sabado santa fé: algunas fotografías
Sunday 22 October 2006 | I like a cookie
You probably figured this out like a biljillion posts ago, but if you hover your mouse over the fotos, you usually get a caption. Today, however, I will caption at greater length, as follows.
Cinnamon rolls from a can and chocolate milk (2% cow stuff mixed with Hershey’s corn syrup, also from a can): the great clobbered-by-the-menstrual faery treat, the ultimate in carb binging. Along with the cocoa-scented heart-shaped Italian hot-water bottle procured by Mandarin, which just exactly fits the salient abdominal region, and a large duvet, we provide ourselves with maximum comforting regression and uterine solace. Now if only we had seasons 2 and 3 of The L-Word on DVD, and M. herself here to watch them with us (whatever became of Bette and Tina? Alice and the tennis star? nympho Jenny?!), our cup of joy could hold no further drop.
That was Saturday’s breakfast; this fine Sunday morning, the Brujo spontaneously washed all the stacked-up premenstrual dishes, and tutted when we tried (feebly) to stop him, whereupon we, somewhat more vertical, happily fed him brown eggs (scrambled with sundried tomatoes, mild cheddar, and garden basil and marjoram), potatoes fried with bell pepper, and wild blueberry jam on sourdough toast. And a frightening, Maman-approved amount of fresh butter (”here, take a lot of this, darling—it’s good for you, it’s unsalted!”) Contented sigh.
Menastil (pictured on the right), was once said (by one of Mandarin’s exes, disapprovingly) to smell of paint thinner. It’s actually calendula oil, and a teency bottle cost, like, $35, and it seems to accomplish exactly nothing, so we’ll never buy it again, but for all that we use it dutifully every month; it doesn’t seem to ever run out. To its left is a Weleda homeopathic remedy (Melissengeist!) the Zen priestesses brought back from Germany; it doesn’t smell of anything but it does taste like paint thinner. Fortunately its instructions suggest you let some Dropfen fällen on the Zucker and then wash the tangy concoction down mit Wasser. It doesn’t seem to do anything either, but we take it nonetheless.
This was more or less an accident, walking up St. Francis from the Cool Psychiatrist’s office in order to photograph the very last entrant.
Note that carabiner is NOT FOR CLIMBING.
Despite raging real-estate lust this is one landlord’s number we didn’t call. Maybe it’s a house. Maybe it’s an “apartment.” Maybe it’s a “shed.” They don’t seem quite certain what it is, but it’s definitely for “rent,” not “sale.”
Finally, the community-art-mural kickboxing girl I’ve loved for years now. It’s unrequited, because she can’t see or hear me. Still I’ve sat at her stop-light on St. Francis many a dreary evening, commuting home from the tribal arts college and admiring her stomach muscles, her insouciant ponytails, her sloppy gym clothes and her fuck-you smirk. The first rule….
In my next life, I’ll be the kickboxing girl.
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