(no subject)
I have a nice bruise the size of a ... kneecap ... right on my kneecap. I have a long, diagonal bruise on my neck from a falling 2x4. My hands, which are normally fairly rough for a computer tech, are rougher still. I have countless scratches and nicks and cuts all over my arms. My toes are bruised. My fingers feel as if they have been pulled just slightly out of their sockets.
I have finished moving.
The house closed. I'm no longer a homeowner. I'm fairly happy about it, and fairly freaked out about it.
I celebrated, solo, at a nearby Italian cafe I've been meaning to try. It's a musty hole-in-the wall, seating maybe 25 max, buried in a Publix-anchored strip-mall. As the evening moved on, I became aware that I was the youngest person in there by at least two decades (I'm 33, for a couple more weeks dammit!). If one took an average, I'm sure I was four decades younger. In fact, the place was almost a low key senior meat market. I used to be used to these sorts of places when I lived in South Florida, but Atlanta is a young city, and I live just outside Buckhead, the yuppie hot-spot. It felt pretty good, actually, finding a place off the A-list, yet with good food.
I watched the owner mix a cappuccino at the bar, expertly frothing the milk, carefully spooning it over the dark coffee until it was piled like a small dairy cloud peeking over the rim. He lovingly sprinkled just a hint of cinnamon over the peaks. I felt the customer who ordered this creation probably didn't have my view, and had no idea of the time and care the proprietor was putting into this modest beverage. He briefly admired his art, then took a good swig and smacked his lips -- he had been making it for himself.
I nibbled on excellent snails, the butter, garlic, and lemon balanced just right. I had a shrimp diavlo sort of pasta dish for dinner that was good, but slightly overcooked. I had espresso for dessert, and read my own fortune in the grounds. This place will definitely be on my rotation for a while to see if they're consistent. There's three such Italian cafes in the square mile around my complex, and I need to be a regular at one of them.
I have finished moving.
The house closed. I'm no longer a homeowner. I'm fairly happy about it, and fairly freaked out about it.
I celebrated, solo, at a nearby Italian cafe I've been meaning to try. It's a musty hole-in-the wall, seating maybe 25 max, buried in a Publix-anchored strip-mall. As the evening moved on, I became aware that I was the youngest person in there by at least two decades (I'm 33, for a couple more weeks dammit!). If one took an average, I'm sure I was four decades younger. In fact, the place was almost a low key senior meat market. I used to be used to these sorts of places when I lived in South Florida, but Atlanta is a young city, and I live just outside Buckhead, the yuppie hot-spot. It felt pretty good, actually, finding a place off the A-list, yet with good food.
I watched the owner mix a cappuccino at the bar, expertly frothing the milk, carefully spooning it over the dark coffee until it was piled like a small dairy cloud peeking over the rim. He lovingly sprinkled just a hint of cinnamon over the peaks. I felt the customer who ordered this creation probably didn't have my view, and had no idea of the time and care the proprietor was putting into this modest beverage. He briefly admired his art, then took a good swig and smacked his lips -- he had been making it for himself.
I nibbled on excellent snails, the butter, garlic, and lemon balanced just right. I had a shrimp diavlo sort of pasta dish for dinner that was good, but slightly overcooked. I had espresso for dessert, and read my own fortune in the grounds. This place will definitely be on my rotation for a while to see if they're consistent. There's three such Italian cafes in the square mile around my complex, and I need to be a regular at one of them.
