own the following books:

Valencia by Michelle Tea
Choir Boy by Charlie Anders
Brave New World by Aldous Huxley
The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton
The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera (although Astrid says her copy might actually belong to DJ).
and, yes, The Marx-Engels Reader, edited by Robert Tucker.

*Edit: 1/18/09: I just discovered that both Astrid and I also own copies of Love Medicine by Louise Erdrich.

Stranded at the Drive-In

Well, actually stranded at Oakland International Airport. Our flight to Southern California is delayed by an hour and change, and Astrid and I are biding time by keeping the economy going with unnecessary purchases of $3.00 soft pretzels and $2.00 bottles of water. They've got free wifi here, clearly, since I'm blogging, but in order to use it, I had to click my agreement in the form of viewing a 30-second commercial for little Ronnie Howard's new movie. I would have linked Frost/Nixon for you here, but the annoying condition of using Oakland Airport's wifi seems to extend to disallowing one to capture the URL of sites visited. Surf without the turf, I guess.

Astrid is currently sitting by my side, reading the new "episode" (as she endearingly calls each issue) of Bitch Magazine which I also would have linked for you here [[wrings hands at Oakland Airport]]. She just drew the mag closer to her widened eyes as she read news that Abercrombie & Fitch evidently has been making thongs (the undergarment, not the plastic sandal) for the 8 to 10 year old set. We shared a moment of appropriate shock before each of us sank back into our jaded time-killing slumber.

I'm looking forward to spending xmas with Astrid's family again. I have to say, even though I'm not into that Jesus guy, well at least not into the institutionalized religion claiming him as the son of god, I really do enjoy celebrating the holiday. The smell of pine needles, buttery sugar cookies, hot toddies, family, cheer, whatnot. For the first time in maybe ever, I've missed my family's Chanukah party, which happened this evening in San Jose. I'm a little sad about it, and I miss them, but I'll be able to see them at our annual retreat and hootenanny (which I most certainly would have linked for you here) down in Pacific Grove next weekend. Preparations on the family songbook are going very well, and my fingers are becoming properly conditioned (read: calloused).

Well, it seems like the plane is finally starting to board, so I'll bid you all a merry xmas/chanukah/kwanzaa and to all a good night.

xo

Chilling...no really...at home

Astrid and I are having a nice evening at home, but this apartment is so fucking ridiculously cold. It's supposed to get down to 39 degrees tonight, and this drafty old plaster-walled house with old wood framed single pane windows lacks a certain wind-breaking quality that I'd like to rely on in times like these. The heating unit does a good job, if warming up a five-foot semi-circle around it is considered "good." The retention of heat in the living area has greatly improved, though, with the addition of a sheet hanging in the doorway between the dining room and the hallway. But still, too much heat is escaping through these rickety windows. We decided that this weekend, we're going to bubble-wrap them for insulation, as demonstrated here. I'll letcha know how it goes.

Working diligently on the 2008 Wrap, and am in some disbelief that the year is almost over.

Ah, our pizza has arrived. If my extremities can't be warm right now, at least my belly'll be. And on that note, I'll stop subjecting you to this, perhaps my most mundane entry ever.

xo

The 12 Poly Days of Christmas

I came across this video several months ago, and pledged to myself to spread it around this holiday season. It's adorable. If you don't catch all the lyrics, they are located here. My favorite verse is Seven. If anyone finds a poly song to the tune of Dreidel let me know! :)



Lots of love and snogs to you this holiday season!

xo
Bree

Procrastination Station

Working on a case presentation for my supervision group, and alternating this with glimpses of Facebook, long tangenting click-sessions on Wikipedia, and the writing of this and future blog entries. This pattern is reminding me of my angst-laden thesis days of the year-passed. Case presentations are way too much like homework assignments, informative to write and report with therapy peers, but such a drudgery to produce, if one is not in the mood, which clearly I am not. Give me shiny distractions, please! I pity the clients of mine who struggle with procrastination and think that I can actually help them.

A good thing came of today, though, which definitely portends breaking through some of the stagnation: I finally marched down to the post office and obtained my P.O. Box, a key step in filing my application for my therapy intern status with the Board of Behavioral Sciences. Many of my former classmates have already gotten their intern numbers, and I haven't even filed yet. What's worse is that the longer I wait, the more my already-clocked therapy hours will cease to count toward my license. I've gotten myself into this, and I'll get m'self out, eventually. I'm not too worried.