Comfort–New Shoes And A Chicken


Today was all about the comfy.  The cozy.  The cuddly.  And the sleeping in!

I slept until 10 a.m.


Oops, I forgot to set my alarm.  Which is not really a bad thing; although it meant that I did not get my morning pages written today.  First time in a while that I didn’t write my long hand.   Perhaps I will compensate with a really lengthy blog.

Probably not.  A. No interest in boring you, or me for that matter.  And B. Not a whole hell of a lot to report today.

Currently listening to Coleman Hawkins radio on Pandora, yes I know about Spotify, nope I haven’t used it yet.  I am not actually on my own computer.  Despite Kevin getting me a “new” charger for my MAC, it is not holding a charge.  I think my MAC is fucked.  I hope not, but when you got to stick the little magnet charger into the slot and a small whiff of smoke bellows up and you smell wire burning, maybe not a good sign.

I was hoping that I just needed a new charger, but after one day of use, it doesn’t work anymore and I ran down the battery on my MAC and with no where else to turn I picked up my hosts MAC.  Which is delicious.  I may find myself upgrading to this model regardless.

I will try take my MAC to the MAC store on Saturday (hmmm, note to self, do I really want to go down town the Saturday before Christmas?  Nope, ah ha!  I have a meet up with Cass next Saturday in the Marina, I will take my MAC book to the store there.  It will still be busy I am sure, but it won’t be the mad house of the store down town.  Must remember to make an appointment as well).  I hope it is something fixable.  But as I don’t have any more warranty left on my MAC I may be biting the bullet.

And now that I have had a taste, I will never go PC again.

I got myself to the Mission though in plenty of time to meet with those people who I needed to see and I spent a good couple of hours hanging out at Four Barrel doing the deal.  By the time I left I was just perfectly caffeinated and after having listened to my own suggestions I decided that one thing I would do is go to Trader Joes and buy me a chicken.

Because nothing quite remedies a cold, chilly, over cast December day like a chicken roasting in the oven.  I knew I had to go to the store and pick up groceries, but the thought of having Tofurky Meatless Deli sandwiches all week-long made me want to cry.  I have been keeping the food menu pretty simple what with the moving about town with the suitcase and all.  But since I had suggested to some one that they go cook themselves a nice meal, I thought, you know, that sounds pretty damn good, I should do the same.  So I got me a chicken.

But not before I got me some shoes!

Yup, I had to get a pair of shoes to go with my party frock.  I got home last night after watching Charlie and his cousin and tried on the dress.  I had not come back to the house before going and doing the nanny gig.  So I was basically out all day yesterday from 11 a.m. until midnight.  When I got in I tried on the dress and twirled about, then I pulled my heels out from hiding.  And not one single pair (ok, that sounds like I have dozens, I just have three, well now four!) went with the dress.  The one pair that I thought would work were absolutely not a good fit.

I kept the tags on the dress, hung it on the outside of the closet and speculated what shoes would work for it.  I wanted cute, classy, moderately sexy but not sex pot, and dance able.  I wanted to get a pair of shoes that were form and function.  I had one pair of heels that could sort of work, but I knew I would not be able to dance for more than twenty minutes in them and the point of going out dancing is to dance.  It is not to look cute and sit with my heels cooling while the party rocks on around me.  I have done that a few times and frankly it sucks.

Most of the time I go dancing in my Converse.  I stopped giving a shit what my shoes looked like a long time a go.  But I did not stop giving a shit about what my knees felt like.  One of the side affects of no longer using cocaine is that you cannot anesthetize your feet to dancing for twelve hours in heels (I did that one too many times and ruined myself for dancing in heels) quite the same way.  Thus, I now mostly break out the tennis shoes when I hit the dance floor.

But as this is a special occasion and I got a special occasion dress, I wanted some special occasion shoes, damn it.

I had looked around yesterday, but shh….. a secret, I have an odd size foot.  And it’s difficult for me to find shoes, especially heels that look good.  I am also picky as fuck.  I love shoes, I am Carrie Bradshaw and Imelda Marcos rolled up into one.  Fortunately for my pocket-book, God has graced me with big feet.  I have a hard time finding shoes.

Enter Nordestrom’s.  They usually carry my size.  But the thought of going back down town was too much for me and since I was headed to Trader Joes for a chicken, well, why not just hit the Rack.  And I found them.  The perfect pair of high-heeled Mary Janes.  They are adorable and they were the last pair in my size and I almost did not see them.  They were exactly what I wanted when I went into the store.  But I did not see them, they were in the wrong size; meaning, they were in my size, but not in the designated spot on the shelf.

I tried on every conceivable pair of heels that I thought would work with the dress and time after time I was disappointed.  Nothing quite worked.  And the few pairs that sort of worked, I knew instinctively would not work for cutting a rug.  I was saddened and was about to throw in the towel when something nudged me down the aisle of little bit, and there they were, hiding in the wrong size shelf, just waiting for me to slip them on my feet.  Glorious!  Very cute, absolutely go with the dress and the heel is not too high that I won’t be able to dance for a good couple hours in them.

That reminds me, I should put those babies on now and wear them about the house a little just to break them in.  I’m sure they will go quite well with my yoga pants.

Shoes found, I located the appropriate hosiery, party frock calls for hose, and got the hell out of the store before being sucked into the frantic must buy something else its Christmas time mania of the other customers in the store.  I paid, dashed over to TJ’s bought my chicken, then made a run to Rainbow.  I was in and out and on my way within a half hour.  I splurged on a cab home, as I just missed the bus, and made my evening plans.

Turn on oven, gently coat chicken with olive oil, rub it down with garlic, sea salt, and fresh ground pepper.  Pop it in oven to be accompanied by a baked potato and meander off to the laundry mat to do laundry while chicken roasts.  I did a load of laundry and read the beginning of 1Q84 by Murakami and then came back to the house to the smell of roast chicken and potato.  I just about swooned walking in the door.

I was hungry!

And I was  a little lonely.  I wanted to call some one, you probably know who, and invite them over for dinner, but I knew better, so I called Joan.  Poor Joan, she gets the call when the brain says call the boy.  Said gentleman does not need to hear the crazy in my head.  Joan probably doesn’t need to hear the crazy in my head either, but I am blessed to have friends and a support network that lets me do just that.  Let the crazy out of my head so that I don’t act on it.

As John Ater tells me, just run it by me before you act on the thought.  My thoughts are often times based in self-centered fear and I don’t want to act from that place of insecurity.  It’s good to have a safety net.

The idea of sharing a meal with a man, a home cooked meal, with jazz in the back ground and the rain pattering down the eaves, sounds wildly romantic and cozy and all that.

And it also sounds like, hey come over let me feed you, then let’s have sex.  I know better.  I stifled the urge to call or text and I heated up the tea-pot, took the chicken out of the oven and prepped my baked potato.  I put on the jazz, lowered the lights and sat with a scrumptious plate of roast chicken and baked potato and listened to the rain fall.

I am awful good company.  Nope I did not need a man to complete me or my meal,  it and I were just dandy, delicious even.  Yes, I think I am delicious, so hush.  One day, soon, I think, I will probably make a nice home cooked meal for some one special, but I don’t need some one special around to make a nice meal.  I can do that any old time.

And it was nice.  And I am cozy and full and comfy.

Now, excuse me while I go break in my new shoes.

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