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Spain ROCKS. Amazing.

Anyone want to work at the magical, amazing, one-of-a-kind Artfibers? Here’s what Kira would like to tell you:

Artfibers of San Francisco is looking for a part-time sales/customer service person for our retail store at 124 Sutter Street. Preference will be given to those with retail/customer service experience. Hand-knitting skills and experience must be at the intermediate to advanced level with emphasis on sweaters. Familiarity with Artfibers brand yarns is a plus. Attention to detail, reliability as well as good listening, learning and people skills are important.
Work schedule is 12:00 – 4:00 Monday through Friday (may be negotiable). Wage is $12.00 per hour plus great yarn discounts to the right person. Must be able to start immediately. See our website: to learn more about our company. Call 415.956.6319 to schedule an appointment for an interview.

I am pleasantly surprised and terribly anxious all at the same time. DJ, the new owner of the upper unit got hold of J, the guy who just sold it to her. And he’s being very, very cool. He showed up yesterday afternoon when he told me he would, and he had his plumber guy with him, and they went into my bathroom and listened to the upper unit leaking above our heads. Man, I’ve never whipped a bra off a shower rod that fast before. Nothing like two males in your bathroom gazing up at the ceiling to make you realize your lingerie is probably dry.

They hemmed and hawed and knocked and said okay, they’d be back the next day.

"Oh, you’re going to work up there tomorrow?" I ask, still blissfully naive.

"Yes. Down here. What time’s good for you?"

"For what?"

"For the work."

"Because you need access to my unit?"

"Yeah. For the work."

"What work, exactly?"

"Ripping out the ceiling."

Oh, shit.

I mean, it’s good in the long, dry run. Even though he doesn’t own it anymore, J’s going to take care of it all, and it sounds like they probably know what they’re doing, although his plumber is definitely an under-the-table kind of guy. (J is probably scared of a non-disclosure lawsuit, I’d imagine.)

But lord, where am I going to pee for those long hours of work? The neighbors won’t be home, that’s already established, and I don’t really want to leave my house full of strangers who might let my cats out (oh, please, not that). Must. Not. Drink. Coffee.

I have to tell you, the new owner is being great, too, all apologies and extremely nice. I think maybe she was in shock from everything else breaking this week. She just looked overwhelmed. I honestly like her personality, very much. This is just a speed-method for getting to know my neighbor.

Well, I’ll take trial by water over trial by fire any day.

The unit above mine sold! It sold to a very nice-seeming single lady, for thirty grand more than I bought mine for, eight months ago. Them’s ridiculous numbers, people. I’m  not complaining, but dang.

So the nice-seeming lady moved in over the weekend, and so far her electricity has been shorting out, her dishwasher has blown up, neither her range nor her refrigerator worked right, and yesterday morning at six-thirty, when she was taking her shower, it started raining in my bathroom.

I exaggerate, perhaps. It wasn’t dripping from the ceiling, rather, I could HEAR it dripping from her bathroom to my ceiling, an ominous fast trickle, and it was raining down my wall from the window all over the toilet and floor, which means that lots more water was running inside our wall.

Aargh.

Now, the unit up there has been vacant since I moved in, so this was, as far as I know, the first water that had run up there in eight months. The last owners had to replace the entire bathroom in the unit that is now mine (hello, clawfoot tub), and when I ran upstairs to tell her that my floor was flooded, this is what I had in mind. Her bathtub falling into mine. See Anne for scary ceiling details.

Strangely, the new neighbor took more than 10 minutes after being told about it (through her cracked bathroom window) to come down, fully made up and dressed. I woulda put on a robe and flown downstairs. But people react to situations differently, I suppose. And when I explained about the last time and suggested she not shower again until the plumber came, she seemed very against this idea. She said she HAD to shower every day. Well, okay. Some do. But maybe somewhere else? Or get the plumber the same day? Again, people react differently than I do. But I would have been freaked OUT if my tub was leaking into the downstairs unit. Her dime, I suppose, in the long run. (And mine, in terms of dryrot…. Erp.)

