Because we are yet to land “proper” jobs that will net us enough money to live comfortably in San Fran, we are on a tight budget. This has been interesting, in an academic sort of way, because neither of us have had to worry too much about budgeting for the past four or five years and we are starting to realize just how incredibly lucky we’ve been. On a practical level, it’s a pain in the ass because every time we want to go to the movies, or buy takeaways for dinner, we have to think about it. That dash of spontaneity enjoyed by professional childless couples is not something we experience too often. Still, there are plenty of free/cheap things to do in the city, so it’s not like we’re bored, and we’re eating well, we’ve managed to furnish the apartment, and I have discovered several fab consignment stores, so really we’re fine. But my hair is a disaster.
Last week, despairing at my scraggly, multicolored mop – untouched by a professional’s hands for nine months and dry as kindling after three at-home dye jobs – I decided to bite the bullet. I handed over $15 to a nice woman with not a lot of English in a clean, comfortable salon in Fillmore Street, home of West Coast jazz. It’s a groovy little neighborhood; we do our laundry there. I throw a couple loads in the machines, sink my quarters into the slots, and bounce out onto the street to window shop.
My favorite consignment store is in Fillmore St. Treasure to date: two pairs of fancypants jeans, a pistachio colored merino sweater, a groovy little fox necklace, and a pair of gorgeous Donna Karan heels topped with feathers and diamantes. (I needed some dressy shoes for a Waitangi Day party at the Golden Gate Yacht Club.) So Fillmore St is a happy place for me.
Anyhoo, about 25 minutes after I walked into the salon with my scraggly nonsense of a hairstyle I walked out with a poorly layered bob – still multicolored cos they don’t do permanent dye jobs at this salon, for some reason that is not clear to me because of the language barrier. I like the length but the layers are so thick they hang together like worms and stick out at eccentric angles. There is no subtlety to the cut. When I pull my hair into a ponytail it looks like a toilet brush. And when I blow dry it and use my velcro rollers, to give it some volume and disguise the layers, it looks like one of those flouncy crocheted toilet roll covers beloved by old ladies and people from the South. I have toilet hair.
Sunday, March 4, 2007
What, what, what have I done to deserve this?
Yesterday the Green Day bass player was in the bookstore. He bought a book from my counter, but I wasn’t there. I was in the kids department, shelving books and sneezing from the dust. It’s worth noting that earlier I had to lead storytime, a job reviled by other booksellers. I read two torturously lengthy stories to a brooding 10-year-old (who clearly was killing time until he could go to the gaming store next door) and two toddlers who could not have cared less about Officer Buckle and his police dog Gloria, or the duck who became President. They didn’t even want the cookies I had been instructed to hand out, just stared at me as if I were one of those embarrassing performance artists who hang out at Fishermans Wharf.
Friday, March 2, 2007
Don't throw your shoe at me
Imelda Marcos visited the bookstore last night. She came marching up to my counter and demanded to know why a cookbook she’d bought the day before had since been marked down by 40 per cent and she had been “tricked” into paying full price. Was furious and told me how the auction house Sotheby’s did exactly the same thing when she was buying “jewels” from them… Okay, so it wasn’t Imelda but looked just like her and had the attitude to match, and she really did make the remark about her jewels. We haven’t had any real celebs at the store since we’ve been there, except David Lynch, who was hawking his new book, a self-help transcendental meditation thing that talks about his admiration for rotting flesh, among other inspirational tidbits. I missed his book signing but apparently he was very charming and had a fantastical quiff hairstyle.
Slice of Lime
I have been trying to upload a photo of Lime, Vodka and other San Francisco icons to the site but I’m a techno-moron. Lime appreciates the emails re. his wellbeing and all around fabulousness. He has recovered from the latest round of fisticuffs with Vodka and is just now napping in his sand bowl. He is supposed to rub the sand through his hair to control his fur oils but he mostly uses it as a loo.
Just heard...
Bono was in the Bay Area today -- in Oakland. We work in West Oakland. In the past seven or eight weeks we have barely missed appearances by Hillary Clinton, Barack Obama and Al Gore. Crapit.
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Cheers m'dears
Thank you everyone who sent supportive emails and made postings yesterday. I announced my blog to the world, went to the gym, and when I got back I had all these nice messages and a lovely warm feeling inside. Aww.
Vodka and Lime
I was a pets-deprived kid. We moved a lot when I was growing up. A lot. From California to New Zealand and back again something like nine times before I made it to university and was able to stop the insanity. So I wasn’t allowed pets; I can remember the little speech I got each time I begged for a puppy. “It’s not fair to an animal to take it on, to care for it and love it, and then move away. It’s not responsible.” Given that I was an exceedingly responsible child, I would nod and cry a little bit and imagine a golden day when I would live with puppies and ducks and a cat and maybe a rooster. Just for kicks.
