Slow Sunday


Sunday Dinner

Slow Cooked

I took it mellow today.  It was helpful that there was nothing to worry about.  I almost got on craigslist just to be funny and poke around the rooms for rent.

I almost miss it.

What will my days be filled with now that I am not obsessing about where I am going to live?

Perhaps I will be content to be content.  Serene.  Calm.

I did not fall down once today.  Or crash my bike.  I picked it up this afternoon after running my errands and doing the deal.  Before I got to the shop I meandered around the Mission a little.  Did you notice the weather?

I did.

It felt like the entire city was out lolling around on the side walks, over spilling the cafes, standing in lines at Delfina and Tartine.  Or Bi-Rite.

I stood in line today at Bi-Rite and did not mind.  I had something on my mind, a little traditional roast chicken dinner for myself.  I picked up an organic whole chicken from the deli counter and was pleasantly surprised to find out that my chicken, organic, was cheaper than anywhere else I have gotten them in the city.

Nice surprise.

I made a roast chicken with olive oil, ground pepper, sea salt, garlic, mustard, and rosemary.  I chopped up an entire head of organic cauliflower, a quarter of a purple cauliflower, one russet potato, two parsnips, and a bunch of carrots.  Popped the entire concoction in the oven and went to the corner and did my laundry.

It is my couch surfing ritual.  If I am feeling a little on the needing to nest in my space, I roast off a chicken.  It is comforting and cozy and warms the belly right up.  It’s also a nice thing to pass along to the host family.

That is what I call my friends who are letting me crash with them–my host family.

Which is funny as I was looking at courses at City College earlier.  I ponder taking French through City College.  I also ponder going to the Mission Campus and, I cannot believe I am even admitting this, but I looked at taking the course work necessary to get the clerical accounting certificate.

I use Quick Books every day at work.  I have five different people telling me how to use the program.  Perhaps I should look into taking a class and getting better acquainted with the program that way.

Frightens me a little bit to even be entertaining the thought of doing any sort of accounting class.  But I think I will be at this job for a little while and it can’t hurt to glean some more knowledge in an area that I am resistant to.

I have always abhorred math, but simple inputting of numbers is not as off-putting as I  led myself to believe.  It’s looking at patterns and recognizing where they are askew.

I sent a query e-mail to the staff member at City College that runs the course.  It has a couple of things going for it–I would learn intermediate Microsoft Excel as well as a number of other programs, Quick Books, and basic accounting skills; plus it is located at the Mission City College Campus, and last but not least, it’s a free course.

I was looking for French classes.  But the Mission Campus doesn’t offer French classes.  It does offer American Sign Language, which could be fun to learn as well.

I am channeling a little Annie Hall.  I just watched it.  I did my laundry, ate my roast chicken, god damn, and then watched Annie Hall.

What I find compelling about the movie is not necessarily the relationship between Annie and Alvie.  Watching the movie reminds me of when I was young.  The way the cars look, the Volkswagen Annie drives, the clothes.  The movie is set in 1975.  I was born in 1972.

I realize often that my favorite aesthetic for clothes is that of the early ’70s.  Not that I actually have anything like that in my wardrobe.  But that I do have a tendency to imagine what it would look like if I was the skinny 70s girl with the long pants and the hats and the blouses with my hair sort of messy and the glasses and academic air of it all.

It’s like I’m flirting with trying on an identity.  I am still finding my way with who I am at 39.  I suppose, I may never stop.

And I will let you in on a secret.  I am going to get another tattoo.  A cluster of seven stars.  I have been thinking about it for a few weeks now.  I was putting off getting any  work done until I found a place and also since I pulled the trigger and started my bike build.

But since I have found a place, hallelujah, and the deposit is small, I have few bucks I can put toward a little art.  Besides, it’s a commemorative piece.  Just like my five butterflies were.

Problem is, who’s going to do the work?  Barnaby is in Paris.  I was thinking I could check in with Ross K. Jones.  I like his work, although his style of tattooing is pretty different from Barnaby’s.  Ross does what I consider a vintage style of tattoo.  The painted lady  with the curvy body and the traditional sailor style–I always think LA and pin-up girl and motorcycle.

Barnaby does Asian work for the most part.  And I have two Chinese dragons and cherry and peonies blossoms on me, plus two Chinese characters, the one for compassion on the inside of my left wrist and the one for Shaolin on the back of my neck.

I am torn about the piece, which may mean that it won’t work for me.  I want a piece that is compatible with what I have already.  I don’t want to have hodge podge artwork on me. The other issue I am having as I deliberate the piece is where to put it.

I just realize I have something to obsess about.

My brain is such a funny little machine.

Let’s get back to that slow roasted chicken.  My mellow sunny day, and the fact that I have a nice full belly, warm slippers on my feet, a blog that is almost complete, a job, and a place to live.

Whether or not I get a tattoo or of what or where it’s going to go does not need to take away from the loveliness of my day and the recollection of how the leaves on the trees look on Folsom street drifting down in the wind.

And the fact that I will get to observe them a lot in the near future.

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