perhaps more butter

After another bout of interesting dreams — although by “interesting” I still mean “easier not to know about” — I am up way before my alarm. Going to bed early doesn’t seem to work for me. Maybe I need to just expect the mid-wee-hours interruption, and write during it.

After work last night, Inkbot and I went out with my friend Andrew for crêpes. Crêperies are superior institutions, in my humble opinion. Entire restaurants with a cuisine based solely on getting to the Nutella part of the meal: genius. I had their Hawai’ian crêpe, which consisted of pineapples, ham, cheddar, diced white onions, and that extra element of this fantastic cuisine which can only be termed “so much butter I could hear my arteries clogging”. Seriously, it was like a traffic jam in there. Just the way it should be. The crêpe was pretty good, but the sides (diced potatoes, small mixed-greens salad) need real help. Perhaps more butter? Must suggest.

For drinks, we meandered over to Place Pigalle (pronounce it like the French, mon cherie, or you’ll be giggled at) and had … drinks. I had a dither over how much to tip, as usual, and the bartender was vaguely rude to me over it. So. Not. Impressed. The three of us commandeered a funky old couch and wrecked our backs drinking while slumped into it. I was in a cranky mood, which perhaps influenced how I took in my surroundings, but I couldn’t help but notice all the old people milling about with their leather bags and rolled-up shirtsleeves and pleated Dockers touching each other ingenuinely. You know, the people … who are … my age. Omgwtfbbq, I’m old. I’m OLD!

I held forth a bit, which isn’t surprising if you know already that me + crankiness + alcohol is pretty much a recipe for either long-winded sermons on the inappropriateness of cupping someone’s elbow or lugubrious maundering. Thank goodness there was none of the latter. But I really need to know where the gesture of cupping someone’s elbow originated, because it bothers me. Inkbot and Andrew concurred that it was odd. Anyone?

At any rate, Place Pigalle left me cold, prompting my snotty “Place Pigalle? Place Pi-DULL!” as we left, which totally embarrassed me because, well, that’s something a San Francisco girl would say, the kind who brags about how she buys designer shoes with that month’s food money and yet still manages to get her elbow cupped in hip wine/beer/sake bars in Hayes Valley. It doesn’t count if I use my food money to buy books, does it? Please say no.

In other news, my Zen has a cold, which means those adorably soggy cat-sneezes are back, and I’m obsessing over my Statement of Purpose for graduate school this autumn. It doesn’t seem right to pen the immortal “I’m going to grad school here because it’s free and I’m broke” or “I have no idea what I want to do with my life, except write, so maybe after this crazy grad school thing I’ll fool you all into giving me a job that lets me have three months off every year”. I guess I could go with some spiel about how I’m fantastically excited about literature, and that going to grad school will enhance my fantastic excitement, and then because I am fantastically excited about getting others fantastically excited about literature, I should teach creative writing at the college level, since everyone knows that people go to college to expand their minds and become fantastically excited about subjects like literature, art history, and philosophy.

Um, right. Back to the drawing board.

Summers off sound glorious right about now, because I have to work the late shift today and that means I have to drive instead of ferry in late tomorrow night. My neighborhood hasn’t whispered her parking secrets to me yet. Maybe soon, maybe in my dreams. I’ll go research that.

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