This augurs well

Today started auspiciously:

  • Saturday morning, my one time all week to sleep in without impunity, and I woke at 6:30 a.m.
  • As I opened the freezer door for coffee beans, something green smashed on the floor: a bottle of exploded ginger beer that I’d put in to quick-chill Thursday night. Oops. It made quite a slushy, slivery mess in the freezer compartment and on the floor. At least it smelled good. But it took forever to find and wipe up all the green shards. (Note: I have an unreasonable fear of stepping on sharp objects. It might be because I stepped on a seam-ripper as a child and the metal tip broke off in my foot — and seems to still be there, if my last X-ray is any indication. Or it could be because my dad, whenever he picked up a staple or splinter or some such, would say, “That’d feel good in somebody’s foot.”)
  • When the coffee was ready, I remembered that my only milk had expired two weeks ago. I put some Carnation powdered milk in it, but it’s fairly yucky.
  • Walking into the living room to check email and turn on “Weekend Edition,” I took a step and gasped as a sharp pain in my heel told me that I hadn’t quite gotten every last sliver. I searched the floor for the culprit, but saw nothing. Turns out it was still in my foot, driven fairly deeply into the calloused skin. I tried extracting it with tweezers (which caused that sickening shivery feeling in my neck that I get whenever I step on something sharp), but it was too deep. I was able to force it out by pressing around the wound and doused it with hydrogen peroxide. Let that be a lesson to you, kids, to wear shoes or at the very least slippers in the house.

Yesterday, walking home after dinner with T. & K., I passed a house the front yard of which was filled — I mean, overflowing, nothing but — yellow and white lilies, all in bloom. It was amazing, but I wondered what it will look like when they wither.

Dinner itself was pleasant. We ate at a newish supposedly Mediterranean place tucked back behind the Rosebud Diner. I guess it shares the same kitchen as the Rosebud, but it has pricier items and a bar and better decor, and the same burger costs a couple bucks more. But the fries that came with it were top-notch. Most places that serve thick-cut steak fries undercook them, but these were dark and crunchy and flavorful. I took issue with the waiter, who by turns couldn’t be bothered to bring things we’d asked for (seeing that T. and I had waited to eat our burgers until he brought us mustard, he seemed shocked: “You guys were waiting for the mustard?”) and overly chummy (”Is that the best apple martini you’ve ever had,” he asked me. I equivocated, “It’s up there,” though in reality it was a little bland. “I put in a touch of Stoli Vanil,” which explains its lack of tartness. “Smoooooth,” I said, not wanting to throw up on his secret recipe.

Guess I should get crackin’ — I have a lot of work to do today, cleaning the new apartment and packing up my old one. And if I run out to do my errands, I can grab a yummy iced coffee at Carberry’s or Diesel.



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