14 posts tagged “san francisco”

I have a dog. She is kind of an unusual breed and quite striking-looking. When we walk around San Francisco - especially in crowded areas - we can't get more than five feet without someone wanting to stop us to exclaim over her appearance, touch her, and ask me questions (which I guess is better than them wanting to touch me and ask her questions). I thought I would answer these questions here.

• She's a Keeshond.
• Bliss.
• Girl.
• Keeshond.
• K-E-E-S-H-O-N-D.
  
• Eight years old. She'll be nine in September.
• I got her when she was four months old.
• Yes, she sheds a lot, especially when she "blows her coat" a couple of times a year.
• The cottony undercoat thins out (I show the person the undercoat at this point).
• I'm supposed to brush her weekly. I don't.
• It takes about an hour or so and requires four different instruments (comb, brush, undercoat rake, slicker brush).
• She doesn't really need to be bathed more than once a year.
• Yes, she has a tail. It's just curly and hides. We call it "retractable."
• About 30 pounds. Not much dog under all that fur.
• No, she's not a Chow mix.
• She does okay in the heat, as long as she's not out too long.
• No, I've never shaved her. The coat protects her from both heat and cold.
• Holland.
• Very friendly.
• Too smart for her own good.
• Yes, your son/daughter may pet her. She's great with kids.
• No, she's not a giant Pomeranian. But they're related.
• Yes, she barks. A lot.
• Yes, she's very happy. And a very good girl.

Paul's having malted vanilla with peanut brittle and milk chocolate on a sugar cone. It seems to have confounded him.

Gord was visiting from Canada (damn tourists) which gave us a good excuse to finally walk across the Golden Gate Bridge. Here are photos from this grand event, and Paul has his own theories about why it's called the "Golden Gate."

Y-O-D-A Yoda... Yo-Yo-Yo-Yo Yoda...

Nikki and Ken are visiting, so we took them to District, a wine bar near the ball park. And a good time was had by all. I wish you could see what they drank...

Brian Barneclo

We've embarked on that magical journey - house hunting. It's an emotional roller coaster, and one I'm not really equipped for. I have no poker face. None. Nada. What you see is what you get. This means if I walk into a place and really like it, my face will light up. You'll see my lips struggle to remain stationary, but the rest of my face will be, "OHMYGODILOVETHISPLACEPLEASECANWEHAVEIT?!" Car salesmen love me.

I really, really want to live in the city. I love it here. I love being able to walk just about anywhere, I love having public transportation readily available, and I love writing "San Francisco" in the address field when I fill out forms. I'd also love to have a Victorian or Edwardian house. I figure if we live in San Francisco, let's have an archetypal San Francisco home. I've always been drawn to creaky homes with hardwood floors and little quirky flourishes and details. I want a house with personality. I want one that makes noise. Maybe even a little drafty. I don't want sterile and perfect. What's the point of that? I want a home with a history (but no ghosts, please).

Paul's a little different. He likes modern and clean and updated. He likes the gleaming countertops and doors that don't stick and pipes that don't groan. Go figure. Neither one of us are "handy," so I guess it makes sense. Both of us would prefer a single family home in the Dolores Park or Noe Valley area (where we live right now in our rented flat). Oh, and a view would be nice too.

We went house hunting with our agent this weekend. What an exhausting experience. We looked at about eight properties, all of which had their charms. One stood out, though. It was a perfect blend of Victorian detail and modern updating. It's in Noe Valley, and even has a bit of a view... if you stood in exactly the right place and craned your neck. We really, really liked it.

Last night we sat down with our agent and put together an offer. Though the listing price was about what we wanted to pay, homes in Noe are dear, with selling prices going for 10 - 15% more than the asking price. If we wanted this house we would have to stretch. *EHHNNNNNNNNNNNN.* Did we want to stretch? Stretching is good for you, right? The last house we bought, we stretched. We scraped together the extra money when the house didn't appraise, panicked, freaked out, but did it. And it worked out really well. Did we want to do it again...?

Yeah, yeah we did. Our quality of life would be reduced (WHAT? No pedicures?!), but ultimately, it would be a great investment, and a wonderful place to live. WIth shaking hands, we signed the offer. And then panicked. And freaked out. And much remorse was had.

Today I got a call from our agent. He's been in touch with our agent down south, and it turns out our current home will not close this weekend like we thought. The buyer's having issues with the finances; it may not even close next weekend. Because of this, it makes our offer not nearly as strong, and our agent suggested we hold off on the Noe house. It will be gone by the end of the day, so this means it will not be ours.

Disappointment. Relief. Sadness.

This one wasn't meant to be. But at least we're warmed up now.

It was a glorious morning, so we walked up to Tartine, waited in the massive line, procured yummy things for a "family style" brunch, and headed over to Dolores Park. The food was incredible, Bliss had no interest in the ball (which she tried to grab out of my hand as I was packing it for the trip, but once at the park, decided sniffing was much more interesting), and we relaxed a bit.

California truly sucks.

There's something charming and appealing about pulling a little red wagon down the street. I went to the gardening center near our place (finally starting a little container garden - wish me luck), and they loaned me a wagon to cart my plants home.

People smiled and said hello to me. Even from cars. They made humorous comments. It was... nice. One woman actually said to me, "That is so cute! That's the kind of thing I would take a picture of to describe life in San Francisco."

She didn't have a camera. But I did.

He was a skater boy, already on the train when I got on.

He had the skateboard. The ratty denim jacket. The piercings. The tattoos.

She was a skater girl. She got on at 16th. She had the skateboard. The ratty hair. The piercings. The tattoos.

Skater boy was mesmorized. He stared. She didn't notice. He flashed her the shaka. She was oblivious.

She had a patch on her knit purse that read, "Asslick." He had a patch on his jacket commanding, "Bite Me."

He was smitten.

She got off at 24th.

His eyes followed her off the train.

She never even knew.