La Vie Astoria, or, The Ideal Weekend (?)
I had told Ryan that I was going to pursue the ideal weekend. To me, that means an equal measure of sleep, leisure, reading, television, food, and adventure. I'm not sure how to scale this past weekend.
Saturday morning, I went to the library to sort through the small number of books that are in English and not romance novels. I had taken a brief hiatus from books, from most TV, and from my usual addiction to nearly all types of media. I had overconsumed, and felt so full of other things that there was no room left for me. But I'm back and I'm over it and I'm hungry again.
Saturday afternoon Reena came over from Spa-Ha for some hookah, Taste of the Tropics, and Target. Besides the fact that the Queens Blvd. Target is utter and complete madness, meaning women who are trying to push both carts and baby strollers through the shampoo aisle, I pulled a Nora** and left all my purchases on the train with Reena. I didn't even notice until we had separated and I shouted, "I FORGOT MY TARGET BAGS!" To which the man next to me responded, "No English."
On Saturday night, we headed out to spend the money that David's parents had sent us for a "new job celebration dinner." We had every intention of going into Manhattan, but the icy winds deterred us after a block and we dipped into Churrascaria Tropical, a Brazilian Steakhouse in our neighborhood. We didn't know what to expect, but were thrilled to find that although the restaurant is menu-less, the basic theme is that you sit down and are served as many cuts of meat as you can imagine until you tell them to stop.
I stopped at 10 servings of various meats, but David accepted several more before we discovered that the meat will stop coming if you just turn over this little block on the table so that the red side is facing up. 20-odd dollars for an amazing selection of steaks and other meaty delights was a steal of a deal, although you can't really put a price on your arteries. From now on, I'm on all all-carb diet.
Saturday night was capped off with a "tour of the city," a gesture from our Russian, cab-driving neighbor who wanted to re-pay us for checking his mail and apartment while he looked for a new apartment in Flordia, away from what he calls, "this classless City of wickedness and corruption." Apologies to people who have heard this story already, but the tour lasted 3 out of the 4 hours that he had (shockingly) intended it to last, and after a while I started to wonder if I was ever going to see my family or even the outside of a cab again. A well-intentioned gesture, but one that screwed with my sleep cycle and my sanity.
Sunday I found myself quite literally sweating like a whore in Church as our priest gave a Homily about marriage and how the relationship between God and his people is like the relationship between a Groom and his Bride, and how the "COMMITMENT OF MARRIAGE AND THE CONJUGAL RELATIONSHIP IS HOW GOD'S LOVE IS MANIFESTED IN PEOPLE." The Priest actually spoke in all caps while staring directly at me as I fiddled with my Claddagh ring, which plays a convincing role as a wedding band when I am propositioned by the drunk and/or indigent on the subway or street.
"Just act casual," I told David, who was flipping through the hymnal. "We don't have to, remember? Didn't you say that you were sure they would think we were just friends?" He was referring, of course, to the time when the Priest spoke in all caps and stared at us to encourage everyone there to register with the parish after Mass. I had struggled with our application and whether or not we should fill out two with the same address or not. Finally I had decided that yeah, it'd be fine to put both our names on one application. We could be roommates. Or friends. Or, in a move that would be even more offensive to my father than our current situation, a married couple where I kept my own last name.
I had intended to go to CBGB to see fellow Islander Chaz Kangas rock the mic, but I felt like zero dollars and besides, David had already made a commitment to Stacy Keibler of Dancing With The Stars. Judge me silently, but just know that when you don't have cable, you begin to watch equal amounts of PBS and bad network reality shows.
I couldn't sleep last night, perhaps because Stacy came in 3rd and I was upset over the injustice of it all. See? Told you I was hungry again.
**Pulled a Nora; To Pull a Nora (v).
1) To fall or turn an ankle for no apparent reason.
2) To pay for something and forget it at the register, to pay for something and forget it anywhere, to set down wallet or purse in public and walk away.
3) To panic, freak out, or flip shit on somebody for a good reason, a shaky reason, or no reason at all. Includes but is not limited to: yelling at unfamiliar babies to stop crying in public, sighing audibly at the slow person who prevents you from making it onto your train, shouting "I CAN'T HANDLE THIS!" at a situation that should and could be easily handled.
Hi, Nora,
Found you via Edwin's blog. This is so true + funny! I'll continue reading if you don't mind this ex-DLSer poking about.
Cheers.
When I didn't have cable, I watched "Berenstein Bears" in the morning. In the afternoon it was "Starting Over" and "Dr. Phil." Those were the days...
The first time I tried to take Mary to mass the homily was also about living in sin. Well, look where we are now, hmm? Just remember that. But don't worry, I'll accept you as the Jezebel you are. NYC has been compared to Babylon, so this chaper in your memoirs can be indexed, "Babylon, Whore of"