Tired

A shift, a job interview, an immigration meeting, and two classes, on two hours' sleep.  But I got four shirts for $20 and stole a bottle of white wine from an empty conference room.  Call it a draw, Wednesday.

Housebound

I am in love with my house. To the point where some city agoraphobia is kicking in, and I refuse to go out as emphatically as I relish staying in, and the fact that Manhattan has delivery-- I take turns taking care of myself and giving myself license to put off work some more, be anti-social, stay in bed.

Housewarming

Us gals broke it in with ginger sours and pop music and smack talk. And accidental kissing, right Katherine? I have chairs and stuff but of course in a studio everyone ends up partying on the bed.  I love having people over to mine.

1 1/2 oz. citron vodka
1/2 oz. lemon juice
1/2 oz. simple syrup
3-4 ginger slices

Muddle ginger. Shake with rest of ingredients with ice.

Thanksgiving

Christ, I am so weepy this week. I think the Americans got to me with the Thanksgiving stuff. It is, as Grace said, "equivalent to the superbowl multiplied by christmas." Everyone is home with their family, or here with their family. I went out to buy lightbulbs on Thursday and everything was closed. Y&R wasn't on. Everything stopped.

Of course, New York is very unfamily most of the time. Everyone is single and crazy and gay and trying to get an acting job and living four to an apartment. I think they've made a sitcom about this. Anyway, when my mom was here, she continued on being her mom self, but here. So every time I turned around she had washed the dishes and wiped the countertop, or put some fresh flowers in a vase, and instead of my apartment being the abused crash pad that it is, it was suddenly a home. Even when we went down to the garbage room, she made a point of turning the light off after us. Little stuff like that. It lingers, it's nice.

About time

I used to always notice these cups on Law and Order before I moved here. And then, after I did move here, I noticed that I never got them. So for a while I tried seeking them out - buying my coffee from different places, etc. They really are a NY institution, after all - the MoMA design store sells ceramic versions. Anyway, today for the first time I bought hot coffee instead of iced from my coffee guy. And look at that.

Content

If I go to prison or the hospital tonight, and they have to reconstruct my identity on the basis of what I am carrying around in my bag, they will have the following to work with:



1. a bunch of books on Kant.
2. a hammer.
3. tarts.

I have no problem with the picture that paints.

Okay, I won't spoil this with a sarcastic title. Okay, I will.

I took the 1 train first thing this morning. It was half-full, yet very quiet. Like a bad movie montage, I kept cutting out to flash back to moments of this past year that I am thinking about. I got off at 168th, which is definitely my new favourite station. It's very... underground. Seems older than it probably is. Then a bus along the parkway, to "Orangeburg" (allegedly), NY. I didn't know there was a county west of Westchester - that north of the Bronx, New York state swung left and annexed land west of the Hudson from New Jersey. Then a bus back nine hours later, stuck in weekend tollbooth commuter traffic, listening to a sweet friend of a friend go on but unable to engage. Over an unfamiliar bridge, down the island on the east side, and dropped off close to the East River. The whole day was canny/uncanny - in my city but in completely unfamiliar surroundings and streets, and all day I didn't see a face I recognized.