The Sniff Test

We took Eric's Mac to the Apple store on Saturday because after a mere six months the casing is starting to crack open.

The gentle young man at the Genius Bar who was examining it asked a bunch of questions to determine whether or not the fix will be covered under warranty.

Has it been dropped?
No.

Have you opened it to attempt any repairs yourself?
No.

Has in come into contact with any liquids?
No.

So far so good, I'm thinking.

He then picked the laptop up, held the keyboard just below is nose and sniffed it, moving it from side to side to smell all the way from caps lock to enter. His nose twitched a bit, and then he set the laptop down.

OK, he said. You're covered under warranty.

Stop thief!

Friday night, after losing a generous amount of money to friends who came over for poker night at our place, we were cleaning up deep dish pizza crumbs when we heard a car alarm go off in the street below. Though I would normally have rolled my eyes and ignored it, I happened to be standing near the window and saw that there was a shady-looking fellow hovering nervously near the car. It looked a little suspicious.

"I think that guy's breaking into that car," I said, mesmerized, standing there watching as The Clementina Show headed into CSI territory.

Eric came dashing over to the window just as the guy reached into the car and grabbed two bags through the window he had just broken.

We then immediately called the police, of course.

I wasn't wearing my glasses so Eric fed me details of the dude's appearance and watched what direction he was going so we could tell the nice woman at 9-1-1 where the police might catch up with the perp.*

We gave her the basics: he was tall-ish, wearing dark pants, a hooded sweatshirt and a hat and carrying a white shopping bag and a briefcase taken out of the car. The she got kind of demanding: What hand was he carrying the bag in? Um, one in each maybe? What kind of shoes was he wearing? Uh, hmmm. What color was his parachute? Oh, wait. Sorry. Job search on the brain.

She said they might need us to come down to talk to the cops; they would call us if so. Cops were on the scene just a few minutes later, and the people whose car it was came out to talk to them which meant that we probably didn't have to go down. But we really wanted to help, so Eric and I hung out of our 4th story window watching and listening, looking for a chance to be helpful.

We heard the cops ask who had called the police and Eric eagerly shouted out the window:

"We did! Hey! Up here in the window! We called!"

Four heads turned, registered our presence, gave a small wave, and then ignored us.


*I hope this is not the last time I get to use the word "perp" in the blog, but I hope that it is always removed from direct personal experience.

Don't try this at home

I currently have a prescription-strength obsession with all things peppermint. I drink more peppermint tea than is probably fair, and I've used my many networking coffee dates of late to drink a peppermint mocha latte or five. Another favorite peppermint drink is a concoction from apres-ski culture known as a "snuggler" (hot cocoa with peppermint schnapps).

I am certainly capable of making peppermint tea at home, and have successfully mixed peppermint schnapps into cocoa with pleasantly delicious and warming results. But as an exercise in will, I am not drinking alcohol for the month between Thanksgiving and Christmas, so that leaves the schnapps on the shelf for another week.

To feed my peppermint/caffeine addiction this afternoon without leaving the house, I very cleverly mixed peppermint extract into a coffee-milk-cocoa mixture to create what I can only describe as a truly naseous-making beverage. It tastes like the first sip of coffee after brushing your teeth and swishing with mouthwash in the morning, only the mouthwash taste doesn't go away after a moment. It persists.

Yuck.

Maybe it was because they played that heartbreaking Sarah McLachlan song

This morning while I was making breakfast, NPR had a short piece about a homeless shelter in Oakland that held a memorial service for all of the homeless people who had died over the past few weeks. One of the women who had organized it said she felt that the passing of these people's lives should be recognized no matter what their circumstances had been in life. "If their deaths aren't recognized, then it's as if they never existed. But they did exist," she explained.

One man, newly homeless, became very emotional and stepped away from the ceremony. Like any good newsman, the NPR reporter followed the man to badger him with questions. He shared how scared he is, how he has been trying so hard to make things work, and he is wondering when things are going to start to come together, or if maybe this is just all that his life is going to amount to.

Something about the story struck a nerve. Maybe it was that I've been worried that The Clementina Show has been suspiciously subdued due to the cold weather. Or maybe it was that I wasn't yet caffeinated. Or maybe it's just sad. I cried. But just a little. And then I forced myself to pull it together and get the zucchini bread out of the toaster oven before it burned because that would have been really sad.

Graphic, but not like that

Last night Jamaica and I went to the opening of a new exhibit at the Cartoon Art Museum here in San Francisco. I mostly agreed to go because it was cold out* and this happens to be close to where I live.

