I've been sick, coming off an illness that totally kicked my ass, leaving me sweating and hopeless in bed for a week. The prior weekend was spent having fever-dreams of my mother eating soft pretzels, don't ask me why. This weekend I finally felt better, so I thought I would sieze the Saturday by sleeping until 10, making Bisquick biscuits to go along with my clotted cream, and then going to Flatbush Ave. to look in crappy furniture stores for un-crappy furniture for my recently-moved-into Brooklyn apartment. The Boy and I saw lots of office chairs and adjustable bookshelves, to which I am philosophically opposed, even though I succumb to their economy and convenience.
In the afternoon, I, uh, what the hell did I do? Oh, yeah. We had our first guest and ate cheese and olives for dinner and then watched an episode of Star Trek. I read a bit of Hellblazer and then went to bed around 1 or so. On the Lord's day, I also slept until 10 and then The Boy and I went to brunch (as we do every Sunday, because it is one of the main delights of his life to eat breakfast out on Sundays) and I had excellent pancakes and gross ham while watching that stupid movie with Ashton Kutcher and Bernie Mac on the big-screen TV hanging behind The Boy's head at the restaurant. In the afternoon, a lovely friend came to visit and we talked at length about Greek gods, the genesis of various religions, various offshoot religions, and Clash of the Titans (god, I love that movie). The three of us then went to see Volver at the handy local cinema and it was better than I'd hoped and made me want to move to Spain. Then I had nachos and a margarita for dinner at a local Mexican restaurant and frittered away the last night of my weekend doing nothing that I remember.
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