Empire State of Mind AND The Asian Invasion!

Cabin fever set in this past weekend and suddenly half the house was en route to the City That Never Sleeps. I would say that the house was unnaturally quiet all weekend, but concert board eagerly stepped up to the plate to maintain a constant level of debauchery on Friday and Saturday nights. Wrestling matches sprung out of the general raucousness (I mean, come on, we have a tournament to get through) but once D and I realized that “we didn’t want to hurt each other, we wanted to love each other,” we settled our wrestling match through a game of patty-cake.... ending in a ten second pin by yours truly.

Sunday night, the prodigal sons returned and we cooked the fatted calf.... if by fatted calf we mean a slew of left overs. Less cholesterol. Soon after we were joined by a group of seven couch-surfing Koreans who are visiting the Boston area in order to fund-raise for their trip to Brazil. This is better than anything I could ever dream up. As M lead them from room to room, their eyes made little buttons in their faces and their mouths made little donuts that said “Oooooohhhhh!” as they saw the wardrobe, the snowflakes, the posters, the titties, and the tapestries. They are indefinitely residing in the third floor common room.

How to make......

In other news, when I typed "how to make..." into the google search bar, its three suggestions were "how to make a friendship bracelet," "how to make french toast," and "how to make it in america." Priorities well in order, I see.

The Triumphant Return OR Back in... White?

Re-entry shock after just one weekend away? Yes, it is possible. I didn’t even make it all the way to the door before I was enveloped by the aura of affection surrounding the place.... or was that the haze of second hand smoke? Equally comforting. Add to that the chart proclaiming the newly instated shower-with-each-of-your-house-mates challenge, M. looking typically fresh in a low cut women’s shirt, and the cast iron pan of kale and tempeh left over from dinner sitting in the middle of living room left (and yes, it sits there still. mid-morning snack, anyone?), and I knew that I definitely wasn’t in New Jersey anymore.

Granted, we are in the process of re-sterilizing the walls of the second and third floor hallways after last month’s outbreak of artistic fervor fueled by home-made Austin, Texas Vodka. Thankfully, the titty prints in the porn room remain.

The Inevitable

It was bound to happen sometime. That much sex can’t occur on the far side of the wardrobe without some unwitting person eventually stumbling through to find oh-so-much more than Mr. Tumnus and Turkish Delight. And I play the role of unwitting stumbler so very well. Of course, I knocked, and there was the inevitable tense silence (unfortunately misinterpreted by yours truly), the inevitably ambiguous reply (“Hello?”), the inevitable fractional opening of the door, followed by the inevitable slow motion sequence where one fraction of a second is stretched into one million inevitable frames of awkwardness that plastered themselves all over my retina like the photo collage hanging in the downstairs bathroom. Inevitable mumbled apologies from within and without Narnia, inevitable rapid blinking, as if that could interrupt the transfer of images just viewed to short term (or long term, god forbid) memory. Return to impregnated silence from beyond the wardrobe. Glad to know that the mood-kill of me didn’t last long.

In other news, last night, hanging over the apex of the roof, there was an ice ring around the perfectly full, circular moon.

How to start your day

This morning, I was thinking about having weed cake for breakfast, but I decided on generic brand Honey Bunches of Oats instead. I’ve never been one for the wake-and-bake, but when the kitchen greets you at 9 am with a sticky chocolate confection sporting a sign that says “eat me if you want to get high,” it seems a little bit like divine intervention, doesn’t it? Never mind that the cake was half eaten, carving knives smeared with frosting laying abandoned by its side. Kitchen hygiene sometimes falls by the wayside when confronted with more urgent matters like mind altering substances.... and by sometimes I mean very often.

Someone wandered in and said “Oh, have you had any of the cake? When I came down it wasn’t labeled, but luckily I knew and didn’t eat any, because I didn’t want to turn into a Jelly Bean. So I made the sign.” I think we might need our own house - FDA officer to enforce labeling laws. Just say no to Jelly Beans.

The cake oozed at me enticingly, but somehow the box of cereal appealed to my latent better judgement. Luckily, no decision is final. I love, you, second hand smoke from the porch.