Every Day is Marne Gras

(I am 1. leaving my job next week 2. moving out of my apartment at the end of july 3. donating bone marrow via the national bone marrow donor program in the next couple of weeks and 4. moving to new zealand sometime early this fall, all while trying to write more. I have the focus of a four year old right now. It is probably a good thing that exactly twelve people looked at this blog yesterday. By the way, where did you come from, you (undoubtedly) disappointed reader, you?)

while in cupcake royale:

The girl sitting across from me is talking to her boyfriend while she disembowels her cupcake from the top with a fork and her giant tongue. Repeat: I am watching a college-aged blonde girl in terrycloth shorts (with a giant tongue) eat a cupcake: top. first. I am looking for some hint of hipster irony and I am finding nothing.

She is a top first cupcake eater.

I thought we had all evolved beyond this point.

She is now chatting with her boyfriend as if nothing horrible has happened. Excuse me, the top of your cupcake is GONE. Its just you, your boyfriend, and your cupcake bottom.

I need to leave seattle.

in the park, early evening:

I am sitting in the park with my friend. It is one of those fabled Seattle sunny days that people talk about dreamily when they are unhappy and sodden the other eleven months of the year. A typical Seattlite’s relationship with sunshine is a lot like Patty Hearst’s relationship with her captors; just a smidge out of touch with reality.

I am thinking about how summer in Seattle is a lot like summer everywhere else, only here it is much shorter and punctuated by daylong bouts of rain when I remember it is dinnertime and suddenly I want a sandwich (my thoughts have no transition sentences; fuck you eleventh grade english teacher). I want to sit in my favorite, dark sandwich restaurant very far away from the windows and squander my sunset away. I am moving to New Zealand; squandering the Seattle sun is one of my favorite hobbies.

I squint in my friend’s direction like I am bothered by all this vitamin D and ask her, “Can we go get sandwiches now?”

My friend stirs from her pre-dinner sunsoak/nap at the interrogative sentence and mumbles noncommittally, like you do when you’re from the west coast.

I think she is mumbling about being broke, because we are broke. “Can you afford a sandwich?”, I rephrase myself.  We tend to save our money during the week and spend it on random dates with socially unattractive women we lose our spendthrifty senses around.

My friend initially says no and our thoughts drift to reheating pasta or making scrambled eggs and then she has a moment clarity and backtracks: “Oh!”, she says. “I’m selling a Hummel this week! Let’s do it!”

We are immortal and we have good senses of humor.  We laugh all the way to the Honey Hole.

**Honey Hole is the name of the sandwich restaurant.  The one two punch of the sexual nature of the name of the joint AND their FABULOUS veggie BLT is perhaps the very definition of serendipity.