We were sitting on the grass this morning, at the Farmer's Market in Venice. I thought about how I would recount the weekend, having devoted many previous posts to the art of the great weekend.For all intents and purposes, it was fulfilling and perfect. But the end of Sundays -- frankly, for many weeks now -- seem to immerse me in an undefinable melancholy that I can't shake. I'm not disheartened at all that I have to go to work tomorrow (though I do feel anxious about the work I have to take care of). I am just overwrought, a little burned out, and for many hours now have not known what to do with this feeling.
I also feel a little guilty, like I've been a bit of a prick to a lot of friends and family. There are so many calls unreturned, overdue conversations not initiated. Something is off-kilter.
But back to Main Street. I had a fancy breakfast plate filled with barbecue chicken, guacamole, creme fraiche, caramelized onions, and home fries. I bought two heirloom tomatoes that are ripening now in the kitchen. We had copped a squat on a small patch of grass, near happy children with painted faces and another kid who was totally conked out, spread-eagle napping on the grass. The moment had character and charm.
Justin said that he missed having pancakes. My mind immediately wandered to Tea-Upon-Chatsworth, which was just the day before. I imagined the tiny buttermilk scone served in the second course. It made me miss baking. It was a memorable pastry that I am still thinking about. It was tea with two beautiful ladies I am gratified to call my friends. And I remembered how deeply and heartily I laughed.
And I backtracked some more to dim sum at Jasmine. I really pigged out, eating shrimp and pork this-and-thats with my favorite Nazi and his Polish lady. He made me laugh an awful lot, too, with his colorful stories, and our mutual admiration for each other's bawdy senses of humor.
Rewind a bit to Friday night. It was frenetic and stressful, but ultimately I was back to regular form at JBar. At the end of the evening was the all-white bed Cirrus had prepared for me. In the morning, she climbed into the sheets with me and we laughed and gossiped, all while she was holding her copy of the Dalai Lama's "The Art of Happiness At Work."
I'm all over the place, even with the chronology of this post. Last night I got reacquainted with Ketel One tonics. We ended up in a tepid hot tub and I remember singing "Con te partiro" with John, who sort of languished by the hot tub in a Bacchanalian stance. I remember giggling a lot, and snapping tons of pictures that look ridiculous a day later.
Ah, the stories I have to tell. If you only knew!
I already see another week flying by. I don't want time to pass this quickly. I miss lots of things, right now, that I can't even name.
If I could find a real life place to make me feel like Tiffany's, then I'd buy some furniture and give the cat a name.
posted by Lucy Sloan @ 11:47 PM
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