K is away AGAIN saving the world which means that I spent the first half of the week carefully eating the meals we planned out together on Sunday and the second half of the week microwaving corn tortillas and laughing cow cheese and calling them quesadillas. I also dabbled in being gluten-free for four days, but last night L was in town and we went out to a kosher hummus restaurant, and how could I not have a pita? It’s simply not done.
Do you guys remember the summer I was lazy-dating? I reached the height of lazy-dating when I decided it would be a good idea to shoehorn in a bunch of errands BEFORE my dinner date, which means I met up with someone for artisanal Italian food with a two story cat scratching post in tow. From all the way across Union Square I saw her smile and then totally falter as she saw me lugging this gigantic carpet covered tower around. But off we went to a tiny romantic restaurant and I only felt a tiny bit bad about the scratching post sitting next to me in the skinny booth, me and the scratching post all cuddled up like Lady and the Tramp with their kissing spaghetti. Lazy-dating was also frequently awkward, but that summer I couldn’t quite get it together to really care. I don’t ever mind an audience, though, so midway through dinner I was of course gesticulating wildly and managed to knock an entire half-carafe of sauvignon blanc off the table and straight for my chest, where it then flowed with gusto into my bra, down my stomach and into my unders. “Please excuse me,” I said calmly to my silent date and my cuddley scratching post, and I got up with great dignity and stalked downstairs to the one-stall bathroom where I looked at myself in the mirror and screamed one long silent Edward Munch bellow. I then took all my clothes off, wrung the wine out of them, and methodically dried each piece with the hand dryer. I returned upstairs with my crunchy, boozey clothes and pride, and wouldn’t you know it, we still banged. That, friends, is lazy-dating.