baked alaska

Once upon a time, I moved from Michigan to New York. I left six days before graduation with three suitcases, dyed red hair and some ambiguous plans in my head. Since then, some things have happened; some things haven't happened. I can't say I'm restless, but different ideas are sprouting and the more I consider them, the more they start to look like me.

I spent this morning planning an elaborate (and ultimately fake) vacation to Alaska. If I left in three weeks, I could get a roundtrip flight to Anchorage for $398.

In other news, my roommate is here and awesome. Despite some minor altercations on move-in day (there's nothing like a streetfight-induced police call to welcome someone to the neighborhood), we squeezed her bountiful possessions into the apartment and then drank much celebratory beer. Already, we have successfully carried out full, interesting conversations, and as a bonus, our book and movie collections complement each other. I'm optimistic.

As for the weekend? On Friday, I drank tainted Dark & Stormies (we were forced to substitute raspberry ginger beer for regular, and malibu coconut for dark rum), watched Dirty Dancingfor the first time, and sat on Ivy's stoop to accidentally watch her neighbor take a shower (beware the curtainless apartment). On Saturday morning, I had brunch at Tiny Cup with Ivy, Thew and Alicia (the new roomie), and bought clothes at Salvation Army with autumn in mind. Later, Brian and I celebrated our one-year anniversary. The planned Governors Island picnic was foiled (yet again) by unbearable weather, so we spent an air-conditioned afternoon perusing Richard Serra's exhibit at MoMA and staying deliciously cool in Brian's apartment. After making a pitstop at Rosemary's Greenpoint Tavern, we trekked sweatily to Moto for pork chops, mashed potatoes, chocolate pudding and two bottles of wine. By most standards it was a lazy Saturday but, you know, it's all that saccharine stuff about who you're with and not where you are.