All hail the utter and delightful decadence of taking a day off in the middle of the week to swan about in the sun doing not so much at all.
I stayed in the library till I gave myself a wretched headache, then decided I needed to blow off the rest of the afternoon, I have nine pages written, dammit.
On the 1 train downtown, there were jolly boys playing bongos. Downtown, there was a zucchini slice at the Sullivan Street Bakery, a chat with Lurlene about the Dowager Marchioness of Salisbury, and then returning to the counter for a second zucchini slice, hot damn they know what they’re doing at the Sullivan Street Bakery. It was like when Charlie buys that Willy Wonka Whipple-Scrumptious Fudgemallow Delight and then goes back for another because it is just so good. And then the nice counter boy gave me a slice of chocolate-ganache financier just to be nice, so I sat back down with a cup of coffee and—and this is a very big “and”—the special Oscars edition of Us Weekly. I’d forgotten about the “Stars—They’re Just Like Us” feature, which tells you how long it’s been since I’ve looked at this magazine, because that spread alone is always worth the $3.29 cover price. And this week it was “Oscar Nominees—They’re Just Like Us,” which meant that accompanying the caption “They Check Their Booty” was a picture of Hilary Swank picking at her Guy Laroche–swathed butt on the red carpet. Go on, you know you love it.
The sun was streaming in through the thick glass-block walls, so it was time for walking up Wooster and along Prince and down Mercer and being in love with the city.
In the shops, I tried on summer dresses and danced about in fitting rooms, I continued my long infatuation with pink and black Puma Speed Cats, I lusted after a $295 pair of vermillion pointy-toed little-heeled leather shoes at Barneys Co-Op; and didn’t buy one single thing except some basil and a bag of crumpets and a loaf of seven-grain (Made from our Authentic European Recipe “From the Old Country”) at Gourmet Garage, can I get some awe and recognition around here please.
And then it was time to be hungry again, which worked out well for me and Sarah tucked away in the back at Lucien, over fish soup and an endive salad and a cozy macchiato, and of course over talking about boys, because we like boys.
At the Second Avenue station, the train came immediately, which was clearly a sign that sometimes if you need to take the day off, you should just take the day off and everything will fall into place and you will be surrounded by good vibes all day—because the Second Avenue station is the stinkiest one to be stuck at if you have to be waiting on the platform for the F train to come moseying down the tracks like an old lady in a flower-print dress on a hot summer afternoon.
I stayed in the library till I gave myself a wretched headache, then decided I needed to blow off the rest of the afternoon, I have nine pages written, dammit.
On the 1 train downtown, there were jolly boys playing bongos. Downtown, there was a zucchini slice at the Sullivan Street Bakery, a chat with Lurlene about the Dowager Marchioness of Salisbury, and then returning to the counter for a second zucchini slice, hot damn they know what they’re doing at the Sullivan Street Bakery. It was like when Charlie buys that Willy Wonka Whipple-Scrumptious Fudgemallow Delight and then goes back for another because it is just so good. And then the nice counter boy gave me a slice of chocolate-ganache financier just to be nice, so I sat back down with a cup of coffee and—and this is a very big “and”—the special Oscars edition of Us Weekly. I’d forgotten about the “Stars—They’re Just Like Us” feature, which tells you how long it’s been since I’ve looked at this magazine, because that spread alone is always worth the $3.29 cover price. And this week it was “Oscar Nominees—They’re Just Like Us,” which meant that accompanying the caption “They Check Their Booty” was a picture of Hilary Swank picking at her Guy Laroche–swathed butt on the red carpet. Go on, you know you love it.
The sun was streaming in through the thick glass-block walls, so it was time for walking up Wooster and along Prince and down Mercer and being in love with the city.
In the shops, I tried on summer dresses and danced about in fitting rooms, I continued my long infatuation with pink and black Puma Speed Cats, I lusted after a $295 pair of vermillion pointy-toed little-heeled leather shoes at Barneys Co-Op; and didn’t buy one single thing except some basil and a bag of crumpets and a loaf of seven-grain (Made from our Authentic European Recipe “From the Old Country”) at Gourmet Garage, can I get some awe and recognition around here please.
And then it was time to be hungry again, which worked out well for me and Sarah tucked away in the back at Lucien, over fish soup and an endive salad and a cozy macchiato, and of course over talking about boys, because we like boys.
At the Second Avenue station, the train came immediately, which was clearly a sign that sometimes if you need to take the day off, you should just take the day off and everything will fall into place and you will be surrounded by good vibes all day—because the Second Avenue station is the stinkiest one to be stuck at if you have to be waiting on the platform for the F train to come moseying down the tracks like an old lady in a flower-print dress on a hot summer afternoon.
posted by stellou at 4:51 AM
1 Comments:
Or, as the woman says in Hiroshima, Mon Amour, which we're watching in French 102 at the moment, "J'aime bien les garçons."
For once, I think everyone in the class understood what was being said.
Post a Comment
<< Home