Inane Chatter

I had a strange day.  Got so frustrated with work I was nearly in tears.  Got over it because there’s a lot of funny stuff on the internet.  I know, right?

My favorite tweet today:

My favorite reddit…thing today (it’s actually from yesterday, but it kept me amused today, too):

Must go.  If I stay here any longer, I’ll eat the entire container of rice pudding.  (John’s brilliant idea – who gets a craving for rice pudding, of all things?  So good.)  Anyway, I’d like to pretend today’s odd day never happened, so I’m going to take my book and go to bed and start fresh tomorrow.

Seriously, could today have been any better?  Only if it had unicorns and sparkles.  And it’s not over yet.  There’s hope.  Sure, we got up super early on a Saturday, but it was only so we could go to the giant used book sale that happens every six weeks in a warehouse in Annapolis.  Worth it.  AND I had a croissant and my favorite candy-coffee from Starbucks for breakfast on the way (tall, skim, no whip white mocha with two pumps of toffee nut – yes, I’m one of those now).  Extra worth the early wake-up.  AND we hung out with Jess while looking for books and then having bagels.  Better than extra worth it.  And THEN we went to IKEA and bought two more bookshelves, upper shelf extensions for those two plus the six at home that didn’t already have them, plus two wall shelves to go over the couch (and hold more books – maybe the graphic novels?).  We’ve spent the afternoon since then putting the shelves and the extension together while watching Law & Order: SVU, and now we’re going to pick up dinner from somewhere and settle in and watch a movie.

A day like today makes me so very happy.  Books, best friend, shelves, dinner, and a movie, a whole day hanging out with John, and sure, I didn’t do any calculus like originally planned, but John and I worked it out on the way home from IKEA.  Today we get the furniture part out of the way and relax a little.  Tomorrow, we’ll run, mow the lawn (it grew, like, two feet in 8 days), and do homework (my calculus, his thesis).  Sunday is the responsible day.

This particular Tuesday has a weird vibe.  It’s just after 10:30am.  I’ve been to the gym and joined two conference calls (a daily occurrence now – who the hell wants to start every day with two conference calls?).  Neither of those things are out of the ordinary.  I had some coffee.  Haven’t eaten anything yet, which may be contributing to the feeling (I can hear a croissant whispering my name), but what else?

Part 1: The windows are open.  It’s August.  It’s supposed to be hot and sticky and grossly muggy.  I’m not complaining – I’m thrilled to hear the breeze in the trees and the summer insects buzzing or droning or cricketing or whatever is they do, thrilled to have turned the A/C off for the first time in months.  It’s just weird.  Makes it feel like early fall and I’m not quite ready for early fall.

Part 2: I’ve already talked to Mom and Dad.  Before breakfast!  It’s throwing my whole schedule off.

Part 3: I have gotten things DONE already.  Left messages, rescheduled appointments, refilled prescriptions…I’m on a roll.

[Several hours later]

I was on a roll.  A few hours ago, the sunlight was mid-morning fresh, the birds were chirping, and the breeze was breezing.  Since then, I’ve gotten bogged down in the things I’m supposed to be doing (I was doing them before, but everything was light! and cheerful! and oh, what a beautiful morning!), the cool fresh air that was tickling my elbows turned hot, and the sunlight turned stale.

I can still turn this around.  There’s time.  The solution?  Lunch!  A turkey sandwich with cucumber slices on toast.  Seriously.  I don’t think I’m asking too much of one sandwich.  I get cranky when I’m hungry.  Lunch will save the day.

…starts now.  I’ve been eating and breathing statistics for over a week.  I took my midterm this afternoon,  I’m home now, John’s in charge of dinner (I think), and I don’t have to jump right into the next statistics chapter just yet.  I have a glass of wine, random French jazz in the CD player (CDs Mom burned and gave me – no idea what the specifics are, but I was in the mood for something unusual and mellow), and a new book.  And I’m going to slice some cantaloupe.  Cantaloupe will get me through this heat wave.

