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I am...a New Yorker
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[Previous entry: "Lucky"]

Monday, December 23, 2002
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Baking...
Chocolate chip/oatmeal/peanut butter bar cookies
Mexican wedding cakes
shortbread
jam thumbprints (rolled in nuts)

[Not] Baking...
Checkerboards, I should have made that dough first. But it requires refrigeration and cutting and I wanted to see quick results, after doing fuck all until Sunday evening.

Finding...
Another cookie sheet of mine at R's, which makes it far easier to make batch after batch of cookies than just having one.

Nibbling...
On pomegranate seeds, apples and pears while I cooked.

Eating...
A nice bowl of cioppino -- warm, spicy, tomatoey and full of lovely mussels.

Drinking...
A smooth bottle of Shiraz.

Hearing...
One of R's '80s rock party mix CDs, which K found among the 50 CDs in the player.

Singing...
Oh gawd, not the Savage Garden!

Watching...
A man wash the dishes. Now that's a turn-on!

Appreciating...
Being appreciated.

Walking...
Eleven blocks, but too slowly for speedy K.

Irritating...
Not having my own kitchen, fully-stocked. I practically drooled over the 11 glass bowl set and other items I once owned when I stopped at Williams-Sonoma on Friday night.

Missing...
See above. I'm working on it.

I am...winding down from a really nice weekend. After the bad news on Tuesday and a minor cold Wednesday and Thursday, I was ready for some fun.

Friday night I went to see The Two Towers with my friend T, who I hadn't seen for a while. It was fantastic, both the film and the company. The weather was so mild, I walked both ways. One of the things I love about New York is that I feel perfectly comfortable walking the streets alone at 2 a.m., even stopping to give drunken revellers directions.

. . .

On Saturday, I actually got up at a decent hour, rather than waiting around for lunch here in the building. I need to do that more often. But if I wake up at 10 and don't get back before 1:30, I miss a meal and have to spend money. I need to stop fearing that sort of thing, as it's not helping me actually make any more money.

My plan was to go up to R's apartment and bake my little heart out. Instead, I bumped into a friend on the way out of the building. She's off for the holidays and then on to the Women's Vigil in Washington, D.C. in January. She's not sure if she'll be back. It's been great to have someone in the building who is aware of and dismayed about the current political climate. She'd spent several years meditating for peace in the mountains, so it's not just idle banter for her.

When I got home at 2:30 on Saturday morning, she'd left a note under my door saying she was leaving. So seeing her was a rather pleasant surprise indeed. We got to visit for a while on the bus up to the Port Authority. I stayed on the bus to R's apartment, lugging clothes, my laptop and some groceries.

. . .

I invited K. over to keep me company while I baked cookies. Problem was, I got hung up with seeing my politically-minded friend, and going to two grocery stores because neither had everything I needed. I didn't get to my cookie doughs in time. Indeed, I barely got out of the shower before K arrived. It's a good thing I managed to run a lot of my errrands in the morning.

K brought a nice bottle of wine and kept me company while I cooked. When I wrote about the richness I've missed in my life in New York, this is the sort of thing I had in mind. I don't desire gold, fashionable clothes or expensive nights out. It warms my heart to make dinner for someone I care about, to enjoy their company. This should not feel like some unobtainable luxury.

R will be laid off next week, now that Record Co. has sold and his boss has moved on. He is talking about leaving New York, of giving up his apartment. If I made $5k more, as I did while at Non-Prophet (coincidentally, just 8 blocks away from R's apartment, I could sublet the place from him. But I don't. I can't imagine not having it as a haven, as it has been more my home here in New York than any place I've actually moved into.

At any rate, K thoroughly enjoyed the cioppino, and even asked for seconds. He continues to be charming, thoughtful and witty. We have such great conversations -- he would fit in with all of my dearest, most warped friends. Considering his email address and domain name alone, he is Fang's possibly less evil twin.

With all the running around and cooking, I began to fade shortly after dinner. Between a few glasses of wine and a belly full of warm seafood stew, I could not have felt more satisfied. I gathered the dishes and tried to stand up to take them into the kitchen. Alas, gravity was not on my side.

K. grabbed the bowls and told me to relax. I melted into R's big, comfy sofa where a few days earlier, I'd nurtured myself at the start of my cold. R's apartment has a soothing, yet recharging affect on me. I very nearly drifted off to sleep before I realized the water hadn't stopped running. I walked into the kitchen to find K. doing the dishes.

I was so touched by that. It might be sad that it struck me so. When I thanked him, because lo, I hate to do the dishes, he shrugged and thanked me again for dinner. Manners and consideration aren't foreign concepts, how refreshing!

Afterward, K. asked me to walk uptown with him to Tower near Lincoln Center to find an Eddie Izzard DVD. It was only a dozen blocks or so, but my legs were burning, more from trying to match K's brisk stride than from the distance alone. He was walking slowly so I could keep up, too. Now that's just sad.

Despite a large display for the DVD in question, no copies were to be found. We caught the 1 downtown to 50th, where K needed to meet a friend. A fuckwad standing next to K on the train stared intently at his own reflection (complete with toothpick and, later, a cigarette) in the subway door window while turning an open matchbook in his fingers with a loud flick on each half turn. K looked at me with a smirk.

"Charming," said I.

The wad got off at 50th as well, taking off quickly and continuing to flick that damn matchbook. K took no little glee in pointing out that the wad promptly dropped the matchbook. A misanthrope after my own cold, black heart.

[Next entry: "Pulling Mussels from a Shell"]
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