Liveblogging from NWK

Not sure that's actually Newark's code, but close enough. It's 5:15 now; my car came at 4; I'm a little bleary. I paid for some kind of airport pay-as-you-go plan so as to download a few 'Friday Night Lights' episodes for the flight, and might as well get a little mileage, (unintended but I'll let it go.) Nothing's open yet; there's this amazing cereal bar that opens at six, where (the menu tells me) they do custom blends of cereals! There's a list of "customer favorites" and there's this "Very Berry" deal that combines Fruit Loops, Cap'n Crunch Berry, and dried berries, to good effect one imagines. Anyway, I'm going to try it.

The reason I got here so early: I just have that expired 12-year-old Learner's Permit by way of ID, which means extra security plus a few forms. I'm starting to own the horribleness of the picture though, in which I resemble a nine-year-old troll and which neatly substantiates my teen-ugly-duckling claims.

I had all kinds of elaborate plans for getting the apt spick and packing efficiently, but a very trying extra hour at work (confidentiality, sadly) threw my plans off with a bang, and I was forced to eat both the steak sandwiches I'd packed by, well, five a.m. Besides the ID shenanigans, forgot about the little matter of suitcases and was forced to choose between one of the two vintage Lady baltimore hunter green suitcases which serve as my TV stand: a mammoth 2x4 deal filled with Christmas decorations, or a diminutive overnight case quite inadequate to the demands of a week's trip in sweater weather. Went with the latter; sat on it; it will most certainly pop open at some point in transit. However, will be unmistakable on the baggage carousel. Still, like the small scale of my arrangements.

Slim texted me some directions to the place, where I've been told to ascend to the garret and immediately ply some dog called Malcolm with a piece of cheese. I don't have a piece of cheese, but I guess I can find one before I arrive. The key is under a sandollar by a yellow flower in the third window box. In case you were wondering.

(Download progressing well, but it'll be close, for sure. I really, really don't want to have to fall back on this Iris Murdoch novel I'm plowing through, full of arid dialogues and remote interrelationships between asexual persons.)

Turns out Eloise will be in California, too, assisting with the olive harvest. So this weekend I'm going to join them in the groves and hopefully get a little EVOO out of the business.

Really want this cereal bar to open.

I was very difficult the other night and attempted a breakup. The attempt was rebuffed, and Slim very sweetly suggested we get married so he could support me, which is really neither here nor there. The whole thing gave him terrible dreams. Must be very good this week. He has some nice things planned. Hoping one of the nice things isn't some kind of surprise wedding - always possible with him. Not that I wouldn't do it, just to be a good sport. And my calendar's not that full, either.

xo,

Gossip Girl

Saturday

Because I work on weekends, my news is rather less glamorous than one might hope. I got up early in order to turn the (newly scoured) apartment over to the landlord and co. When they'd failed to materialize by ten-thirty, I hied me down to the basement apartment and rapped smartly on the door. This was in due course opened by a mammoth gentleman (they're all kind of mammoth and weather-beaten) who informed me that they'd all done "too much drinking lat night" to allow for any work; and that he was Joe ('I'm the one who speaks perfect English'), works the door at a club called 'the Fireplace' and that I should go by this weekend, because he'll hook me up because everyone in this building "is like family."

The building, fyi, contains the landlord, an Iraq vet called Bonecrusher, and the Polish family upstairs, who have a little dog with an extensive wardrobe of sweaters and coats. Oh, and me. Because I don't speak Polish, my contact with everyone's pretty limited. Well, I guess Bonecrusher's English is pretty good, but the landlord told me when I first moved in that combat drove him crazy. He's home all the time and watches TV non-stop. Sometimes I see him in the hall and we hug; I've brought him cookies a few times. Oh, and occasionally the family upstairs drops things off their washline onto my little deck. After an unfortunate incident in which the daughter walked in on Slim drinking coffee naked (inevitable; he's naked a great deal of the time, being from California), we devised a system in which we put anything of theirs in a basket in the hall.

There's a party tonight, but my apartment is so lovely and clean; and I'm too tired to brazen out being a shopgirl tonight and act like some kind of z-list 'it' girl and put on an outfit besides. I did all that stuff last week.

There's a meat recall on; good thing I just had frozen peas and canned tomatoes for dinner! oh, and a Kozy Shack. Shak? Inquiring minds want to know. Oh, and apparently the Big Apple Circus is back in town.

Update

Well, now it's three plus months later. In the intervening period, I've embarked, rather against my will, on a relationship with a thoroughly unsuitable boy. (That same cheapskate.) I'm sure his lack of respectability will become manifest in the coming days - for now, suffice it to say that I have major qualms about the whole endeavor. To say nothing about having become the creepiest sort of serial monogamist.

I live in Greenpoint now, with the ever-present threat of pogrom hanging over me, Damocles-sword-style. The landlord (who has a decidedly rapey air) informed me this a.m. that he "needs access to my apartment" tomorrow morning. I must obviously give things a thorough clean. Luckily, have strung a large length of bark cloth across the entrance to the "bedroom" nook, affording me some minimal privacy. Why have I never seen an electric bill, by the way?

Guess where I am now? Cafe Grumpy. Besides having a really gruckimish name, Cafe Grumpy is the closest spot with IT. It's big and airy, has a book exchange and hawks patrons' art. Music's kinda all over the place, too. Not really my scene (as we say), but it's the setting for more than its share of Missed Connections and I'm angling for one. I've been making eyes like crazy but a quick check of Craig's List has returned no dice for either "Cafe Grumpy' or "Glasses." While we're on the subject, how come no one in the waiing room at my shrink's office will ever meet my eyes in a conspiratorial fashion? I'm forever twinkling at people.

('I Walk the Line' is playing now. I hope Slim is being true to me in San Francisco. I daresay; he is a rascal, but very good-hearted. Well, now that we've established that we're not in an open relationship, anyway. Which I thought was fairly obvious but which his father described as a "classic error of judgment" on his son's part. Anyway, I got a funeral's worth of flowers out of it, plus the loss of three lbs in tear weight, give or take. But that was some time ago. Some day I'll tell you about it. Gosh, we have a lot to catch up on! Did I mention that GK4 (my former fiance) and I are simpatico again? Or that British David has moved here for the nonce? Readers of my Paris blog will doubtless rejoice.)

I got a haircut yesterday. (Must remember to change my facebook status to 'is newly shorn' although in fact trimmed and shaped is more accurate.) Monica, the hairdresser, does a terrific job, even if Maeve thinks she was born a man. (I don't think so. Maeve is my brother's flame and a good friend besides.) I learned two things about Monica yesterday: 1. she was married before. 2. she loves Nascar. She and her boyfriend went down to Georgia, devil-fashion, so's he could be grand marshal of a race. (I wasn't clear on a lot of details, but that's okay.)

I just took an antidepressant. Delicious!