When I was nine someone left a goldfish on our doorstep in a plastic container with “Andy” written on the side in blue crayon. We were living in Martinez, California in one of those housing developments in which there are just four styles of home and they are repeated up and down the streets like a chess pattern. Our rented house was big – two stories, a guest bedroom with its own bath where my Great Aunt Winifred (former head matron at Green Lane Hospital in Auckland and a cheat at bridge) was ensconced for what felt like months, two living rooms, three bedrooms upstairs, two more bathrooms, and a little storage room off my bedroom where I kept dolls and art projects.
I loved this house; its ordinariness, its beige façade, the wet bar just inside the front door, the teeny little backyard with planter boxes and a slab of weed-free lawn, the way it blended in, was a stamp of validation. We may have behaved like a troupe of gypsies but, for the two years that we lived in that house, we disguised it pretty well.
Andy was handsome, a deep orange with a nicely shaped tail and a big O of a mouth. He lived on the kitchen bench. I fed him flakes every night before I went to bed, talked to him, watched him circle his bowl, tapped on the side to see if he was paying attention, and wished, wished, wished he were a puppy.
A boy up the road had a pet snake; his mother had to buy live mice from the pet store to feed it which I found barbaric but at the same time just the teeniest bit thrilling. Andy was so dull that I don’t even remember when he finally flipped onto his side and had to be flushed.
When I was at university I had a pair of rats. Pretty much everyone I have ever mentioned my rats to has been disgusted at the thought, but they were scrupulous about their grooming and I was scrupulous about cleaning their cages.
Houdini was white with grey patches and beady brown eyes. He had a bit of a temper problem and once bit my father on the nose, leaving a mark that was there until the day he died. Ruby was smaller, a pale ginger and white, with red eyes. Ruby was my favorite. I couldn’t help it. He would rush to the door of his cage when I walked into my room and wait for treats. He loved grapes and chunks of cheese and crackers but he was willing to try anything. I used to catch Dad feeding Ruby potato chips and bits of chocolate and nuts, treats he really shouldn’t have had everyday, but he was such a decent little guy you couldn’t help but want to shower him with riches.
When I took Ruby out of his cage, he would settle into my sleeve and take a bath, washing his face, and behind his ears, and pulling his snaky tail through his legs so he could check its appearance. He was tremendously tail-proud. Sometimes he would sit on my shoulder. When I was studying, I would shut the door of my room and he would run around sniffing books and jumping into shoes and, occasionally, chewing on electrical cords.
When Ruby developed cancerous tumors and started to slow down, at the age of 2, I was sad for weeks. He lost interest in treats, only wanted to be held when he came out of his cage, gave up his exploration of shoes and electrical cords. He died in my lap and Dad buried him behind our apartment, in a tea box lined with tissue. I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
About a month ago, when my mother was visiting from New Zealand and we were Goodwill shopping, looking for furniture and other necessities, I found a small wire cage. It had a wheel, water bottle, ramp and food dish. I picked it up and while Tim didn’t recognize the look on my face, my mother did. It meant trouble. I wouldn’t put the cage down. Literally. I walked around that Goodwill shop in the Haight looking at small wooden tables and cooking pots with the cage in my arms and that look on my face. Next stop was a pet shop in Chinatown.
My intention was to get a nice little white mouse. Maybe two, so they could be friends. And then I saw the dwarves. I had never heard of dwarf hamsters but immediately fell in love. They are like ordinary hamsters in most respects except they are much smaller (about three inches long) and, according to the literature, they are highly social. My guys are Russian dwarves. They are grey and white with black stripes running down the middle of their backs and short white tails that are hardly tails at all but little nubbins. They are called Vodka and Lime and they loathe each other.
At first I thought their fighting was play – dwarf hamsters are known for their energetic horseplay. They “box”, which means they stand up on their hind legs and wave their little fists around and yip. It is hilarious to watch. But when Vodka and Lime fight it appears to be for keeps. Vodka clearly wants Lime dead. He bites him for real, and poor old Lime ends up cowering in a corner and showing his tummy in submission. It shakes his equilibrium. So, I had to buy another cage. It’s a great cage – there is a removable penthouse, tunnels and platforms to play on. Because Vodka is more energetic, he gets the fancy cage. Tim reckons I am rewarding him for bad behavior.
Lime has really developed since Vodka moved out. He is happy to be held, runs on his wheel all the time, and has gained weight. All good. Until yesterday the cages sat next to each other on one of the little wooden tables from Goodwill, cos I figured the little men would like to smell each other, even if they can’t be trusted to live together. Around lunchtime, Tim heard a commotion in the dwarf part of the lounge and found Lime cowering in his food dish (he likes to get right in there and sort through his seeds) in the corner of his cage and Vodka maniacally biting the bars of his own cage and reaching his paws through, trying to punch Lime. It was a bad scene. Tim called time out and put Vodka in the hot water cupboard for bad behavior. Lime buried himself in his wood chips and sulked. Crisis averted, but I’m pretty sure Voddy thought he was being rewarded with a trip to the day spa.
