The Kitchen-Aid Has Landed

For a while, I thought I'd sold my soul for a dishwasher. And when I say "sold my soul," I mean "sold my sense of safety in my own home," because, yes, hardwood floors and crown molding and an avocado tree in the backyard are nice and all, but what's not so nice is coming home to your new apartment for the first time at night and finding a homeless 17-year-old hunched on the front steps, staring at you wanly as you unload your bags of Target crap from the trunk.

I'm embarassed to admit that at first I was so freaked out, I wouldn't get out of the car. And then I pulled myself together and did, and I smiled tentatively at the homeless 17-year-old and he smiled tentatively back, and I wondered if it would be totally uncool to bring him out a sandwich and a cup of tea, because man, it was cold and he looked hungry, but we hadn't unpacked our mugs yet, and so I didn't.

But for the record, would it have? Been uncool, I mean? Because I felt like the world's biggest yuppie, walking past him into my marble lobby with my ridiculous matching brushed stainless steel De Longhi toaster and coffee maker, like maybe I should give him a couple of bucks or something, but then what if he showed up every night expecting a couple of bucks, and soon we had this weird relationship where I couldn't get into my building without giving him a couple of bucks, like he was some kind of hoodied gatekeeper or something, and not only would that get kind of expensive---hey buddy, we're both unemployed!---but what if one day I didn't give him his money and he didn't let me into my apartment, or, worse, knifed me, or worse, told me I was a terrible person for not supporting San Francisco's homeless population and why didn't I just get back to making lattes with my brushed stainless steel De Longhi coffee maker anyway? (Answer: because it doesn't make lattes. It's just a crappy Target coffee pot.)

But he wasn't there the next day, anyway, so I didn't have to worry about it.

The apartment is coming along nicely. I'm starting to love it, actually, after several days of hating it and wailing about the mistake we made in choosing it so soon. We're still living amidst a sea of boxes---who packed the one labeled "power tools, coat hangers, and rollerblades" is what I'd like to know, and also why it had to be the one that propped the lobby door open for five hours while we were moving in, thus ensuring that all our new neighbors will remember us henceforth as The Weird New Couple In 102 We Should Keep An Eye On---but we're hoping to be done unpacking in the next few days. Then we'll get to hanging pictures and applying for jobs, two activities which will be done with a measure of humor and several measures of vodka.

I don't feel at home yet, but I do feel a certain smugness walking through the streets of San Francisco with my groceries in a bag, priding myself on my resident status, knowing I won't be mistaken for a tourist, thanks to the 12-pack of paper towels I'm carrying. In fact, it makes me want to carry a plastic shopping bag around with me always. Speaking of which, I realized yesterday that I'd been unduly concerned about the number of bag ladies walking up and down my street. See, I used to think there were tons, that pretty much everyone was a bag lady---even the men!---until I realized that, because of all the hills and stuff, a lot of people just use those old-lady shopping cart things here, you know, the big black trollies you pull behind you with all your groceries in them so you don't have to carry them, and that just makes everyone look like a bag lady.

So, you know, crisis over and all that! Now let's get to busting the myth of the neighborhood prostitutes who hang out on the corner. I mean, what do I know, maybe they're all just perfectly normal upstanding citizens who happen to like dressing kind of slutty.