Last night we got a bit cray-cray and watched Wedding Crashers followed by The King of Comedy.
In keeping with living on the edge, I ate dinner–some sushi and sashimi that we picked up from Sushi Nomi on Roncesvalles–in my new white cotton Ralph Lauren romper.
It took about 37 seconds before I had soy sauce spilled all down the front.
My four-day-long Nova Scotia holiday glow disappeared fast on my flight back to Toronto. There was an adult a few rows back who insisted on playing a video game on their tablet involving laughing and screaming characters and annoying music. They played the game at full volume–without headphones.
I would’ve offered them mine, if I’d remembered to bring them along.
Then there was a child seated across from me who insisted on asking her grandmother absurd questions: Why are we moving. Why are we moving now? How fast is this plane going? What time is it? Are we there yet? Are you awake?
I think I’ve seen the Beast cry three times: during certain parts of Ken Burns’ Civil War documentary; certain parts of Ken Burns’ Jazz documentary; and, always, over the ending of Dances with Wolves.
I saw him cry for the fourth time two nights ago, the day his boss of 13 years, Lynn Albert, passed away. She had not been well. He had been managing the store in her absence for a several days. He visited her that morning and held her hand. She was surrounded by her three sons and family when she passed, which was precisely what she’d wanted. What we all want, I imagine.
Foodie: I love your outfit.
Beast: I don’t know about it. I don’t think it’s very me.
The Beast didn’t get home until 10:00 p.m last night because he worked late. So I came home to an empty house. At first, I thought I could wait to eat dinner with him. But by 8:00 p.m., I gave up.
It was our Friday night pizza party. While I prepared my toppings and waited for the oven to heat up, I decided to watch some TV on my computer in the kitchen. For no explicable reason, I settled on the last episode of the last season of Six Feet Under, a series I’ve already seen but have never revisited.
Posted in At Home, Barberian's, The Chase
Tagged argyle, Barberian's, birthdays, Brooks Brothers, neckerchiefs, Six Feet Under, socks, steak house, The Chase, trout
The Beast and I met up at the big Chapters at the corner of Bay and Bloor on Tuesday night. I found him in the politics section, gently turning over a tome on ISIS between his hands. “I have to go to the washroom,” I told him.
“Meet me in fiction afterwards,” he said. “I’ll be in the dick section.”
Descending the steps into the Keg–it’s a steakhouse–at Yonge and Eglinton:
Foodie: When did the Keg get so damn cool?!
Beast: It’s like a jazz bar.
Foodie: Yeah, a jazz bar! Low lights, lots of black leather and everything’s shiny! Except there are also people wearing baseball hats backwards. This is going to be awesome.
Not just because we were back at the Keg–the subject of this blog’s first-ever post–but also because we’d just seen the Oscar-nominated film Whiplash at the theatre across the street from the restaurant. This was a jazzy Keg and the movie was about the fraught and complicated relationship between a jazz drummer and his instructor. There was a bit of a wait for a table. But the bar was wide open. So we saddled up there, quickly ordered our Keg classic stripling dinners (garlic mashed potatoes for me and baked potato with him) and started off with cocktails. Keg-sized cocktails.