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Note to self*
*Yes, even though the prickometer shatters every time someone utters that phrase, I need it.
Because the problem, apparently, is my notes to self. I only discovered that this ranks as a problem today, when a scowling grimacey thing of a woman glared at me as I passed her and her Bugaboo-ensconced offspring on the sidewalk. I was dashing back from CVS [Park Slope lunch scene]. (All the cool self-employers hit it up on the regs. What, whaaat?) She was moving determinedly toward a playdate. Maybe one with afternoon mimosas. And I was busy in my head trying to figure out what to do about [boring boring boring], when the solution washed over me, which caused me to cease just thinking about it and begin making the actual shapes for the words newly at the top of my mind.
To clarify, no sounds emerged from my face; word shapes just appeared on my lips. But as I looked up at the frosty never-had-a-good-thought-in-her-life bitch across from me, she moved to protect her young like an insecure animal.
So now I’m just wondering how strange this actually is. This can’t merit crazy-lady-mumbling-on-the-street avoidance. I mean, I know today isn’t my best hair day, but come on.
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Flat Tire
Sunday was kind of brutal here. (Eggs frying on the pavement type hot.)
That, combined with what I learned this morning was the management’s decision not to move the garbage outside (or at least to an air conditioned space) all weekend, meant the smell in here was becoming unfortunate. (Gross, right? Febreze wouldn’t help. Vacuuming wouldn’t help. Pledging all the wood surfaces didn’t even help. When there’s rotten food, etc. essentially being cooked in the basement, you’re going to smell it… even on the fourth floor.)
So by the end of the day, we were tired of being cooped up in our slightly stinky, very hot greenhouse apartment. (Sorry, not we… just me. I think Eric could live in solitary confinement indefinitely if he were provided a computer and writing implements.)
Anyway, this half of we dragged us out for a walk that ended up taking us over to Grom where we enjoyed their gorgeous, overpriced (not really – it’s worth it) gelato treats (with extra whipped cream – ohmygodsodelicious). Things were looking up. It was a beautiful night, much cooler and less muggy; and the line at Grom wasn’t more than ten people long.
When we began the long walk home, I was still working on my gelato (because, as my mother used to say, I don’t eat, I dine) and didn’t even notice when Eric pulled over. I was already at the next corner when I turned around to offer him another bite, and found myself pointing a heaping spoonful at the mouth of a strange man to my left. Oops.
Turns out Eric got himself a flat tire. Tried and true Pumas (almost ten years old) blew out right there on the street with no provocation.
And the poor guy had to make it the remaining mile and a half home like he was riding on a donut.
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A Bicycle Built for Delivery
From a walk through the village on Friday night. In New York, something is always moving.
And how do you like this guy’s fancy man-jeans? Sexy.
