Some people go to therapy to stay calm and sane, some take Prozac or do yoga. For me, I've found that perusing the San Francisco apartment rentals on Craigslist calms me down, though god knows why, as it's fairly clear from the prices that we'll have to share a 300-square-foot studio in the Tenderloin with two crack whores and a small army of cockroaches when we finally do move out there.
Dear Real Estate Agent Who Has Been Charged With Selling The House In Which I've Lived For The Last Two Years (And Who Is A Man),
Dental Assistant (talking over my head to dentist, as I'm lying in the chair): So, did you and Thomas go out last night?
Dentist: Yeah, we went to Moe's.
Dental Assistant: Ha! Did you get him all messed up again, like last time?
I fell just a little bit in love with Jemima's father on Saturday night, when we attended a party to celebrate her engagement—or, as he put it, “the end of spinsterville.” At one point, upon noticing that Sean’s glass was empty, Jemima’s father nodded towards him and said “son, you’ve got yourself a problem there. Better get another one, or people are going to start thinking you’re a Presbyterian.”
Which is how it came to pass that some hours later, I was able to take this:
The other day, Sean and I interviewed a local chef for an article I was writing—well, I interviewed him and Sean photographed him, which really meant that we both got to leave work early and have someone feed us sauteed baby quail at four o'clock in the afternoon. (And I'm leaving this job again why?) On our way back to the car afterwards, we started talking about how there were so many restaurants in Charleston we hadn't yet been to in the three and a half years we've lived in the city, and Sean said "We could just stay here and eat.
When I first got the idea to post pictures of things I'd miss when I left work---and when I say "got the idea," I actually mean "stole it from Amalah"---I thought I'd be a real asshole about it, and photograph things I hated, like the perpetually empty roll of toilet paper in the women's bathroom, or my constantly overflowing trashcan, or the huge red wine stain on the cream carpet right by the desk in my office.
So I tried to order a keg yesterday for this party we're having tomorrow night---because, you know, I don't have eight million things to do before I leave the country so I thought tomorrow I'd spend the morning making 75 deviled eggs and the afternoon stringing Christmas lights from the trees in the garden---and I called a local grocery store because someone had told me they knew they did kegs.
So obviously I'm not at the airport anymore (that would be one pretty delayed flight) but I still haven't answered all the questions that were posed. I've been too busy wandering the aisles of the supermarkets in England, running my hands reverently over all the British food products I'd forgotten were in existence. I'll admit I was moved to tears in front of the chocolate biscuits.
My lack of posting over the last week stems in part from an incredibly tenuous wireless connection---which seems to come and go depending on what color socks I'm wearing and whether my last meal contained any ingredients beginning with the letter "s"---and also from the fact that I'm unable to type with one hand, and I'd have needed to type with one hand if I was to type at all over the last few days, because the other hand would, at any given time, most likely have been holding a drink.
Oh Internet, you may think you've had fun before, but have you ever been to an amusement park in the middle of a rainy afternoon wearing an assortment of wacky hats? Do the math! If hats are funny on their own, and amusement parks are exciting by themselves, combining the two can surely only lead to the most fun ever experienced by anyone ever, right?