We'd gotten there early and so we spent a few minutes perusing the bookstore's many and odd offerings. I was fascinated to see all these comic book books, which apparently are called "graphic novels"** and are very cutting edge in the literary world, or so the cartoon art museum bookstore would have you believe. I've never read one but I am starting to wonder if I should, just so that I can say I've done it. You know, like running up the Philadelphia Art Museum steps and then hopping around while fake punching, or going to see live mud wrestling.

When they finally started letting people in, Jamaica and I were among the first to enter and we headed toward the back because our strategy was to avoid the crowd by viewing the exhibit in reverse. About halfway back there was a table set up with green tea and sushi. One of the volunteers who was helping out with the opening and who had let us in was somehow already at the table and was apparently doing his best to eat as much sushi as he could before anyone else could get in. This man was doing as much damage as was possible short of having an actual shovel. He noticed us approaching and, mouth literally half-full of rice, nori and tuna, said:

"I know I'm being a bad volunteer but I really wanted to get some of the sushi before it was gone."

Mission accomplished, I'd say.


*In San Francisco terms, so, you know, like 45 degrees.
**Without the cartoon art context, I would definitely be tempted to think this referred to a different genre of literature. It strikes me that until this term achieves widespread use, there is ample opportunity for awkward misunderstandings, mayhem and hilarity to ensue.

Why I love this tree

We got a little Christmas tree for our place and it sits there all day making me happy. I can tell you why:

1. It's a sustainable tree. Responsible forest management, no chemicals, healthy land. What's not to feel good about?
2. It smells good. Or at least it looks like it smells good and I'm pretty sure I can detect a faint piney odor.
3. It is going to help me win a bet: I sided with 'won't drop majority of needles before we leave for Hawaii on the 23rd' and so far I am the clear winner.*
4. It's wearing earrings.
5. It has an ornament that looks like an eyeball. That's right. One day I brought home a fun craft project for Eric and me to do: decorate your own ornaments! It came with two blank white ornaments - one snowman-shaped and the other globe-shaped. Eric chose the globe and excitedly colored it as...an eyeball. A bloodshot eyeball. Yup.**

*I fear this may be irresistably tempt the malicious sprinkler...
**Not pictured here but rest assured, it is being displayed prominently on the tree.

Smooth ride

After five months of living in this apartment, I am now prepared to tell you what it sounds like when it rains: it sounds exactly the same as it sounds when you are in a car when it is raining. So much so that yesterday I commented on the sound of the rain hitting the sunroof, which in buildings is actually usually called a skylight.

High-quality programming

At dinner last night with friends Elizabeth and Greg, there was an awkward pause in the conversation that made me laugh. This prompted Greg to comment that their life at home, if filmed, would be a lot like Curb Your Enthusiasm in that it is filled with hilarious awkward pauses, not because Larry David lives at their house (he doesn't).

The obvious question: if someone were to film home life with Eric and me, what sort of programming would that be?

Eric and I looked at each other: yes, definitely some sort of children's show with characters that jump around and make a lot of nonsense noises. Maybe like the Teletubbies? Or a nature show about wild birds?

This lead to another awkward pause as Elizabeth and Greg struggled to find the appropriate response. We each took another bite of food. Mmm, good salad.

If you don't, I don't care, I'll pull down your underwear

Because turning lead into gold is easier than parking on a Friday evening in San Francisco, we're in the exceptionally dorky yet practical habit of riding our bikes everywhere. Last night we rode to an impromptu holiday dinner with all the folks in Eric's lab. I was wearing a skirt and heels because I see no reason to compromise on looking good just because I am taking self-propelled transportation, and also because I am pretty good at riding in a skirt without showing anyone my underpants.

After dinner, everyone except for one other dude went home, probably because they all live down the peninsula and it has clearly drained them of their will to live, or at least to have fun going out on weekends. So we three city dwellers went to a bar that smelled like a swimming pool to gossip about everyone who had gone home.

After comprehensively dissecting the social dynamics of the lab and excessively reminding each other how great it is to live in San Francisco, it was good and late and definitely a respectable city hour to head home. We made our way out of the bar to discover, to our shock and horror, that it was pouring rain. This doesn't happen here! And it had been raining enough that there was plenty of water collected in the streets, so much the better to spray your butt and all up your back.

The ride home was wet, cold, miserable and yet kind of exhilirating. And though it is icky and horrible to feel like a drowned rat, there is nothing better than then climbing into bed and feeling like a warm, cozy rat.

