I had been worried before starting five-days-a-week work. Only two days off each week? I would likely die. How would I ever get anything done? Doesn’t everything close at five pm just when I’d be done? The madness of it all. But it’s kind of working out. Having only two days focuses your time off a bit more. You feel a bit more justified sleeping till 11:30 when you only have the rare chance to do so.
And then Sunday after a slow waking up Holly and I found a place out of the wind and in the sun and we sat and read a newspaper and wrote and talked about jobsearching and it was kind of great.
When Holly arrived she wasn’t a big fan of the king-single sized bed our apartment was equipped with. I mean, we both fit in the bed, but there wasn’t a lot of (read: any) sprawl-room. Our landlord didn’t have a double bed for us, so we decided to get one ourselves. We saw a mattress in an alley, asked at the building it was leaning against and learned it had been left there by “some feral” out in the rain and it was nothing we wanted. A couple of days later a mattress appeared outside the building two doors down from the apartment. It was out there not a huge amount of time, seemed uninfested with bugs and it made its way into our room (we left a note, just in case it wasn’t being thrown out).
Last night we hung around a streetcorner in Chinatown waiting to buy an espresso machine from a guy in a tricked out Mazda who said he was “selling it for his mom.” It came in a paper bag, and the milk steamer hadn’t been cleaned, but apparently this is the way we roll.
