Pretty Standard Monday

Today was a pretty standard Monday in my life. I woke up at seven o'clock, attempted to work out, took a shower, rode the train to work, got mad about the same shit that I always get mad about, ate a salad, became less mad, rode the train home, ate dinner, watched The Office, watched Sidney cry while Bevan flossed in-between her braces, ate an apple, flossed and brushed my teeth and now's now and I'm gonna go to bed because I've gotta get up and do it all over again in not very many hours.

Sunday Chillin'

Twenty-four human beings under the age of eleven descended upon our home for nearly three hours this evening to consume pizza and ice cream and wrestle and throw footballs in the hallway and dump one whole can of fish food flakes out onto the floor of Sidney's bedroom.

Otherwise, today was a pretty relaxing day.

I slept in until eight, watched almost all of season three of The Office on Netflix, did a load of laundry, picked shampoo and conditioner up from Safeway and bought The Laramie Project and a collection of essays by American humorist David Sedaris (Me Talk Pretty One Day) from Aardvark Books on Church in the Castro. It's now ten to nine and B and I are both in bed and it's my goal to sleep for no less than ten hours tonight, which I cannot hope to accomplish unless I start immediately. So good night!

Here Is Me Typing These Words

In this moment I'm sitting on a stool in the kitchen sipping vodka from a cooler glass while I wait for the sweater that I'm planning to wear to a gay dinner party in Golden Gate Heights tonight to shrink up a bit in the dryer.

Subjects that have crossed my mind since opening my laptop include pizza, Paris, my mother, my knees and how crazy-go-bummed I am that I can't find a physical copy of Nora Ephron's Heartburn anywhere. I checked two bookstores after work last night and another the night before and none of them had it. I could buy an electronic version but I don't really want to.

B just got home from a haircut so he's rinsing off in the shower before we head out. The dinner party we're attending will begin with a sunset (the house has ocean views, I'm told) and include gumbo, which sounds dope.

There was Red Bull in the fridge so I put it in this drink and I wish I hadn't.

Lastly, because of what's going on an ocean away, I'm reminded of a lovely and simple quote from Ernest Hemingway's novel A Moveable Feast, which I enjoyed very much when I read it a long time ago.

But Paris was a very old city and we were young and nothing was simple there, not even poverty, nor sudden money, nor the moonlight, nor right and wrong nor the breathing of someone who lay beside you in the moonlight.

Nothing Who Cares

As far as run-of-the-mill Wednesdays go, this one (today) was the run-of-the-mill-est. It was super dumb, slow and almost nothing happened. In fact, I'm pretty sure only three things took place all day, worldwide.

  1. On my way to the train this morning a woman wearing a dirty blanket asked me if I wanted to buy a copy of the Bible signed by Jesus.
     
  2. I ate Sour Patch Kids out of a coffee mug until my tongue got sore.

Never mind.

Only two things happened today.