When I was nine someone left a goldfish on our doorstep in a plastic container with “Andy” written on the side in blue crayon. We were living in Martinez, California in one of those housing developments in which there are just four styles of home and they are repeated up and down the streets like a chess pattern. Our rented house was big – two stories, a guest bedroom with its own bath where my Great Aunt Winifred (former head matron at Green Lane Hospital in Auckland and a cheat at bridge) was ensconced for what felt like months, two living rooms, three bedrooms upstairs, two more bathrooms, and a little storage room off my bedroom where I kept dolls and art projects.
I loved this house; its ordinariness, its beige façade, the wet bar just inside the front door, the teeny little backyard with planter boxes and a slab of weed-free lawn, the way it blended in, was a stamp of validation. We may have behaved like a troupe of gypsies but, for the two years that we lived in that house, we disguised it pretty well.
Andy was handsome, a deep orange with a nicely shaped tail and a big O of a mouth. He lived on the kitchen bench. I fed him flakes every night before I went to bed, talked to him, watched him circle his bowl, tapped on the side to see if he was paying attention, and wished, wished, wished he were a puppy.
A boy up the road had a pet snake; his mother had to buy live mice from the pet store to feed it which I found barbaric but at the same time just the teeniest bit thrilling. Andy was so dull that I don’t even remember when he finally flipped onto his side and had to be flushed.
When I was at university I had a pair of rats. Pretty much everyone I have ever mentioned my rats to has been disgusted at the thought, but they were scrupulous about their grooming and I was scrupulous about cleaning their cages.
Houdini was white with grey patches and beady brown eyes. He had a bit of a temper problem and once bit my father on the nose, leaving a mark that was there until the day he died. Ruby was smaller, a pale ginger and white, with red eyes. Ruby was my favorite. I couldn’t help it. He would rush to the door of his cage when I walked into my room and wait for treats. He loved grapes and chunks of cheese and crackers but he was willing to try anything. I used to catch Dad feeding Ruby potato chips and bits of chocolate and nuts, treats he really shouldn’t have had everyday, but he was such a decent little guy you couldn’t help but want to shower him with riches.
When I took Ruby out of his cage, he would settle into my sleeve and take a bath, washing his face, and behind his ears, and pulling his snaky tail through his legs so he could check its appearance. He was tremendously tail-proud. Sometimes he would sit on my shoulder. When I was studying, I would shut the door of my room and he would run around sniffing books and jumping into shoes and, occasionally, chewing on electrical cords.
When Ruby developed cancerous tumors and started to slow down, at the age of 2, I was sad for weeks. He lost interest in treats, only wanted to be held when he came out of his cage, gave up his exploration of shoes and electrical cords. He died in my lap and Dad buried him behind our apartment, in a tea box lined with tissue. I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
About a month ago, when my mother was visiting from New Zealand and we were Goodwill shopping, looking for furniture and other necessities, I found a small wire cage. It had a wheel, water bottle, ramp and food dish. I picked it up and while Tim didn’t recognize the look on my face, my mother did. It meant trouble. I wouldn’t put the cage down. Literally. I walked around that Goodwill shop in the Haight looking at small wooden tables and cooking pots with the cage in my arms and that look on my face. Next stop was a pet shop in Chinatown.
My intention was to get a nice little white mouse. Maybe two, so they could be friends. And then I saw the dwarves. I had never heard of dwarf hamsters but immediately fell in love. They are like ordinary hamsters in most respects except they are much smaller (about three inches long) and, according to the literature, they are highly social. My guys are Russian dwarves. They are grey and white with black stripes running down the middle of their backs and short white tails that are hardly tails at all but little nubbins. They are called Vodka and Lime and they loathe each other.
At first I thought their fighting was play – dwarf hamsters are known for their energetic horseplay. They “box”, which means they stand up on their hind legs and wave their little fists around and yip. It is hilarious to watch. But when Vodka and Lime fight it appears to be for keeps. Vodka clearly wants Lime dead. He bites him for real, and poor old Lime ends up cowering in a corner and showing his tummy in submission. It shakes his equilibrium. So, I had to buy another cage. It’s a great cage – there is a removable penthouse, tunnels and platforms to play on. Because Vodka is more energetic, he gets the fancy cage. Tim reckons I am rewarding him for bad behavior.
Lime has really developed since Vodka moved out. He is happy to be held, runs on his wheel all the time, and has gained weight. All good. Until yesterday the cages sat next to each other on one of the little wooden tables from Goodwill, cos I figured the little men would like to smell each other, even if they can’t be trusted to live together. Around lunchtime, Tim heard a commotion in the dwarf part of the lounge and found Lime cowering in his food dish (he likes to get right in there and sort through his seeds) in the corner of his cage and Vodka maniacally biting the bars of his own cage and reaching his paws through, trying to punch Lime. It was a bad scene. Tim called time out and put Vodka in the hot water cupboard for bad behavior. Lime buried himself in his wood chips and sulked. Crisis averted, but I’m pretty sure Voddy thought he was being rewarded with a trip to the day spa.
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