Marn Housesits, eh?

COLLABORATIVE TOPIC #2
Marn has agreed to "house-sit" (or "apartment-sit") for you for a weekend. Write an entry in your journal--as if you were Marn writing in hers--describing her experience. What might Marn notice about your pad? What would she learn about you from staying at your place, and how would she express it?

My, all this housesitting wears a girl out, eh? I've been spanning the globe, not unlike ABC's Wide World of Sports. You knew my jetsetting would take me to San Francisco, eventually, didn't you? They don't call me "Our Lady of the Queers" for nothing.

With Huntington and his live-in semi-spousal unit John out of town, I had the dubious privilege of hunkering down for a night in their cozy and refreshingly untidy apartment. They live in what Huntington laughingly referred to as the "Upper" Tenderloin neighborhood of San Fran, which means the hookers don't generally carry knives. As I stepped from the cab, though, I saw what H. saw in this city: wisps of fog were drifting over the post-earthquake apartment buildings, a seagull wheeled above my head. I looked down the Post Street's sensuous slope at all the skyscrapers, and knew I was far from the Townships of Eastern Quebec.

I was greeted at the door by H. & J.'s roommate, a tall, friendly fellow of South American extraction. He giggled and said, "Their room's there, on the right. Careful of the dirty laundry." Sebastian's concern was unfounded as I'm ::cough:: passingly familiar with the occasional article of clothing of the unlaundered variety.

As I made my cautious way to H. & J.'s lair, I couldn't help noticing the tall metal sign in the hall, which read "Please have your ID and cover charge ready." I looked back, seeking some sort of explanation from Sebastian, but he'd disappeared into the other bedroom and shut the door. "What kind of unsavory underground nightclub are these boys running, anyway?" I asked myself as I ventured into the other bedroom.

True to their roommate's word, John and Huntington's room did look as though Tide wasn't making its fortune selling to the two of them. Oh, well, I saw an inviting plaid comforter on a comfy bed. What's that on the nightstand? A dying spider plant? Oh, Huntington, I can see even your meager attempts at greenery can use my attentions. There's nothing I like more than getting some dirt under my nails, eh?

After repotting and watering their two natural houseplants and their artificial tree (better safe than sorry!), I sat down on their couch with a cup of tea and tried to listen to a little music. I was flummoxed by John's wall of CD's (who the heck are Fuzzbox, and why does their hair look like that?), but I found a reasonably complete Sarah McLachlan collection. I was just settling in when the phone rang. After noticing the Hello Kitty logo (which seemed to be repeated all over the house: toaster, Q-tip container, poster, toothbrush holder, sake set, camera; these boys love Sanrio, eh?), I picked up and heard some raucous laughter. Some drunken people on the other end were squawking something about joining them at a bar called Dalva. I couldn't really make it out, so I just hung up. I prefer the quiet life, anyway.

A bit later, Sebastian's main squeeze, Jacob, came home, and the three of us enjoyed a glass of wine and a movie on their DVD. They have a good collection of films (who can complain about Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire, eh?), but I was deeply dismayed by the complete lack of any of Harrison Ford's oeuvre. Oh, well, we made do. Huntington and John are lucky to have found two roommates with whom they can share such a small space with in relative harmony. In no time, it seemed, I was curled up with Huntington's copy of Gore Vidal's memoirs, dreaming of all the sightseeing I'd do here in San Francisco tomorrow, and of where I'd housesit next. Turning 50's not so bad: you should try it, eh?

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