layers

Another afternoon a' BXL- (Frisse Salade et Mardesous, s'il te plait) followed by a post-work beer and pizza outing with a few coworkers- I left the Crocodile Lounge. Considering: Trader Joe's, in Union Square. Bring your battle gear- at least the long line isn't boring. Everyone seems to be tweeked out and somewhat frantic. A tremendously amusing combination for a grocery store line. The woman in front of me elected to make phone calls to pass the time, "I'm just spendin' money...you know, I'm at the Trader Joe. Got me some sausages. It say on the box :Gen-u- ine sausage flava- ."

A younger man a few people ahead of her is scratching at his messy, yet suspiciously straight hair, which saddles his pale ears- eyes jetting from one display case to the next- Rosemary nut mix? Apple cider!?

Next door, the Trader Joe's wine shop. This is something that I cannot completely understand about New England/NYC...bars are open until 4am, they aren't required by law to serve food- yet you cannot buy wine in the grocery store. I became spoiled after living in California, where you can walk into any Safeway or super-max- generic what-have- you store and buy hard liquor in addition to the beer and wine that could be purchased in Washington, and other various states. I snagged a few reds, a white and a sake- befriended a French bull dog who was donning a pink collar with green embroidered whales and emerged myself into the impressively mild February evening.

After stepping off the M or was it the R? I cozied in and fell into a deep, well deserved slumber. Saturday afternoon- awoken by a phone call from my Mum- who was en route to a weekend scrapbooking marathon- I negotiated my way into the kitchen portion of the main room to craft a cup of East African Burundi - mixed with honey- checked cnn.com- Chased the pug around- caught up on the marriage industry in Moscow (women are taking classes on how to obtain and maintain a husband- Marie Claire, March Issue). The article was rather engrossing having spent time in Kiev which borrows the mentality of furs, heels in below freezing temps with short skirts and garish (by American standard) panty-hose. It's clear in the confident walk that women in the ex-soviet culture know of their beauty, they may appreciate the beauty of another woman, but know they are more attractive. I take note as Cuba settles into a nap- opting to let her rest while I partake in a little more online reading. At one point I google image search my name in parenthesis. I picked up the blackberry,

"Hi, Did you make it Queens??"

"Yea, did you get my text? My grandma gave me a chocolate bar, the label warns that it acts as a laxative if you eat too much of it."

*chuckles*

"Yea, I did. That's tremendously amusing. So hey I have some interesting information to share."

"Huh?"

"I google image searched my name, in quotes. Listen to this. The first image: a scrabble board. Second: A bottle of Andre with script about country boys under it. Third- me in my bunny Halloween costume. Fourth, shirtless guy peeing. Fifth, some chick named Elizabeth. That's it."

(shared laughter)

"I just wanted you to know who you were living with"

"A few broken wine bottles later, I think I know."

"Truth, okay bye."