A stroll along the Industrial Riviera

I love my neighborhood: Today, when I was pushing McLaren in his stroller down my street, I heard the vague clicking of wheels on the sidewalk behind me, and I thought, "Hooray, another mom pushing a baby!" Then the clicking got louder and louder, and I turned around to take a look at who might be overtaking me, and lo and behold, it was not a mom and baby after all, but a homeless man pushing a shopping cart full of cans.

Break-up Sandwich

All rightee, who out there does not think this is a bit odd? A few months ago, my very sweet, giving and flat-out amazing next-door neighbor and her equally wonderful partner broke up after nine years (very, very sad, since they were a lovely couple and much fun together). Instead of moving to another building, in some other far-flung part of the city, however, my next-door neighbor's partner decided to move into a loft-space in the same building, purportedly so that custody of their dog, "Peaches," could be more easily shared. Now here's the truly odd part: the loft-space that my next-door neighbor's partner rented happens to be on the other side of us Parks, and so now we are truly in the middle of a break-up sandwich, with the break-up-er on one side, and the break-up-ee on the other. In all, they live literally 20 paces away from one another. Maybe they didn't REALLY break up, but perhaps just needed a bit of added space and an extra bathroom?

McLaren Park

Zoinks! I just looked at the posting dates on my blog, and it appears that my most "recent" rambling was in April of last year... though, I must say, for good reason! Mr. Park and I now have a little Park, or rather, "McLaren" Park, who was born November 18, 2009. He's a lively little one, who has demanded much of my attention (and prior to that I started a new job in the same blasted and stale world of scholarly publishing, which has since evaporated due to the rigors of motherhood and their inability to accommodate a revised schedule, oy--I guess this means that I'm officially under-employed).

So, now that I've forgone work temporarily for the sweet-pea-of-a-man, I plan on posting as many meditations as are possible in the space of two-hour naps, when my hands are free for the typing. I promise that they won't all be about BMs, diapies, or burping, but instead about more fascinating subjects, including the close quarters of my "Tales of the City"-esque building, which are now extremely present in my life and keep getting more and more bizarre.

I don't venture much farther than a few blocks during the day, so my world view is much reduced, and yes, more and more mediocre. Totally and completely fitting.

And on that note, I must be off, like some soiled jammies.

Fiona's Sweetshoppe

While wandering around Union Square with Mr. Park over this weekend on a mission to find him some suitable pants, sans holes (the ones that he has been wearing to work have become less and less viable for public consumption), I stumbled upon the cutest of cute candy stores on Sutter at Kearny: Fiona's Sweetshoppe. The Sweetshoppe stocks imported British candies of in all assortments and flavors, and they might be responsible for one, perhaps two impending cavities. I bought two pounds' worth of lemon fizz drops and have likely gone through nearly half of them already. [Sigh.]

Crazy Crab

A few nights ago, Mr. Park and I decided to don our finery and head out to a newish Thai restaurant not far from our abode called The Grand PuBah. It's kind of chi-chi and has an extensive menu of delicious-sounding dishes, from the fancy, categorized as "land" and "sea," to the more humble, under the heading, "Thai street food."

When we arrived, the place was bustling with energy, and we settled into a nice two-top at the window where we could see the entire dining room--and vice versa. We ordered some wine, which arrived in short order, and we gulped it down, delighting that we were able to put ends to our respectively dull and frenetic work days.

By the time our server came by for our food order, the wine had taken effect and we were feeling pretty adventurous. We decided boldly to go forth and order an appetizer, curry and brown rice, and something on the menu called "Crazy Crab," with no price listed, just one of those scary "AQ" designations.

A few moments passed and our appetizer arrived. It was delicious. We ordered more wine. We joked about the crab. How crazy could it really be?

And then, about twenty minutes and two glasses of wine later, Mr. Park and I were jolted into semi-sobriety, realizing that the two servers gliding out of the kitchen and balancing what seemed like eight trays, were coming our way.

Mr. Park's face looked on in horror as one of the servers set in front of us a long, narrow plate and systematically lined it with mechanical instruments--tongs, small picks, and forks with scoops on the ends. And then, the server cleared as much room on the table as possible and placed an enormous platter in front of us, filled with absolutely the biggest crab we both had seen cooked and served in a restaurant. The crab was covered in a batter of beer, lime and garlic, and its legs literally hung over the sides of the plate and threatened to knock over all of the accumulated glassware on the table--and to poke out our eyes if we were not careful.

Mr. Park and I have eaten crab before, but not like this one. This was a behemoth, a prehistoric crab of epic proportions. Fueled by the booze and a can-do attitude, we rolled up our sleeves and started cracking and chipping, cracking and pulling, hammering and pulling, cracking and hammering. Legs were flying. Crab meat was flying. Beer batter was flying. [Oh, but it was GOOD.] People eyed us with suspicion. People eyed us with disgust.

Crab, crab everywhere.

After about a half-hour of head-down crab mayhem, we decided to call it quits. We sat back in our chairs, stunned, and surveyed the situation... em, the mess. There was a spray of crab meat across my wine glass and even across the window next to the table where we sat. Crab on my jacket, which I had laid next to me in the booth. Crab on Mr. Park's shirt. Crab on our pants. Crab in the front pocket of my purse.

We were embarrassed. We were so busy with the crab that we forgot about the curry.

The servers, sweet and gracious, and probably wishing that we'd never come in, came by and removed the carcass. They attempted to wipe the table down (it was likely a job best done after we had gone) and took our leftovers back to the kitchen for wrapping into to-go boxes.

We were full and marveled at what we had just accomplished. We subdued the Crazy Crab.

And when the bill came, we were pleasantly surprised that the A.Q. topped out at $38. Much better than the $100 we feared. We decided that it was worth every penny--and that next time, we'll bring bibs and plastic pants, so that we can be hosed down afterward.

Oh, we still have two legs left in the fridge, if anyone wants to come over and have a "crack" at them. [Groan.]

Hey, Mr. Office Chair Driver

HAD to post this before I forget, because it is one of those "only in San Francisco" moments: a few days ago, I was dropping a friend off at his home in North Beach, and I was nearly broad-sided by a man careening down Green Street (which has quite a steep grade) towards Grant, on an office chair. You know, those cozy ones, like you see in law firms on TV.

Sweet.

Tone it down, Ms. Cranky Park

How do I know I'm getting old and cranky? Well, pretty easily: I used to be somewhat more mellow and Kumbaya-lovin', but now, whenever I go to the über-hip coffee shop around the corner and down the street from my building, I literally want to grab the painfully disaffected barista by his greasy Sex Pistol-esque locks and shake him until his stripey, espresso-stained sweater is unravelling, the next time he rolls his eyes at me for ordering decaf. I also fantasize about yelling, "I AM old, you Devendra Banhart-worshipping pipe-cleaner of a man! And yes, that's right, I sometimes order decaf--and sometimes I listen to Journey AND enjoy long walks on the beach! So suck it!"

Oy.

But the coffee is delicious, so I suppose that I should cut it out, try to be nice, and save the yelling until I'm over 80 and can't as easily be jailed.

Clearly, I do not need the caffeine.