It's Sunday evening and I'm sitting on the front porch of Zingerman's Next Door, tapping away at my laptop and sippin' on a Dirty Sheed. (I know I keep mentioning these iced-double-macchiato-with-shot-of-Mexican-vanilla cups of heaven, but I'm lately of the opinion that there's nothing better on earth.) Actually, it's my second Dirty Sheed. I managed to knock over the first and watch it spread like a puddle of lost glory across my table and onto the worn wooden floorboards of the porch. Is there a sadder sight? So I wipe up as much as I can with a handful of napkins and head back inside, rather sheepishly, to report my spill and order another Dirty Sheed. And the boys behind the counter, being good Zingerman's boys, are delightful about the whole thing, assuring me my idiocy is no problem and promptly sending out a smiling employee to mop away my mistakes. Then, to top it all off, they wave away my attempt to pay for the new Sheed.
If you're listening, Owners of Zingerman's, it's precisely this sort of thing that will bring me running back to your place. Yes, I was going to come back anyway, but this incident is why. Well, that and your commitment to top-notch products and serving your community.
I've spent most of today nestled at home, nursing an annoying cold and watching about six episodes of "Medium" on my laptop. Where do colds like this come from? I don't even know anyone who's sick. I don't even know anyone.
Okay, so that's a slight exaggeration, but it is a little how I've been feeling lately. I'm willing to chalk up the funk I've been in the last week at least in part to impending illness and hormonal imbalance. But it's also a bit of the reality of our move hitting me, almost exactly a month after we arrived back here.
There has been so much change and it's precisely the kind of time I would like to call up my girls and arrange for a salad at Michael's and a night of laughter and distraction. But my girls are in St. Louis and I'm indulging in a little bit of self-pity. Plus a lot of sneezing. The two may not be related. To make matters worse, Chris left town this morning for a three-day sleuthing trip and I'm left to sniffle on my own. There's nothing more pathetic than a sick person with no one to whine to.
That said, however, we had an absolutely lovely weekend. Friday night we strolled into town to catch Little Miss Sunshine at the Michigan Theater. I can't remember the last time I enjoyed a movie so much. Really a lovely piece of writing and acting. Plus, it was shown in the main theater, which is a grand experience in itself, all gold-painted decor, heavy maroon velvet curtains and organ player entertaining the troops 'til the lights go down.
It was cool enough when we emerged from the theater to warrant the light sweater I'd lugged along in case the theater was cold. We stopped off at Seva on the way home for a light bite to eat and continued our saunter back to the house. All in all, a very civilized affair -- a fine film and dinner without once having to get in the car. I still can't get over that.
Yesterday, the monotony of Saturday chores and errands was broken when Fara stopped by to grace us with her presence and some cherry batter donuts from the Farmer's Market. (I'm proud to note that I enjoyed the former and avoided the latter.) We sat out on the back deck for a while and covered everything from girl talk to business talk. It's nice to have a friend here.
Last night we stayed at home and watched Michael Winterbottom's 24 Hour Party People, a largely amusing piece about Tony Wilson and the emergence of the Manchester sound in England from about 1976 on.
Which brings us back to today. Which I've already told you about. Which means I'm out of things to say. Which may seem abrupt, but that's how it goes.