In a perfect world – and by a perfect world, I mean my perfect world, of course – I would be an inch or two taller (5’6″ is so boring), 25 to 30 pounds lighter, I would live in one of the places showcased by Desire to Inspire, and my wardrobe would be chosen by someone with great taste and plenty of money (’cause they’d be buying it for me – it’d be okay, since this is my perfect world, if that money were my own).  That would be the best part.  Someone else to do my clothes shopping, someone to put my outfits together.  Comfortable, good-looking, classic, good quality.  The clothes, too.    Tom and Lorenzo could live next door so they could send me right back inside when my personal shopper/wardrobe consultant failed and/or my lack of fashion sense reared its ugly head.  And I’d have a personal chef, preferably one who is capable of making deliciously wonderful meals that look like they have too many calories (lots of cheese, cream sauces, chocolate, etc) but really hardly have any.  A magic chef.

I wouldn’t need to be a princess if I had all of that.  I may have just admitted that I still wish I could be a princess.  (I still wear pink and purple, too.  Quite often.  Not usually at the same time.  At least I recognize my need for wardrobe help.)  The Princess Diaries speaks to me, partly because, really, how cool would it be if you woke up one morning and found out you’re a princess?  And partly because DUDE.  Julie Andrews is your grandmother.  We would sing ALL the time.

I can think of plenty of other things that would make my world perfect, both shallow and not, but the real world is beckoning and I kinda have to pay attention to it.  Damn reality.

The most recent book in The Dresden Files (not the one that’s about to be released – before that) has a Princess Bride reference.  Of course it does.  It was just a matter of time.  I should watch that again.  Not that I need to.

I had the best salad ever the other night.  It’s the French Country Salad, and it’s the best thing ever, and if you have a Cheesecake Factory near you, you should go order it.  It’s an appetizer salad, so it’s not as humongous as their entree salads (although they may make it entree-size – I don’t know), but it’s too big to actually be an appetizer salad.  I wanted to eat something else for dinner, so I only ate half of it and I boxed up the other half.  It was so good I wanted to take it home.  Of course, by the next day, the lettuce was wilted and it wasn’t good anymore.  So if you get it, eat it then. It’s totally worth it.  Lettuce (maybe arugula?  I don’t know.), some kind of vinaigrette, goat cheese, beets, candied pecans, and grilled asparagus.  So good.  SO good.  Deliciously good.  I don’t even remember what I ordered for dinner, actually.  Oh, it was New Orleans shrimp.  Eh.  The salad was memorable.  Not so much the shrimp.

Full disclosure – I do not work for The Cheesecake Factory.  No one I know works for them.  They are not paying me for this.  It was just a really good salad. 

I took my calculus final last night.  I don’t feel good about it.  And that sucks.  But it’s over, it’s done, there’s nothing left but the screaming, and I will do my best not to fret.  Until I get my grade.  But then at least I’ll know.  New focus: statistics.  My goal for the weekend is to get through two more quizzes.  And run six miles on Saturday.  That’s really all I’m hoping to accomplish.  That and get to the grocery store.  I need to buy lots of fruit and other healthy things.  And maybe go to Target.  And possibly weed the flower beds.  Drink some wine.  Oooh, I bought a raspberry merlot (“the kind you buy at a second-hand store”) at one of the wineries Jess and I visited last weekend (did I mention Jess and I went wine-tasting last Saturday?).  It’s really good.  Sadly, it’s mostly gone already.  I might have to buy more…but maybe not this weekend.  I’m in danger of over-scheduling myself.  Focus, please.  Statistics!

I’m behind on posting, behind on reading, behind on news…behind on the internet in general.  I have a draft I started during the day on Friday, but I got sidetracked that evening (big book sale – woo!) and didn’t post, and then Saturday we left early (after dropping our dead microwave off at a local high school for recycling) for PA so we could be there for John’s grandfather’s birthday party.  I didn’t bring my computer, so I was actually without internet (I’m not counting my phone ’cause I didn’t use it) from Saturday morning until now (we just got home).  Crazy, I know.  And it seems like a ton happened.  That may not be true, but it feels like it is.

