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Booty and Grocery Store Salmon Rolls
Oct. 20th, 2001 03:04 pmIt was a Very Good Thing to get out of the apartment today for a little while, to trust the furnace guys with our poor, hapless, scared cats, and to get out and have some lunch at, of all places, the grocery store.
In these rough economic times I find it slightly embarassing that I am very unable to "give back to my country," but you know, considering that my economic oomph has never been relatively impressive to begin with, I will leave my guilt by the side of the road, in hopes that someone else will claim it.
I cashed in my pitiful 401K remainder the other day, you see. The 401K from the job I worked at for 10 months before a merger and a lay-off and a tech recession and Sept 11th rendered this 401K into a slimmer, smaller version of itself. After the investment kiddies took off their 20% penalty or whatever it was, and after seeing the market crash into the mixed portfolio I had entrusted to said investment firm, I lost a few hundred dollars off of what was admittedly a small amount to begin with.
Well, at least I can make rent next month.
The branch of bank we go to is actually ensconced inside of a grocery store -- because we're cool like that, and so I deposited my stock market blood money and then stood by the coffee kiosk and wondered where I could possibly have luncho with my magnificent boyfriend.
Like a beacon of mediocrity, the grocery store "cafe" called to us -- their rotisserie chickens and overbaked mashed potatoes cried out "Convenience! Cheaposity! Lovingly slopped onto styrofoam plates by minimum wage-earning grocery store clerks!"
The one thing that convinced me was the very out-of-place sushi chef, who was self-consciously rolling avocado and cucumber together in sticky rice. They'd stuck him on the corner of the counter space, with no pleasing and comforting barrier of sushi bar to protect him from people coming up and possibly sneezing all over his fresh sake creations.
Anyway, so I ordered a salmon roll (speaking of sake), and Scott and I sat in a comfy booth and I gabbered on about this and that, stopping only to gasp and cry over the last piece of the roll, which I'd dipped so far into my soy that I'd gotten a good smudge of solid wasabi lodged into the rice. Oh, my. That rocked, but took me aback in its ferocity.
It's good pain, you see. Mmmmm.
It's bordering on Indian Summer again today in Chicagoland: bright sunny skies, streaky thin clouds, a soft breeze, warmth in the air. Tree leaves bright and dead, swirling down into gutters and windowsills, crevices in buildings. We're decorated in cheap, dry, papery wreaths. We're gold and rust and orange and burnt sienna.
I came back home to saws and drills and more plaster dust, and it's much more bearable. It's almost comical. I don't want to kill the furnace men anymore.
Plus, I have Pirate's Booty now to munch on in my nervousness over these men invading my home, messing it up, causing my cats to hide in half-hearted terror.
In these rough economic times I find it slightly embarassing that I am very unable to "give back to my country," but you know, considering that my economic oomph has never been relatively impressive to begin with, I will leave my guilt by the side of the road, in hopes that someone else will claim it.
I cashed in my pitiful 401K remainder the other day, you see. The 401K from the job I worked at for 10 months before a merger and a lay-off and a tech recession and Sept 11th rendered this 401K into a slimmer, smaller version of itself. After the investment kiddies took off their 20% penalty or whatever it was, and after seeing the market crash into the mixed portfolio I had entrusted to said investment firm, I lost a few hundred dollars off of what was admittedly a small amount to begin with.
Well, at least I can make rent next month.
The branch of bank we go to is actually ensconced inside of a grocery store -- because we're cool like that, and so I deposited my stock market blood money and then stood by the coffee kiosk and wondered where I could possibly have luncho with my magnificent boyfriend.
Like a beacon of mediocrity, the grocery store "cafe" called to us -- their rotisserie chickens and overbaked mashed potatoes cried out "Convenience! Cheaposity! Lovingly slopped onto styrofoam plates by minimum wage-earning grocery store clerks!"
The one thing that convinced me was the very out-of-place sushi chef, who was self-consciously rolling avocado and cucumber together in sticky rice. They'd stuck him on the corner of the counter space, with no pleasing and comforting barrier of sushi bar to protect him from people coming up and possibly sneezing all over his fresh sake creations.
Anyway, so I ordered a salmon roll (speaking of sake), and Scott and I sat in a comfy booth and I gabbered on about this and that, stopping only to gasp and cry over the last piece of the roll, which I'd dipped so far into my soy that I'd gotten a good smudge of solid wasabi lodged into the rice. Oh, my. That rocked, but took me aback in its ferocity.
It's good pain, you see. Mmmmm.
It's bordering on Indian Summer again today in Chicagoland: bright sunny skies, streaky thin clouds, a soft breeze, warmth in the air. Tree leaves bright and dead, swirling down into gutters and windowsills, crevices in buildings. We're decorated in cheap, dry, papery wreaths. We're gold and rust and orange and burnt sienna.
I came back home to saws and drills and more plaster dust, and it's much more bearable. It's almost comical. I don't want to kill the furnace men anymore.
Plus, I have Pirate's Booty now to munch on in my nervousness over these men invading my home, messing it up, causing my cats to hide in half-hearted terror.
