Moose in the Kitchen

Engaged in some amateur psychokinesis right now. Specifically, trying to manipulate the world to fit my agenda by muttering, “I am not getting sick, I am not getting sick, I am not getting sick AGAIN FOR THE SIXTH TIME THIS MONTH, I AM NOT.”

Results remain inconclusive.

I’m not really getting sick (AM NOT, I SAY), just suffering the after-effects of a good week (one somewhat lacking in the sleep department), as well as the puffy-faced, soul-searing pain that comes from accidentally injecting my left cornea with a shot of Dr. Bronner’s soap last night. (Don’t do that. Just a little tip from me to you.)

Wednesday night I went to Boulevard for fancy food, the kind that only happens via expertise gleaned from the blood of redheaded virgins. At least, this is my explanation for why my ground hamburger never tastes like that, or arrives pleasantly arranged on an acre of white china with bits of pickled daisies or radishes sculpted to resemble Stalin’s profile. Please don’t disabuse me of my dearly-held delusion by stating that it takes “practice” and “training” and “fancy cuts of organic meat” to make food taste that good. I prefer the required journey to an inconveniently remote fiery pit, and my own obvious moral superiority in serving bland tacos in lieu of human sacrifice. 

Anyway. Dinner included cheese – the kind that doesn’t come in orange blocks at the supermarket - with some odd, unidentifiable bean (incredible), lamb (sublime), company (stellar) - and I even managed not to knock my very nice glass of red wine onto my green silk dress. Though I did almost send myself and my companion tumbling down a hill while trying to navigate the San Francisco terrain in my fetching but entirely impractical shoes.

No injuries were sustained, except to my liver.

Last night was dinner (‘Wichcraft), and a movie (I Love You, Man), and a face full of soap. The first two events were far, far more enjoyable than the third. Especially since I fell asleep with my hand pressed to my stinging eye, snuffling like a four-year-old. When you’re a child and you stub your toe on the coffee table, you wail like an incontinent banshee. When you’re an adult, you can usually offset the pain with some extended cussing and a vow to use said coffee table for kindling. But the soap incident required actual sobbing, because GOOD GOD THAT SHIT IS PAINFUL. Plus, you need the tears to vanquish the soap. Unfortunately, my tears only produced bubbling.

If my experiments in bending reality to my will are successful, I will be in blooming health for the weekend of blazing Santa Cruz sun with Kristin – and the headache and congestion will return just in time to get me out of jury duty on Monday morning. And since I now refuse to come in contact with soap of any kind, I’ll fit right in with the patchouli-scented Santa Cruz hippies.