My plan for this week is to get back on track.  I felt awful all last week (too much (and too rich) food, NO exercise, not enough sleep).  I slept pretty well, and long enough, last night, ran a couple of miles this morning, and managed to eat normal amounts of food today (okay, maybe six blueberry pancakes isn’t really normal, but I hardly had anything after that), so I feel like I’ve made a good start.  Short term goal (really short term): get a normal night’s sleep tonight and run tomorrow morning.

Tonight I tried to fight the overwhelming taste of garlic with too-sweet, not very good wine, and it didn’t work out.  My tongue feels coated with something awful and I’m considering gargling salt water to scrape it clean.  I tried Listerine.  Didn’t work.  I ended up breathing minty garlic, and god, that’s gross.  Every once in a while I hear myself say there’s no such thing as too much garlic, but that’s just not true.

At least I won’t have to worry about vampires tonight.  ‘Cause you know how often I worry about vampires.  It’s nice to have a night off from that.  Of all the things that stress me out, vampires are at the top of my list.  Next to worrying about puppies not getting enough love and whether or not the New Directions will win Nationals next year.

Sometimes I like them, eat them on toast with peanut butter, as a snack, on ice cream or cereal.  Other times they kinda gross me out.  They’re mushy, and they have a weird texture.  I hate the strings that don’t come off with the peel.  And the smell of an overripe banana or the peel in the trash can – I shudder just thinking about that smell.  I don’t feel this way about other fruit (and I love banana pudding with nilla wafers).  I don’t find anything offensive about apples or strawberries or cantaloupe.  Or clementines.  (I can’t include oranges in this list – hate the seeds.)  Or grapes.  Grapes are wonderful.  Had some for lunch today.

Okay.  I haven’t been getting to bed early enough for all the running I keep planning on doing, so ridiculous as this post is, it’s going up.  Forgive me and come back tomorrow.

My banana, my banana….my banana

Corrupt orphans screwed with my computer last night.  For reals.  They were obviously upset with Michigan State Senator Bruce Caswell, who recently proposed that money set aside for clothes for Michigan’s foster children should only be spent at thrift stores like Salvation Army and Goodwill.  (Story here, courtesy of (and with commentary by) Nancy Nall.)

I’m not kidding about the corrupt orphans, though.  I tried to boot up my computer this morning, and it got stuck.  I called my handy live-in IT guy to fix it.  He helped those poor orphans out.  Very competent, that guy.  I think I’ll keep him around.

You should be so proud of me.  I just got back from a long walk with dogs and started dinner.  Dinner will only take ten minutes,  but I’m hungry NOW and I want to munch.  To graze.  To eat food high in calories and not good for me.  Like those candy-coated chocolate eggs that are my favorite Easter candy ever.  Or chips.  (Not as exciting, but STILL.  Chips.)  I resisted the urge and reached instead for – wait for it (this is where you should be proud of me) – baby carrots.

I’ll wait for the cheers and applause to die down.

Thank you.

Yes, instead of pounding down delightfully tasty treats with no nutritional value, I’m chomping on crunchy orange CUTE little carrots, chock full of vitamins and other healthy things.  They only occasionally remind me of toddler fingers.  Or my own thumbs.  Not at all disturbing.

I have a problem.  It’s called food.  I love it.  I’m back on the PAY ATTENTION, STUPID method of watching what I eat.  As of yesterday.  This weekend was full of distractions.  Anyway, I know what my scale is telling me (ugh), and I know what my mirror is telling me (eh).  I’ll get there.  In the meantime, I’ll take what validation I can get.  I walked into my Kukuwa class last night, and this very nice woman (tiny, petite, adorable) came over to me and told me I looked slimmer.  !  I love her.  Meet my new best friend.  (Sorry, Bridget.)

Flatter, as a verb, is kind of funny.  And appropriate.  Flatter is exactly what I want to be.  In most places.