So I’m practicing patience. I’ve been told when they redid my bathroom, they put in green-something, hardie-board, which should resist water. But what about upstairs? Who knows? The old owners of both units are shadier than the current administration, so I don’t trust a word.

I don’t want to have to repaint. Or pay for repairs, of anything, since even with my recent financial improvement, I still ain’t got a dime extra right now.

It’s interesting, though, this home ownership thing. Happy, happy, happy to have such problems.

And this: Yay, Canada! Once again, they prove smarter than us.

I had the most knitty weekend. Oh, wait, it was Pride, right? That, too. Proud gay knitting, that’s me.

Okay, that kind of is me. Eeep.

Anyway.

I went to the Dyke March (yes, you can call it that, since that’s its official name), and saw all of the people that I wanted to see, and none that I didn’t, so that was really good. I watched the bikes go (O, the bikes….), and then walked to where our party place is at Dolores and 16th, where we drank and danced and watched the March go by. Lazy marcher, me. There were a lot of women who looked REALLY cold, if you get my drift. Me, I was warm. Most of the time. There may have been a breeze once, but it didn’t last long, and although I’ve heard there was photographic proof, I haven’t seen it, so we’re all right. There WAS a woman in a window above us who was so well endowed that every time she hung her torso out the window to the cheers of the marchers, I thought she was going to topple out. I couldn’t watch. That much.

    I didn’t ride in the march, but I was on the back of Geena’s bike, dammit! Halfway to my goal….

Sadly, my rockstar girlfriend (she rocks out) was recording and missed the march, but I collected all her friends like any girlfriend should, and we ate massive veggie burritos and then drank beer at the Lex, where we watched all the young hip lesbians flirt. I *so* don’t have the right glasses. But I really liked the person I was sitting with, you know?

That was Pride. I didn’t go to the parade, I wasn’t that proud. I was sleepy and stayed in bed, instead.

Then the Strizz had a little informal thingie at her house, where I knit for like, six hours. That was really nice.

Ask me for names and links. Lazy.

And today, my girls Kira and Rachel came over and we sat at a local cafe (World Ground on MacArthur) and knitted for another few hours.

Much progress was made on my first Lara sleeve (from homespun!) but none to show, because I am, as I have repeatedly stated, lazy.

And now I’m hungry, and laziness is driving me to go out to my car and go to Taco Bell. That’s terrible, isn’t it? Oh, yum. Bean burrito, no onions, sour cream. The perfect end to a fabulous, relaxing weekend. (Even if I wasn’t in Brooklyn. Humph.)

Whew. It’s sure a good thing that I hopped on that supersonic jet this morning when I got off work. Otherwise I’d still be in Oakland for Pride weekend in the Bay Area, and we all know how AWFUL that can be. Dreadful. All those proud people. Humph. We sniff.

No, thank goodness I’m in Brooklyn with my girls.

Well, shoot. (I did however, answer my wonder-some phone while in front of Trader Joe’s last night, and talked to all three of my gorgeous ladies. All in the same country! Who would have ever thought?)

Where’s that plane ticket? I know I left it lying around here somewhere.

Good thing I still got my Pride.

I just totally stubbed my toe. On my ankle. While lying asleep in bed.

I so win. (But if you can top it, let me know in comments, please.)

This is Pride weekend, y’all! While I don’t plan on hootin’ and hollerin’ at the parade, because I’d honestly rather sleep in on Sunday morning, you all know I LOVE the Dyke March on Saturday night. Love it. Love, love, love it. Love the women, love the safety in numbers, love the clothes or lack thereof, LOVE the motorcycles. There will be photos, probably edited for content.

So please, think good thoughts for this year’s event. Last year, a friend of mine was bashed just outside the Lexington, one of the only lesbian bars in town. He broke her nose before three people ripped him off her. Amazing that something like that could happen in San Francisco, on Pride weekend, but really, it’s just amazing and horrifying that it could ever happen, anywhere, in this reasonably educated society.

Come play! Or be Proud where you are.
loving (MWAH).

https://rachaelherron.com/i_just_totally_/