Celebrity latte.

I made Glenn Close a latte this morning. She lives in Maine, doncha know?

And no one recognised her, not even my co-workers, which is really the way it should be. Let the celebrities enjoy their lattes in peace.

Overheard

For those of you who don't know, I live above a restaurant. Even in winter, there are conversations that float up from the sidewalk. Mind you, it's not winter now, but the three sidewalk tables have gone into hibernation already, for the chill of New England autumn is upon us.

Just now, I overheard this snippet of conversations while lying in bed reading.

'Okay, I hate touching people but I'm going to hug you because I'm going to miss you!'

Perhaps I misheard or perhaps I missed a key part of the conversation. But maybe not.

I want...

...a husband, a Volvo, a dog, and a nice townhouse. Stereotype much? Oh, and my own café/patisserie would be nice too. I'm going to call it Café & Cocoa. I should probably start working on my baking skills....

Turtles and intrigue.

So, I guess I haven't been quite as good about keeping this thing updated as I set out to be, have I?

Oh well. It'll come as it comes, I guess, and you all will just have to accept that.

It's only been about a week since I last posted...not THAT long ago.

This past weekend, I was down in Massachusetts for Fair Weekend in the town where my grandparents live. It's always a bit of a mini family reunion the third weekend on August. And it's been at least 7 years since I made it to the fair. And it was lots of fun.

Small and simple, the Hardwick Community Fair claims to be the oldest in the country, and at 245, it may well be. Even if it isn't, it's still pretty darn old. We got to check out the cows and alpacas and blacksmiths and lumberjacks and frog jumping and pie eating. And I drove forever and ever. Okay, maybe only a total of about 8 hours over the course of three days, but for someone who doesn't even own a car, that's a lot of driving.

It was great to spend time with the family and to see my grandparents and to spend time in their big old house (and raid their attic for all manner of crap that I really don't need, but that's not really the point...).

Check out some of the pictures up on Flickr.

In other news, I had a very odd dream last night in which I, among other things, attempted to stop people from stealing tires and engines from parked cars. When I attempted to do this, they started throwing turtles at me. Big, honking, live turtles. Very bizarre.

I'm blaming the jambalaya that I had for dinner last night. That a certain gentleman cooked for me. A certain gentleman with whom I'm rather intrigued at the moment.

Makes you all curious now, doesn't it?

Raison d'être

I exist only to save my roommate and her brother from having their cars towed on Monday mornings from around our apartment.

Waiting at the window

I was just waiting by the front window, scanning the street for my father and step-mother's car (they're up for the weekend) and it occurred to me how much of my life has been spent waiting by a window, watching for my father. He's perpetually late. I would see him at least every other Sunday growing up and would start watching at the window at least half an hour before I knew he'd show up, hoping that he'd be early.

My father is not a particularly expressive man. He's the product of German and Hungarian parents, the Central Europeans not known necessarily for their emotional outbursts. That's not really the point though. I relished those hours away from my mother's house growing up, even if they were austere in actual emotional communication. It was in sharp contrast to the over-emtional (and oftentimes false feeling) environment that made up my daily life.

When I came out to my father, he had virtually no reaction. Maybe he already suspected or maybe he was just so much of a hippie that it didn't really strike up as something at all to worry about. We've never really talked about it much except when I came out to my mother a second time and he got pulled into her emotional whirlwind, something he was less than thrilled about (not that I blame him).

We understand each other even if we've never really talked about it, I think. I know he loves me even if he never says it. I know that I've always had his full support in everything I've done, except when he hasn't thought it a good idea. On those rare occasions, he's expressed his doubt but allowed me to make my own decision.

Here I am, 25 now, waiting at the window excitedly for my father. Part of me feels 12 again, anxious to get out of the house and go off and spend a day with my dad, no matter what we might end up doing.

This is very different, though. This time he'll actually come inside the house--well, apartment--because it's my home. Tomorrow he and my step-mother will come to dinner at my home. It will be, I think, the first time that I'll have made him dinner. Somehow that seems significant, particularly as someone who sees food and communal dining as an expression of love and deep connection amongst people.

Anyway, back to my window to watch for a man who, though he says little, means so much.

In response to anonymous.

I'm busy baking a pie. Just sayin'.