I remember places by smell and taste, even when memories of sound and sight have grown tattered with time. That is why New York is not only skyscrapers and subway trains, but also vegetarian dim sum and egg creams and ickygood Dojo soy sandwiches. Of course, these remembrances of things past are nothing new or unique. But lately I've realized that I measure my life in food. In other words, the quality of my life is reflected by the food I eat. When I am happiest, I'm eating out a lot or cooking for friends. When I'm sad, I find one food (Nutella, peanut butter, cupcakes) and eat it directly from the container. That said, on Friday I dined at Lovitt with Karinsa, Leo, Jimk, and Beau. Saturday was a solo Indian buffet lunch; Sunday was brunch followed later by a tofu vegetable Thai curry. So, y'know, life's going pretty well. Or at least the weekends are.
I wrote this back in September, but had been too busy to post it. From the 'Better Late Than Never' Files:
Last week, I had a Buffy party. I had about fifteen people over for snacks, television and chats. All was going well. I was a shining example of how to entertain, until (and there's always an until, isn't there?) around eight-thirty. At one point I realized that somebody smelled like poop! Literally. I mean, the foul fragrance was unbearable. You couldn't inhale without receiving a cruel whiff. I casually walked around the party, trying to find the Poop Bandit. No luck. It was a surprise to look down and find a big stinky smear on my shirt. Ah yes, when I picked my cat up to show off his cuteness, my little Mikan had left me a souvenir from the litter box. I'd been shit-shirted! I quickly dashed to the bathroom, only to discover that his fecal offering had wickedly befouled the air there. Ever the quick thinker, I spritzed some perfume to cover the offending stench. In my haste, I wound up spraying myself. The grace and poise just never stops, folks. It never stops.
Last week, I had a Buffy party. I had about fifteen people over for snacks, television and chats. All was going well. I was a shining example of how to entertain, until (and there's always an until, isn't there?) around eight-thirty. At one point I realized that somebody smelled like poop! Literally. I mean, the foul fragrance was unbearable. You couldn't inhale without receiving a cruel whiff. I casually walked around the party, trying to find the Poop Bandit. No luck. It was a surprise to look down and find a big stinky smear on my shirt. Ah yes, when I picked my cat up to show off his cuteness, my little Mikan had left me a souvenir from the litter box. I'd been shit-shirted! I quickly dashed to the bathroom, only to discover that his fecal offering had wickedly befouled the air there. Ever the quick thinker, I spritzed some perfume to cover the offending stench. In my haste, I wound up spraying myself. The grace and poise just never stops, folks. It never stops.
Labels: buffy
October has generally been an unfortunate month for me, especially around the third day. It was five years ago yesterday that I wound up in the hospital ("wound up" is a funny phrase). So began a long string of nights spent alternating between wild insomnia and depressive deep sleep. I've been sleeping deeply lately, too, but not because I'm completely depressed. More dysthymic than anything. Sleeping goes so quickly and unnoticed, and lately I have had semi-conscious conversations that involve me not knowing whether I'm awake or asleep. I don't know if this October will be unfortunate. I'm hoping that it won't be, obviously. I'm staying busy with a lot of freelance work, and that creates more energy than it takes. So that's a plus. Do I sound convincing? Even halfway?
Also, to present an example of hypersensitivity (irrational, I know, yet genuine): it hurts my feelings when I try to commit one of those random acts of kindness, and people act as though you've just squatted down and pooped on their shoes. Why is it that if you do something thoughtful, it's often met with disdainful stares or general weirdness? Where are the people that you find on Oprah, who appreciate little kindnesses and don't throw them back in your face? Well, I've had enough. J'en ai marre. From now on I am being nice to only my kitty and roommate, who LIKE niceness.
Also, to present an example of hypersensitivity (irrational, I know, yet genuine): it hurts my feelings when I try to commit one of those random acts of kindness, and people act as though you've just squatted down and pooped on their shoes. Why is it that if you do something thoughtful, it's often met with disdainful stares or general weirdness? Where are the people that you find on Oprah, who appreciate little kindnesses and don't throw them back in your face? Well, I've had enough. J'en ai marre. From now on I am being nice to only my kitty and roommate, who LIKE niceness.
