Friday, February 02, 2007

Hot tub, check. Chardonnay, check. Smooth jazz, check.

Before we moved out here, a friend made a point to warn me about California h0t tub parties. She had spent a year in San Francisco during the dot-com boom and said that most of the cocktail parties she went to usually ended with a bunch of n@ked people in a hot tub.


We haven't been to any n@ked hot tub p@rties (though, to be fair, we haven't been to that many parties). But we suddenly have a hot tub at our disposal and we hosted our own little party last night. For 2 other people, with clothes.

How did we get a real California hot tub? My parents–who are retired and like to escape the New England winter–are subletting an apartment here through the end of March. They arrive in a couple of weeks. That apartment comes with a backyard hot tub and a wet bar, and it's empty for now. Can you say "party house"?

Actually, our idea of a party house is to tiptoe around the apartment, careful not to drip water on the wood floors, while hooting "Party house!" just loud enough to get a rush without alerting the neighbors upstairs. We drank some Prosecco and ate microwaved gyoza from the freezer, then
kicked back in the tub until we saw three big raccoons hulking across the yard. The house is on the Mission side of Noe Valley, so we figured that these were Mission raccoons and not to be messed with. We tried making scary noises: "Hey! Pfft! Shoo! Shhhht! Ffft!" We wondered if they'd try to get in. "I'll hold them under the water until they die," Scott said.

Eventually the raccoons got bored with us and went over the fence to bother someone else. Maybe find a real n@ked hot tub party. We got out and went back to our house with some pizzas from Gialina, my favorite new place.

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