Time Well Spent...for a change

Last weekend was rougher than I would have liked (my head was killing me most of the week...in no small part due to large quantities of Prosecco unwisely consumed on an empty stomach) and my work week was unpleasantly spent babysitting a newbie who acts like a child.  I don't go in for sullen behavior just because you're getting corrected - it's training, for god's sake.  This is the time to make mistakes, so that you don't muck it up later.  It's also time to prove your worth continuing to train.  I have my doubts about that bit (Chapter One: In Which I Make People Cry).  And I topped off my end-of-the-work-week by forgetting my phone at home, which normally wouldn't bother me, except I was expecting a call from Jenn to make plans for the weekend.  At last midnight rolled around, I praised god it was over for at least a couple of days and I got in my car, set up my iPod to play happy music (Phoenix, in this case) and at least enjoyed the ride home.

That was, thankfully, the end to my utterly shit week.

I woke up to an earlier start to my weekend than I would have liked thanks to some odd dreams, so I went back to sleep and had another hour or so blissfully dream-free.  The next time I woke up, I was ready to start my day (I believe it started with something like, "Helloooo kittens!" which terrified my duo so much that they ran from the room).  I got some honeywater down (now a daily ritual for my tum), start-of-the-day meds and (after three days of missing her) found my mother online.  Skype may not always work, which is damned hard when your mother lives in another freaking country, but the Skype-gods smiled upon us today and we had a nice long chat about how the people I work with drive me insane (as always, filled with scathing and inappropriate comments that we acknowledge are said more for her entertainment and less because I actual contain so much vitriol) and an introduction to the musician I told her will someday be her son-in-law, so she better familiarize herself with him now.  Jenn was unfortunate enough to arrive amidst the last part and had to suffer through it, but later oked my being a loon because I've been so accepting of her quite similar lunacy.  Then it was off to lunch with us.

Mr. Lucky's is certainly an ideal name for a dive bar in our oh-so-white-trash county, but I never imagined I'd actually want to eat lunch regularly at such a place (which isn't to say I dislike dive bars--I still long for Geo Kaye's in Oakland every so often).  Alas, Jenn has a fondness for their patio and their simple food (burgers, salads, whatnot) so I end up there with her at least once a month.  Their club sandwich is quite delicious, though, and I must say they know a good pickle (which can be hard to find - my favorite pickles can still be found with my favorite bagel chips at Bitterman's Deli in Santa Barbara, but that's a bit of a drive...although if I left right now...).  Jenn and I chatted about work, desire to travel, desire to not be where we are much longer, then listened to the older ladies at the table behind us discuss their friends' closemindedness about politics (at which point Jenn asked if that was going to be us someday and I replied, "I certainly hope so.").

For a change, Jenn decided that she wanted to go grocery shopping with me (probably because I didn't have a list with me, eh?) so we dropped by the local store on our way home and picked up a smattering of produce, some pasta and some beer.  The moment we arrived back at the apartment, we realized that neither one of us might ever feel like eating again, so we sat on the patio discussing...random things I can't even begin to get into without embarrassing myself.  But it was lovely.  We sat on the concrete with our legs folded, facing each other, and had a brief flash back to one summer day when we decided to spend a couple of hours just laying motionless on her kitchen floor, talking about random shit, at her old Oakland apartment.  I told her that it's a shame neither of us has a kitchen like that anymore - with a big window to let the sun in and a big enough floor for two people to sprawl out on without even touching.  Note to self for next apartment hunt.

We discussed many deep things that we've discussed too many times before, but I think it had been a while since our last dip into the heavies.  I read an article last month that people who have deep conversations stay smarter...evidently it had been far too long because it took me a month to realize I might want to do so.

Many hours later (when we realized with a start what time it was), we looked at each other and asked, "Are you hungry yet?" which was answered on both sides with a resounding, "No."  But with a shrug on either side, we agreed we would eventually want food again and by then it might be too late to cook anything decent, so we went back in to plug in the electric grill (thanks, Mom) and chop some veggies.  Much chopping and grilling and boiling and wine-drinking (me) and beer-drinking (Jenn) later, we had ourselves a lovely meal:

Trottole (fat pasta spirals) seasoned with olive oil, salt and pepper, then tossed with roasted tomatoes, Italian parsley, grilled zucchini and shredded Grana Padano cheese.  One massive grilled artichoke.  And sourdough pugliese dipped in garlic-rosemary-oil that Jenn put together real quick.  Wonderful meal, lots of leftovers, no room for dessert (always room for wine).  And by the time it was all over, it had grown very late.  So late, in fact, that I wouldn't even let Jenn do the dishes.  And we all know how much I love it when Jenn cleans up after me.  Not as much as when she cooks for me, of course.

I walked Jenn to her car (or, rather, her kidnapper van) then got my cherry-on-top of a wonderful day in my mailbox:  a postcard from Jenn's sister Megan, writing from London.  I love you, my seesters.  By the way, Megan, I'm going through the trouble of getting my dual citizenship this year, so you and Jenn are on your own finding the marrying kind from the U.K.  Unless you want me to find you a nice Genovese boy?