John told me a number of times that I should go to Preservation Hall, so Tuesday morning I looked up the website.  I recognized the name of the guy playing that night (because I’m a big Harry Connick, Jr fan and a bit of an obsessive nerd, I happened to know off the top of my head that Shannon Powell was the drummer for his big band in the early nineties (We Are In Love is possibly my favorite album)), so I planned to go after work.  First set started at 8pm.  Unfortunately, I had to get through the whole day first.  I invited my coworker, who I’ll call Crazy (the only other person on this trip who actually works for my company – everyone else we worked with that week works for our client agency), and we got invited to dinner with one of the clients.  I didn’t particularly want to hang out with anyone from the agency after working hours (I was hoping to relax.  I didn’t want to be on anymore.), but I didn’t have a not-rude way out just then.  Anyway, she wasn’t interested in going to Preservation Hall.  I could handle dinner.

Dinner was uneventful, even boring, especially because Crazy bailed on me.  It started pouring down rain (like flooding rain – we could have swum down Canal Street), and she called to tell me she was staying in.  I had an teeny umbrella that barely kept my head dry, but nothing was keeping me from Preservation Hall that night, so I met my client coworker outside her hotel, and we ran through the rain to the Palace Cafe.  Got drenched from about mid-thigh down.  The food was good (I had andouille crusted fish – spicy and delicious), the conversation was boring, and as soon as I dropped client coworker back at her hotel, I headed out.

If you’ve never been, Preservation Hall (at least where the band plays) is this tiny little room with dirty wood plank flooring, a few wooden benches in the middle of the room (maybe four) and along the walls, a row of cushions up front, and some standing room in the back.  The entrances to the room are on the left side if you’re facing the street (and the band).  There are two doorways on that side, one near the front of the room and one near the back.  You go in through the back and leave out the front, and the doorway near the front is right by the band.  When I came in ($12 cover, and $2 for traditional requests, $5 for other requests, $10 for “When the Saints Go Marching In”, noted on a little sign on the wall behind the band), the band was playing, and as I passed the front doorway, I looked in, saw Shannon Powell (Shannon Powell!), and he waved at me and gave an enthusiastic “Hey!”  That was awesome.  I gathered he really liked to see people come in to hear him play.  There were a ton of people there already, so I joined the crowd in the back and found a spot where I could see.  Sort of.  If I stayed on my toes and looked over a guy’s shoulder.  Still, the music was awesome, and we all had a good time.  The set ended about nine, maybe a little before, and I stuck around for the next set.  I watched the people leaving talk to members of the band (Shannon Powell on drums, Lars Edegran on piano, Clive somebody on trumpet, somebody else on bass, and Scott somebody on trombone) as they filed past them on their way out that front doorway, and I decided I’d talk to Shannon and gush a little on my way out after the next set.  I found a better spot along the right-hand wall for the second set.  The crowd this time around wasn’t as lively.  I was the most enthusiastic person there, clapping to the beat, having a wonderful time.  Totally fun, and I decided to stay for the third set.  How often will I get to see this?  I’ll manage staying out late on a work night.  My enthusiasm didn’t go unnoticed.  After the second set ended, Mr. Powell came over to meet me.  Wanted to know who his fan was, I think.  It turns out he said hi to me when I came in because I look like someone he used to work with who left town a while back.  He thought she may have been back for a visit.  Yeah, that’s not me.  But still, I’m an enthusiastic fan.  He asked me what I was drinking (I didn’t have a drink), and I said nothing right now.  He beckoned me along after him.  We went across the street and stepped into a bar.  (Johnny White’s.)  I was feverishly trying to think of what to order that wouldn’t be either gross (to me) or totally lame (to him).  He asked, I said rum and coke, he said he’s drinking rum, too (rum and orange juice, I think), I said that sounds good, and he ordered me one.  And waved me away when I reached for my wallet.  He bought me a drink.  !  We chatted a little (where am I from, where are you touring next, etc), and he asked me if I wanted to hang out with the band later.  I panicked a little, said I couldn’t, I’m here for work, and I have a presentation in the morning.  Lies!  My presentation was the day after, in the afternoon.  He said something about getting my number so we can stay in touch and catch up when he comes to DC.  (I was thinking to myself that I was not that captivating during that conversation.  Still, he’s didn’t come across as sleazy.  Just friendly.)  Anyway, I regretted the presentation lie and decided I’d tell him I mixed up the days if he asked again.  (He didn’t.)  He said he’s playing at the Palm Court the next night (Wednesday).  I asked about it, and he said they have great food, great music.  I said I’ll be there.  We went back to the hall for his third set, and I took my spot back on the wall.  Good third set (the crowd was better than for the second set).  We all danced at the end.  The guy hugging the wall behind me thanked me on behalf of the band for being able to clap on the right beat (2 and 4 as opposed to 1 and 3 like a few idiots in the audience).  I tipped the band (as you do), and Shannon said “Palm Court tomorrow?”  “I’ll be there at 8.”  I headed out and walked back to my hotel, grinning like an idiot at everyone I passed (it was a little before midnight), and called Mindy to rave about my evening.  What did she want to know?  “What are you going to wear tomorrow?”  We have priorities.  It was SO. MUCH. FUN.

