Retrospective on the week.

Since the eleventh grade, I have not had to be that person who prefaces internet writing with some form of “Wow it’s been a long time since my last update, sorry guys!”  I have more often been that person who silently worries that people think she’s odd for posting three times a day.

Not that there hasn’t been temptation.  Like when I forgot it was Halloween and the man waiting to cross 15th street in a three piece suit and fedora hat with a long cigar sticking out of his mouth, who looked out of place, but not so out of place among other people in suits on their way to the office that he made me feel like I was in the Twilight Zone.  I thought, that would make a good post.  Especially for Margaret in Korea who asks for things to read in the gyomushil, and won’t get to see grown people walking around the city in costumes.

Also, the temptation to quote from I am America and So Can You, which I have been listening to as an audio book during my morning walks to the office.  I still haven’t been convinced to ride a bike, but I do walk to work most mornings, a walk I am beginning to treasure, as I spend very little time just out and in the city otherwise.  I say good morning to strangers and feel a little bit more like a part of the world than I do when I hustle down to the subway and make eye contact with no one.

“And you can’t spell abuse without bus, which is why I never take public transportation.” –Stephen Colbert

There’s plenty I could say about work: we are on the same floor as a divorce attorney and it’s quite awkward having to walk between a couple fighting in front of the elevators — “It’s not just home when you’re happy”– in order to go downstairs and get you’re fifth cup of coffee.

I’ve almost sent my first large project to print, which is super, although leaving the office at 8:15 on Friday night is not.  Which is why my posting, really writing of any kind, has fallen so by the wayside.  By the time I’ve eaten dinner, all that appeals to me are cocktails and prime time television.

Milie and I pilgrimaged again to the far-away but awesome laundromat yesterday; the first thing I did was break our spaghetti jar full of laundry detergent and cut my thumb.  The attendant, a guy in an Xavier Academy t-shirt, helped us clean it up and later complemented my knitting as he came around to wipe down the washing machines.  “You don’t see people doing that anymore.  That’s cool.  My mom used to crochet.  She’d make me blankets.”

One hates to just contradict what someone says to make small-talk, but I have to wonder how he’s not aware how chic it is to knit.  Milie handed me a pair of shorts “Here, you fold them, I can’t handle the static sound.”

“Static makes a sound?” he said.  We tried to describe the crackle.  “Every time I shock  myself, I feel like we should be able to power this place on static electricity.”


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