and this means that I am sitting in the sheepskin-covered accordion chair wearing two sweaters, one set of wool socks in ill-repair, the fuzzy red blanket that graces the foot of our bed that previously graced the sleeping body of our closet sleeper, Quinn, and my ubiquitous rainbow knit cap. I am also precariously near to my freshly-poured cup of rooibos.
These preparations for warmth can be attributed to the fact that some bros are renovating the recently-vacated (by force!) apartment across the hall, and whatever they are doing apparently involves highly toxic, brain altering chemicals. So. We are here, with the windows flung wide open, trying at once to stay warm and not pass out.
Won’t you join us?
Here I am to say hello to you and also to report on our weekend, thus far.
My weekend begins Thursday afternoon, and Jake’s Wednesday night, so this counts.
Before the event, an intimate salon show throw-down, I nabbed a photo of the glorious Fiona.
This morning the alarm rang, the coffee went down smooth, and we swang our fine selves over to the nearby hacienda where Mike Shea and Christina can be found. We were buzzed in, but got distracted on the stairs, caught in the gaze of this fellow.
Once able to pry ourselves away from his all-knowing line of sight, we actually finished scaling the stairs to find our friends! While I photographed this pro team’s unmade bed, conjecture began in the next room as to whether Raymond the cat has a singing voice that is identical to Tom Waits’ when he is left in the room alone in the cool bath of a dramatic spotlight.
It could happen. (MIKE SHEA, I AM WAITING FOR YOUR DRAWING OF THIS.)
“Bye!” we said, eventually, and set off in a westerly direction to eat bagels. I cannot promise the walk was without distractions.
Other things that happened include: running into Jake’s bike bro, Chad, on the street, making everyone at the bike shop listen to my new favorite song, giving some guy $5 in Roy’s honor, buying lunch meat for the first time in 100 years (my family comes tomorrow!), acknowledging that our bathtub is really broken, and thoroughly cleaning every surface of our small nest home. Plus there’s a pizza party on our horizon.
My weekend will go on, of course, but Jake is back to work tomorrow.
So this post is for him, the bearded companion sitting across the table from me, swaddled in a fancy sleeping bag, licking the dredges of tea from his lips. The window is open, and Car Talk is on. The sun is setting and the lights are off. We ate fancy potato chips for lunch. Our home life is quiet, punctuated by Pente and ambitious cooking.
Who else could be suitably matched to me? None of you bros in the club know what the crazy is like when you get her in a long-term, co-habitative type situation. Keep dreaming.
Late last night, cold, dragging myself home from the subway wearing my fancy clothes in the unexpected rain, I was feeling decidedly less than whelmed. I climbed the four flights to our floor, passing each piece of carefully-curated kitsch on the way. I opened the front door with resignation, and was greeted with dim lights, a steaming teapot, and a bearded gent who was ready and willing to wear jammies and watch The X-Files in bed.
And that is what we did.