Makes you wonder why they call them hot dogs

While eating lunch today I got to wondering where the name cottage cheese came from, and was left no choice but to ask the interweb for information. It seems that it is called cottage cheese either because the people who used to eat it lived in cottages (boring) or because the term cottage was sometimes used to refer to things that were only half-finished, and became the common way to refer to this half-finished cheese food (more interesting but a little suspect).

Don't worry - I didn't stop there. I was now on a brief but intense mission to seek out the curious origin of oddly named foods.

You might be curious to learn that naval oranges were named as such not because in the old days the navy always bought so many to help sailors prevent scurvy*, but because they appear to have a belly button on one end. This clearly leaves me no choice but to refer to them exclusively as belly button oranges from now on.

I thought that the story behind the grapefruit's name might be a good one. It's not: the not terribly creative botanist who named them was inspired by the fact that they grow in clumps like grapes. Though looking at an actual grapefruit tree, I think perhaps he was more creative than I have given him credit for.

Finally, the word on the street is that "deviled" items are foods that are prepared with mustard and that are spicy, but I thought a little fact-checking was in order. It seems that deviled eggs and other deviled food items are actually made through a flavoring process that holds the oldest US food patent and the actual recipe remains a secret to this day. I guess all this time I've thought I was making deviled eggs, I've actually been making something else. I shall now refer to them as Monster Eyeballs.


*Definitely one of my favorite words.

Eat your heart out Jackson Pollock

In my ongoing personal quest to make up for a lifetime of non-domesticity, I made Christmas cookies last night. Eric helped because he is gunning for the "Best Sport About Doing Crafts" award and because it didn't require a trip to Joann Fabrics.

The rolling, cutting and baking took a little longer that I had anticipated and rather than individually frosting the cookies, which would easily have taken us into the wee hours of the morning, I opted to sacrifice some domesticity points and go for a mass frosting approach. It would be creepy to somehow compare it to cookie concentration camps so I won't do that. Instead will say we put all the cookies together in a small area and then smothered them with frosting and sprinkles.

This was not an intentional ripoff of Little Shop of Horrors

These days I'm excited about growing things. Plants, to be specific*. I think it is really spectacular that you can take some seeds, or a small plant, and give it water and sunlight and it will most likely turn brown and start to smell but sometimes if you're lucky it will stay green and actually get bigger. I put that in the category of Whoa it's a miracle! along with planes lifting off the ground, which I admit I am still amazed at every single time it happens.

I have a small flock of plants at the moment that I am doing my best not to kill. My aloe plant, a hardy fellow, seems to be thriving since I daringly re-potted him a few weeks ago. He's got these funny little strech mark things where he's been growing which I find confusing because, isn't aloe what people are supposed to put on our skin to prevent getting stretch marks? Maybe I should rub some human blood on his stretch marks to see if it's a reciprocal relationship.**

In the category of plants that are not thriving I will mention some mums that are troublingly yellow-brown and brittle and a small succulent which keeps ejecting chunks of himself, up to six inches from the pot. I honestly have no idea how this is happening and have considered that this may be an alien creature. I don't want to throw it away lest I anger it but I'm not really sure what else to do. (No, I'm not entertaining the idea of offering it any human blood.)

What I am really excited about, though, is the idea of growing actual foodstuffs, such as herbs, tomatoes, salad greens and even other vegetables and fruits. I have a fantasy that my roof deck might be a good venue for some agricultural experimentation since during the day it is warm and sunny but unfortunately at night it is about as hospitable to life as the surface of the moon, so I'm not sure how well that's going to work.


*I think this is an unnecessary qualification but I suppose someone could think I was referring to hair or toenails or something, which, incidentally, I am also growing and with significantly more success than my plants.
**I agree. I've gone way too far with this last thought. EWWW!

Kick me again

I am not pathetic.

I think this is a important fact to establish right at the start here, because there is accumulating evidence that might tempt you to think otherwise. Don't be taken in. I can assure you, pathos have no place with me.

It would be easy, when I tell you that yesterday no one showed up to either of the two yoga classes that I was scheduled to teach, for you to make that "awww" noise in your head and kind of squish up your face with sympathy. Don't do that. I'm sure all those people who were going to come had important things come up right before class that prevented them from making it, like a rogue bus driver or a badly stubbed toe. I bet they were really disappointed to miss out.

You might also be tempted to compassionately furrow your brow when I tell you that I ate at IHOP on Saturday afternoon. Please - before you judge, let me explain. We had gone surfing and, it being December, I spent the whole morning between waves fantasizing about things that are warm. One was coffee. Another was pancakes. As a result, my ability to drive past the IHOP on the way home - feet still numb from the cold water - had been too severely compromised. I had the seasonal special pumpkin pancakes. There's no shame in that.