I’m back home, where spring has sprung, but it’s not warm enough for me.  Not after a week of mid-70s in New Orleans.  Not after only needing a jacket late at night on my way home a jazz club.  And speaking of weather and jazz and awesomeness, if I hadn’t made notes during the week, I wouldn’t know where to begin.  Since I did, I’ll begin at the beginning.

I got to New Orleans Saturday afternoon and made it to my hotel.  Pretty straightforward.  Finding my room after that was not so simple.  I was in Building 2 (or was it Building B?), which is up an escalator, up another escalator, across the breezeway, forward and then around to the left, past the gift shop that wasn’t open even ONCE the whole week, up an elevator, down a hall, and around another corner.  The gym (which I faithfully visited every morning except for the third, fourth, fifth, and sixth days), was back the way I’d come in and then another half-mile in the opposite direction from the front desk and up four floors.  It was a workout just to get there.

Everyone else (Mom, Dad, Mindy, Corey, Candy, and Gaby – we were only missing John and Mark) got there a few hours later, and after dinner, Mindy, Corey, Candy, and I headed to Bourbon Street.  That was…something.  I may not have been in the right mood.  Crowded, loud, dirty.  We wound our way through throngs of girls in short prom dresses, frat boys, and vomit.  We did find a Dixieland band playing in a bar, though (Fritzel’s European Jazz Pub – beware the link if your speakers are on: music starts playing as soon as you land on the page).  That was cool.  Something I learned (although not that night): many musicians would rather you didn’t call it Dixieland.  Traditional New Orleans Jazz is the preferred term.

The next morning (Sunday – it was a beautiful morning), we had brunch at Brennan’s.  I could do that every week.  You’d have to roll me home every week, but WOW.  Loved the place, loved the strawberries and cream, LOVED the bananas foster and crepes fitzgerald.  My entree was meh, but everyone else’s was reallyreally good, and I tried them all.  From there, we hopped the streetcar to the Garden District (after changing into our UK gear – Go CATS!).  Those houses are amazing.

Detour to talk about the weather.  It was so warm.  SO warm.  And breezy, and wonderful, and WARM.  All the windows (big windows) on the streetcar were open and it felt so nice.  /detour

