Tea tastings and asian markets… Here’s some shots from my week:
Posts Tagged ‘ellen’
Canada’s history magazine is called “The Beaver.” I would hate to do google image searches for past articles.
My brother sent me an e-mail that he was checking out at the grocery store and the clerk saw his ID and said, “Oh, are you related to Tim Sullivan!?” My brother said yes, that we were brothers. and the cashier said, “Oh! I used to take his yoga classes!”
“Were they any good?” my brother asked.
“Of course! I love Tim!”
“We must be talking about a different Tim Sullivan,” my brother said.
Thanks for the e-mail bro.
Me: Crap. I need some triple shots. I don’t have anything written down.
Ellen: Sorry. I wasn’t very funny this week.
Here’s some of my last week:
Ellen says, “You had a boring week.”
I was reading reviews online of an anesthesiologist Ellen used to work for. I read some of them out loud. Ellen said, “What do you want? It’s the fucking anesthesiologist. If you wake up and you’re not dead, he’s great!”
At Whole Foods, Ellen and I sat next to a group of middle aged women who were incredibly excited about their new mutual find: knit jeans. One of them described them “feeling like pajamas!” Another said, “I saw them on sale at Marshalls!” Then the women all gave each other high-fives and agreed to go together. If I ever high-five over mom jeans, kill me. Just kill me.
I got inspired at work today, which seems to happen often, and how often can you say that?
Now, Ellen has been in the kitchen braising lamb and cookin’ up some sweet potato biscuits. I’ve got a soon-to-be-full belly and a pocket full of love.
The good times are ones when there’s nowhere else to be but now.
The grass under my toes is as green as it gets.
The morning light seeps in through now, with the time change,
and I get confused when I wake up.
I count them, twelve steps to the bathroom, fourteen more to the tea kettle.
I lose track on the way to the balcony. Good morning sun.
Seen so many places, vast empty spaces, that I adapt to the crickets in the morning.
My own feet on the ground, shifting weight, and I wonder if the air will ever smell like winter here.
Those first chills always came early, summer days moving by fast, and people’d say, “fall’s comin’ on quick this year.”
At night, I play this game; I walk past your house on the way home from work. You’ve been gone but I think of you.
What’s the game? I hum your melodies backwards.
I thought you’d like it.
Because no one brings the guitar now, and no one the bottle of wine to share.
But the kettle rings, the tea steeps, thirteen steps to the dresser drawer, and from there, always far many more than a day should have.
“It’s a tradition,” I said.
“You know how I feel about tradition,” she said. “You keep that shit at home,” and it was one of the more profound things I’d heard in a while.
As I walked out of my yoga studio today, the guy from the pizza shop next door on his cigarette break said to me today, “Shit man, you do yoga? Are you like all flexible and shit? Can you like, bend over and make fart noises with your mouth on your belly?”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes I can.”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s really awesome.”
I was getting a new phone number assigned to me recently. I told the operator that my brother was a little slow and I needed something easy to remember in case anything came up. My number now: 234.3455.
ellen told me i needed to update with something.
“just take a photo booth picture,” she said, and went back to her geography text.
then she fell asleep.
… i followed through.
I bought the fancy orange juice at the grocery store today, the one in the glass bottle that isn’t from concentrate.
Last night I woke up in the middle of the night to get my oj fix. Groggy, I reached into the fridge, reached for the glass bottle, and instead chugged down eight ounces of our month old white wine we keep for cooking. And yes, it was eight ounces before my half asleep self realized it wasn’t orange juice.
I shrugged. It’ll help me sleep.
The Chicago Bears fight song was written in 1941 and is still played after every time the Bears score, even on safeties.
The composers second most remember song, “If I knew you were comin’, I’d a baked a cake.”
I was telling Ellen that yesterday, I hadn’t eaten all day and I had to run a whole bunch of errands and didn’t have time to stop, and barely had any cash in my wallet and just needed something quick before work. There was a Taco Bell right next to where I work so I ducked inside. The had a plastic thing on the counter where you could donate money to some charity, but if you caught your donation on the little plastic circle, you’d win a free taco, drink, or meal, depending on if you caught a nickel, dime or quarter. I dropped my quarter in, and won myself a taco salad.
Ellen asked me, “Was it good?!”
I said, “No. It tasted like improv acting classes in 7th grade”