Definitely don't comfortingly pat my arm and shake your head about my being unemployed. Maybe I like being unemployed. Did you ever think about that? Maybe I enjoy living off of my dwindling savings while job prospects disintegrate around me on a daily basis. You see, I have the gift of time. Endless endless time! I bet you're reading this at work and that afterwards you'll go on to do something productive. Ha! Sucker. Know what I'm going to do next? Go back to the Safeway with my receipt from yesterday's grocery trip to plead with them to give me back a few dollars for sales that didn't ring up properly.

And you thought I was pathetic.

Who does?

Out on the town this past Saturday night, I overheard one young woman confess to another:

"I just don't have the time or the energy to give a crap about seahorses."

Exhibit I of my argument for why I should be the primary driver of our motorcycle*

*To be fair, the surfing scrape might be because I surfed my board right into his wrist, so might not actually be his fault.

Tommy used to work on the docks

Part of being unemployed is that it becomes really hard to justify throwing money at problems to make them go away: suddenly, it is actually worth your time to fix them yourself. I guess maybe 30 is as good an age as any to learn how to iron.

Don't get me wrong. I've always been someone to keep an eye out for a good sale or take public transportation to the airport, but I'm talking about taking it to a new level. Let me get straight to the point: I'm talking about coupons here.

Humbling? Perhaps - but there are ways to sidestep facing the reality that one has become a coupon clipper. One is the Green Zebra, a book of coupons for local, sustainable businesses. I'm not being cheap, I'm being green. See the difference?

Another important resource for the wealth-constrained is FunCheapSF, a website that has listings for a wide array of free and cheap events such as Kraft-a-billy DIY Shopping bazaar w/ pin up contest & burlesque (SOMA) and Sexy accordian players concert and pin-up calendar party at Good Vibes (Mission Dist.). What?! And they're FREE?

I'm not sure what their posting guidelines are but I am tempted to submit a posting for The Clementina Show, which I believe is having a special homeless rodeo this weekend between 2 and 4am on Saturday. Cause you live for the fight when it's all that you've got.

Don't ask about the air conditioning

Our extremely modern and sophisticated apartment has, as you would expect, an incredibly modern and sophisticated heating system: fire.

Granted, it's in a fancy-looking fireplace dressed up with expensive stone. But still, it's pretty much just a fire. Not that distant a cousin from the roaring blaze over which Eric and I roasted many a marshmallow over Thanksgiving weekend in the desert (and of which our coats still reek as they hang in the back hallway).

Here's how it works: there's a switch on the wall that determines whether or not the heat is on or off. If the switch is set to on, then when the temperature of the room gets below the temp on the thermostat, the fake logs in the fireplace burst into flame and start heating the place up. Hello toasty fire! Likewise, when the room is at the target temperature, the fire turns itself off. (Bye bye fire.)

I'm not totally used to this system yet, and so every now and then when the fire suddenly goes on I immediately assume that it's Zuul and that there will be eggs frying on the counter within moments.

I'm also not accustomed to it enough to think to warn houseguests sleeping in the living room that if they suddenly wake up in the middle of the night to a blazing fire that it's really nothing to be concerned about. Which makes me think perhaps plastic sheets for the couch wouldn't be a bad idea when someone is staying over.

You can't see him but he's there

There's a malicious sprinkler in my life.

This person, or people, takes my hair and sprinkles it around my apartment when I'm not looking. Especially under the glass coffee table near the couch.

Also, he takes pieces of broken glass and sprinkles it exclusively and comprehensively across all the bike lanes in the city.

Why can't he use his sprinkling forces for good, I ask you? Maybe he could get a job in a pizza parlor. Or an ice cream shop. Is it possible that this now official recession has put even talented sprinklers out of work?

Has it gotten that bad?

OK, now I just feel bad for him. Sorry man.

List of things in cartoon deserts that are also in real deserts

Cacti

Crazy-ass looking trees
Tarantulas!

An Oasis. Look carefully - palm trees in the middle of the desert! What?!!

The real desert, in this case also known as Joshua Tree National Park and located an easily driveable 9 hours from San Francisco, also had a few surprises for those of us who prepared for our desert experience by watching cartoons that take place in deserts. For one, the people in the campground next to us remembered to bring their portable deep-fryer so that they could deep fry their Thanksgiving turkey and then every single food item for every single meal that they ate for the rest of the weekend.

Also, there was bowling.