Call it jealousy but there are these women who stray into my neighborhood who really bug the cr*p out of me. They arrive to shop at Citykids with their thousand-dollar strollers and their lily-white babies and trim waistlines accentuated with hipster studded belts. There was this one yesterday striking a pose on the corner -- okay, maybe she was lost or trying to recall where she parked the Lexus SUV -- with her Russian wolfhound trailling lazily behind. Off his leash, I might add.
So I go back to my third-story walkup rented studio apartment and think about all the things that are mine. Yes, that's my chair with the gimpy leg. Toilet grime? All mine. That mess of papers on the kitchen table, in preparation for tax time? All me. Don't even think about putting your martini on my 1099s.
I had a dream last night that I got a sweet house little house with a big kitchen, separate living room, bedroom(s!), yard, and the best part -- a mud room with hookups for laundry machines. All for $1700 a month. Heaven. I tried not to think about where I must be living. Fremont, perhaps?
It's the weekend and it's looking awfully good. The sun is out, my day is starting early, and I'm taking care of all those things that have been sitting during this crazy disheveled week. Call me if you want to come by for a martini.
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