A couple nights ago myself, my friend Stedl and Soares decided to grab a few drinks after work. “After Work” for a SpaceX employee has different meanings for each person, so by the time “After Work” rolled around for Stedl, I was already at home, in the middle of some laundry.
I had suggested that we go to the Daily Pint, a dive bar that specialized in craft beer and Scotch, only about a mile up Pico Blvd from my apartment, on the route of the #7 bus. I told Stedl that I planned on taking the bus there, the assumption was that he’d come with me. Immediately he asked “Am I going to die, Bj?” I wasn’t quite sure how to respond. I tried to calm him down and assure him that a 5-minute ride on the Big Blue Bus wasn’t going to kill him.
After a few weeks in Boston, I decided to move out to San Francisco and take my brother up on his invitation to stay with him. Plus, I wanted to find a job in that city and actually being there would be a big help.
My time in San Francisco was great, and if I could stay unemployed forever, that’s exactly how I would want to live my life. Simply, I had the life of an American housewife. I’d have a leisurely breakfast in the morning and visit the local farmers markets. On other days I’d go for a run or do some yoga at a wonderful studio down the street (the Yoga Loft, check them out). Then I’d experiment in the kitchen with cakes, pies, cookies, bread, and a host of savory dishes. My brother and his girlfriend Nikki were my guinea pigs.
A couple months after I got there my brother got a puppy. A little lab-boxer-pit bull mix that we named Newman (after the Seinfeld antagonist, of course). Here’s a ridiculously cute picture of him when he was still a baby:
I soon realized that raising a puppy was not the wonderland of cuddles, fetch and “awws” that I thought it’d be. If it’s anything like raising a child, well, count me out.