A little after 4pm (game time!), we hopped off the streetcar and Corey and Candy asked a nice stranger where we might be able to find a sports bar.  You can’t run around during March Madness with your UK gear on and NOT watch the game.  He sent us to one a couple of blocks away, practically empty, except for three people together at the bar and maybe another guy.  Just after halftime, one of the three at the bar walked by our table on her way back to her seat.  She was wearing a UK shirt, too, and Corey high-fived her.  Mindy and I looked at each other.  She looked really familiar to both of us, but it’s a little ridiculous of us to assume we know everyone in the world wearing a UK shirt, right?  Well, right, except not in this case.  I went over to ask her.  “Are you from [town redacted]?”  “Yes.”  “Did you go to [high school redacted]?”  “Zannah?”  So, yeah, we went to high school together, had friends in common (loyal commenter IBCRandy, among others), remembered each other vaguely, but enough.  Totally weird.  She lives in the neighborhood we were in.  What are the odds?  The stars aligned for me this whole trip, but more on that in another post (or three).  So that was cool.  And UK won, which was also cool.  Too bad they couldn’t keep that up.

Dad, Corey, Candy, and Gaby all left on Monday (after breakfast at the Cafe du Monde, where we watched Gaby wallow in powdered sugar), and I went to work for a few hours.  I came back to find Mom and Mindy waiting in my room (it was kind of sad to come back after work the next day and have no one to meet me).  Mindy made an inspired dinner decision (I think it was her choice), and we went to the Grapevine Wine Bar.  No live music, but the wine made up for that.  We killed three bottles and ate appetizers (scallops, beef medallions, cheese and crackers, baked brie, and something else…mussels!) and skipped dessert.  Partly because who needs dessert after three bottles of wine, and partly because fudge cheese didn’t sound particularly appetizing.  I’m not making that up.

On our tipsy way back to the hotel after dinner, we met a three-man a capella group on the corner somewhere along Decatur and sang with them.  Met some people on the way back home (all new friends), and then Mom and Mindy left the next morning (Tuesday).  Tuesday night is when my solo adventures started, and I’ll get into them tomorrow.  I’m typed out.

My willpower and I had a showdown today at work, AND I WON.  I said no to a crock pot full of warm melted white chocolate.  I said no again to the crock pot full of warm melted milk chocolate.  I said yes to the strawberries piled up next to the two crock pots full of devilishly wonderful bad stuff.  (I had to say yes to something or I might have cracked.  Any why say no to strawberries?)  And then I left the room.  Didn’t look back.  Only drooled a little bit over the plates my coworkers brought into our next meeting.  I am stronger than white chocolate!

Then I went to the gym for two hours (back to back classes), and then had a little bit of cheese with crackers and apple slices with peanut butter for dinner.  I need to feel virtuous (and crow about it) or I might lapse into recriminations for making myself missing out on strawberries and bananas dipped in melted white chocolate.  I’m on day three of calorie-counting again, and I’ve instituted the rule that worked so well for me last time: if I can’t count it, I won’t eat it.

Lunch might be overstating it, but I did eat cheese and crackers, some carrots, and celery and peanut butter.  All between about 2:30 and 4:30.  And I had breakfast.  AND a mid-morning chai latte.  Maybe I should start a food diary again.  That sounds like a lot now that I’ve written it down.  But it’s not the amount of food I’m concerned with right now; it’s the timing.  I JUST ATE.  Still hungry.  But no – I’ll stay out of the cookies that are calling my name.  I’m going to the gym and coming home to find dinner waiting for me.  (John’s cooking tonight – yay John and yay salmon!)  So no cookies.  Cookies I wouldn’t even have bought if it weren’t for Wegmans and their evil, sneaky marketing plan.  Wegmans smelled like warm chocolate today.  That might be the best smell in the world.  I like the smell of jasmine, too, very much, but when I smell warm chocolate, I want to find some and curl up inside it.  I’ve never felt the urge to cuddle up with a bed of jasmine.  On the other hand, if Wegmans had smelled like jasmine, I might have bought a plant instead of fresh chocolate chip cookies from the bakery.

