Today, Sunday morning, seven thirty in the morning, I walked home from the bakery down eight blocks worth of back alleys wearing this: black leotards, an apron around the front, a giant t-shirt that read 'Groomsman', a winter parka, four inch Tsubo's which I promptly traded for my blue tennis shoes that Brendan likes to refer to as my Anne Frank shoes (thanks for the daily Holocaust reminder), bed head, face as pale as a sheet, visions of a home on fire in my head, lips stained rouge from seventeen liters of wine consumed the night before, Kraft Dinner in my hair. The last part might have been my imagination.
Mine and Rabbi's Miyabi date was out of this world. I moaned and cooed over the salmon sashimi with yam tempura maki something something for about two hours, eating painstakingly slow and downing glass after glass of Rabbi's old bosses "Big Red" wine. On the house. Thanks Ed, you are a sushi master. We stumbled out of there, corked our wine and clickety-clacketyed our way home to my apartment, both of us in insane heels, making sure to stop to pick up dessert en route. Delicious sushi, delicious wine, delicious stories swapped as we leaned over our candlelit table in the tiny sushi restaurant, delicious banana torte, delicious talk of boys, delicious vinyl (Divinder, obviously), delicious company. We were on. Not ready to call it a night, we flipped the record, killed our bottle of wine and catwalked to the Deuce only to be greeted by a booth full of beauties: Barfredo, Leigh and Christopher. Delicious. We ate and drank free beer and did the New York Times crossword all together and talked about Typeface and Furtura font and Megapuss (Devendra's new band, what?!?!) and new Animal Collective and god knows what else. We eventually parted ways, full and content, and I walked home and ran into Freya and Marinelli outside of Bar I and they somehow convinced me to come over, eat Kraft Dinner on their kitchen floor and so I did. After all of that I went to the Mansion, climbed three hundred sets of stairs, found a giant t-shirt and some water and slept like a baby among couches packed with sleeping teenage skate rats.
I am twenty two, I zigzag home in leotards at seven thirty in the morning eating a bran muffin with one hand and holding a blue hanger supporting my favorite silk dress stained from messy sips in the other. This is youth. This is living. Most of my evenings are spent curled up with a book, or drawing and drinking tea uneventfully. And yet. Then I will have a Saturday night like I did last night where everyone is your best friend and you come home at eight in the morning smelling like the inside of a beer keg filled with Kraft Dinner to fall hopelessly into one's own bed all wet haired and wild eyed to sleep off the unavoidable plague of partydom, only to wake ten hours later in the dead of Sunday evening with once-wet hair dried into an extreme version of Medusa's. Uneventful follow up. I called up Tante Daryl, half dazed and was told I sounded like a "cheshire cat lapping up cream" and was invited over for beet borscht and TV. It was delicious.
Delicious weekend. Tomorrow I make soup from 8-4 and print with Art School Jeanette from 5-9. Then I will come home, fall into bed with Woody Allen and Hannah and Her Sisters and repeat. When in Rome.