People think I'm a pillow. First, on the way into work, a woman fell asleep into me, just timbered into my arm, and when we made contact she woke up and said, "SORRY," and everyone looked.

Then on the way home I sat next to this little Asian dumpling girl and she kept leaning slowwwwwly into me, and then I'd turn the page of my book, or scratch my nose, and she'd sit up real straight and eventually do it all over again.

I felt like saying, "WAKE UP, PEOPLE!"

Obama is whining about Jeremiah Wright on The News Hour right now. (I would change the channel, but I'm waiting to see Junot Díaz, Mr. Pulitzer.) I'm really, really tired of this election, and it hasn't even happened yet. At this rate I'll be so over it come November that I'll prolly stay home Tuesday night and watch 'Gilmore Girls' on DVD.

I miss my iPod.

Last night after L. and I got back from the pub, we watched two episodes of 'The Tudors' and ate cake. I had dreams about showing the pope around New York, and assassination attempts in the middle of the night in front of my grandmother's house.

Tea & Sympathy; umbrella; read manuscripts; shower.

Washington, DC

The cake weighs fifteen pounds without baking powder, but it's genuinely delicious. Sarah and I ate some for breakfast yesterday. (I made her blow out a candle first.)

First time in a month that I've been home on a weekend. Feels utterly luxurious. Feels like spring break.

Bad news on the technology front: iPodbaby is dead. Took him to the doctor and the doctor said, "It's probably cheaper if you just buy a new one." And I said, "O-kay!" My former iPod is so old they no longer make it. The dilemma is whether to buy it now, or wait until my check for the Juniper Writers Institute clears. (Charles D'Ambrosio is worth every penny.)

Leah and I are watching The Paper, which we also watched last night, but it's so utterly brilliant we can't get enough. I can completely identify with Alex; I too have fought the good fight for grayscale. 

High school + "reality" + Solo cups + copyediting = winning combination. I smell an Emmy.

Jewish Apple Cake

-or-

Peeling Apples while Listening to the Appleseed Cast

Sarah's birthday is tomorrow, and when I asked her what kind of cake she wanted, I expected something like, "Chocolate with vanilla icing!" but instead she was like, "Oooh, I really love Jewish apple cake with a scoop of ice cream alongside..."

I like the way she thinks, but Jewish apple cake does not come in a box. I had to make it utterly from scratch, and when I slid it into the oven looking all pretty and full of potential, I realized that I had completely forgotten to add the baking soda. Let's hope 1 teaspoon does not a cake make.

When I was at the grocery store this afternoon, buying apples and BAKING SODA, the woman in front of me on line was nine cents short for her half gallon of milk. She was fishing around in the bottom of her bag, apologizing in a soft Irish accent, when I whipped out my trusty wallet and found that I had exactly nine cents, which I handed to the tiny Indian woman behind the register. The Irish woman said, "Oh no, I couldn't possibly--" 

And I said, "It's just nine cents." 

And she said, "Yes, but that's still nine cents." 

And I said, "Yes, but don't worry. It's fine." 

And she said, "Oh thank you so much, that's so kind. I hope you win the lotto!"

I felt like Amelie. (A little, and less technicolor.) Tomorrow I'm totally buying a lottery ticket.

Some people get drunk and go to 7-11 and buy 32 oz. slushies and Cooler Ranch Doritos.

Other people get drunk and go to The Strand, telling themselves it's just to get Persuasion for book club, as if that makes it any better, and wander around the entire store, picking up Interpreter of Maladies, and The Shipping News, and The Collected Works of many, and carrying them around with two hands, in a tall stack, still looking for that damned Austen book, and it seems that they have every single other book of hers--three different editions of Pride and Prejudice, and a fucking illustrated version of Mansfield Park, but no Persuasion. None. And all the Austen books are on the tippy top shelf and this person is too short (read: scared) to climb the folding ladder, not to mention utterly dreading the clatter just to get it open, and so they tell themselves,

No. Put all the books back. If you can't get Persuasion, get nothing.

Okay, maybe just Invisible Man. You were reading about the huge undertaking of getting his second book published--thousands upon thousands of pages of notes and half-finished chapters, and complete chunks that are books unto themselves--and you haven't read it since Goldstein's class, and it's so worthy of an impulse buy...

...and in the end this person buys nothing. The guilt of having a librarian for a mother triumphs again. They will take them out of the library. Problem solved. Crisis averted once more.

There's this dog groomer down the block next to The Globe Cafe, and for whatever reason it's called The Poodle Emporium. I die every time I walk by it.

I was freezing all day at work today and usually it's utterly boiling, old radiators and the 17th floor and whatnot. I unbunched my pashmina and kept it wrapped around me like some old gypsy lady all day long. I only took my hands out to type.

This weekend was even better than expected: sitting behind Cara Settipani on the bus (thinking about AP bio and sitting next to her in band), 80 degrees but breezy, old maps at Eastern Market, low-flying ducks at the Jefferson Memorial, spontaneous hot dogs, wine sippin' while patio sittin', book stores, poetry books, notebooks, tv marathons, and the first iced coffee of the season. I have some completely great pics, but they are trapped in my camera because I can't find the USB cable. Photos TK.

Tonight on the subway this woman got on at 49th Street and she had her fleece-covered baby strapped to her front like a backwards papoose. I offered her my seat, but she said no thanks, which made me think that she couldn't bend her body with a baby on the front of it like that. But then when the woman sitting next to me got up, the baby-fronted woman sat down, and I saw inside the little fuzzy hood that was resting on her shoulder and it was utterly the most perfect baby face, all cheeks and button nose, sleeping through the mess of rush hour, kneeling on his mother's lap.

What a gold star day: breakfast with pals, extra cups of coffee, Lord of the Rings marathon on TNT, sharing cookies with Mags... The theme of this weekend has pretty well been food. I am utterly glutted.

And now I'm back in l'apartment, watching planes glide into LaGuardia.

I wish my life were an endless Sunday.