Along with many strangers who happened to be passing by.  I left work early to get home before the weather got really bad, but my normal 20-minute commute took me almost an hour and a half.  What started out as sleet turned into heavy wet snow.  I finally got home and started shoveling the driveway so John (in his Mustang – terrible in this weather) would be able to pull in.  Twenty minutes later, I got a call.  John was stuck.  He was in the right turn lane about a mile and a half away, and he needed rescuing.  I threw the snow shovels in the my car (4-wheel drive – thanks, Dad!) and went to meet him.  We shoveled down to pavement so his tires could get a grip, and he was able to get in the left turn lane.  (A guy in a pickup truck stopped and offered to pull him out, but John had it under control by then.)  He needed to do a u-turn to get home (we were trying to avoid hills – his car wouldn’t make it up a slippery incline), but he got stuck in the left lane at the light.  I got back out of my car and tried to push him forward (the traffic was pretty light – we weren’t worried about pushing him into the middle of a busy intersection), his tires were spinning, and then I heard someone behind me yell, “No no no!  Slow down!  Stop!”  Some other guy had stopped in the turn lane behind me (we all had our flashers on) and was running up to help.  He said he was from Minnesota (there aren’t many credentials better than that in this kind of weather), and he coached John (with totally contradictory suggestions (“Easy now, easy, go go go, no, take it easy!”) through the u-turn while helping me push from behind.  We got John around the median and facing the other way (the right way to go home), and then I followed John up the road.  He made it about a mile and then got stuck (in the middle of the intersection) making a left turn.  This time a guy who was out walking his dogs (and his family) ran over to help me push.  We helped John rock the car out of the center and get across the road.  Our plan at this point was to get to the parking lot of the shopping center where the Bloom used to be and just leave the car there.  We live uphill from everywhere, and there was no way his car was going to make it.  He didn’t even make it all the way to the parking lot.  He got stuck on the road right next to it, but there are parking spaces along that road, so we shoveled one clear and kinda pushed and shoved his car into it.  We’ll retrieve it tomorrow.  That whole time (somewhere between an hour and an hour and a half) the snow was coming down like crazy.  My jeans were soaked through and I had snow falling down the back of my neck.  A warm dinner was called for (and wine for me and rum and coke for John).  Luckily, while the band was rehearsing last night, I made a pot of Dad’s beefy rice (dirty rice, kidney beans, onion, hamburger), and all we had to do was heat it up.  Turned out great.  (Thanks, Dad!)

Anyone heard of a company called Capital Meats? This guy rang the doorbell tonight and told me he was selling boxes of meat to my neighbors and he’s trying to empty his truck and would I like some frozen stuffed tilapia? He’s mostly out of meat, but he’s got shrimp and fish, maybe a few hamburgers left. He’s practically giving them away, he said. I said no, thanks, and then no again, and then no, really, I have a tiny freezer and it’s full, and good luck with that, but I’m going back inside. His truck was parked up the street (couldn’t tell how big it was or if the company’s name was on the side), and when I looked outside again, I saw him staggering down the sidewalk with a stack of boxes in his arms. I guess another neighbor is buying.

I understand meat being delivered by truck. That just makes sense, particularly when it’s being delivered to restaurants (of course), and even to individuals who ordered ahead of time. It seems really weird to then go door to door and try to get random people to buy boxes of whatever on impulse. I feel that way about anything when it’s sold door to door, but particularly meat. Ding-dong! Hi there! Wanna buy a cookie steak? Weird.

Hm. Add tilapia to the list of words WordPress’ spellcheck doesn’t recognize.

Dessert is my weakness.  Sometimes.  Definitely today.  If you ever have the opportunity, try the Bailey’s and chocolate creme brulee at Buzz Bakery in Alexandria.  With a tall glass of milk.  So good.

I think both.  John needed wonton soup (he’s not feeling well), and since I was going to pick up the dry cleaning tonight (dry cleaning, dry cleaning, dry cleaning) and our favorite Chinese takeout place is in the same shopping center, I figured I’d just order in person and then come back for it after a trip to CVS.  In the middle of placing my order, the woman behind the counter looked up and rattled off my address.  Consistency is a good thing, right?

I think the fortune in my fortune cookie tonight was a direct response to John’s:

His: “Love in its essence is spiritual fire.”

Mine: “Lucky you.  Get out your party clothes.”