It snowed all day and Henry and I played in it until we were cold.
I had coffee at Fairgrounds with wonderful friends (and the couch is definitely comfy!). Finally! My coffee fix.
I’m warm, I’m in my jammies and it’s only nine o’clock. I also have movies to watch, as well as the first season of Buffy on DVD.
I’m don’t have to be back at work until Tuesday.
I have plans for tomorrow that include hockey and Shaolin Soccer, and maybe some cooking if I’m feeling inspired.
It’s been a good day. Happy, happy Kris.
I’ve finally updated the About Me section. It’s not terribly exciting, but it’s what I could come up with at 2 a.m. More than anyone wants to know, I’m sure.
Any questions?
“That’s not swimming, it’s frolicking.” ~ Nick
Now tell me that’s not funny. I mean, c’mon, it’s funny!
Coffee. I want coffee. Why is that all I can think about (well, relatively speaking, of course)? Why is coffee more addictive than soda, despite the similar (I think) caffeine content? Why, when I never drank coffee before last year (because I had the best damn coffee in London and I’m still trying to duplicate that amazing experience), do I suddenly have the urge to leave work in search of the nearest coffee house?
Honestly, I think it’s mostly the ritual. It’s comforting and exciting all at once. Going for coffee. It just has a ring to it. Not going for a Pepsi. Or going for tea. Or even going for a drink (though that has a different ring to it altogether). Going for coffee can be a solitary experience or a social event. It can be quick and feverish, like a forbidden affair; it can be leisurely and languid, like lovemaking on a summer afternoon.
Coffee drinking is about cupping the warm, steaming mug in my hands, worrying in back and forth gently as I blow the steam and inhale the aroma. It’s about the first taste and swallow, the soothing, rich, fulfilling smoothness of it. If the coffee is the perfect temperature-- not so hot it burns my tongue, not so cool that it tastes like paste-- all the better. Coffee with the hint of chocolate or vanilla or hazlenut (but mostly chocolate). Coffee that is sweet and creamy and swirly on my tongue.
I want coffee. I need coffee. I need comfort.
I despise splitting the bill when I go out to eat. I hate dividing things up and figuring out who pays what based on who had the club sandwich and who had the cheeseburger. Worse even than splitting the bill is separate checks. Why not just sit at separate tables while you’re at it? Or even separate restaurants? Tell you what, don’t call me, I’ll call you.
When I eat out, I don’t want to worry about how the bill is going to get paid. Such practicalities take away from the pleasure of the meal. I eat out as a way of socializing-- hell, eating is socializing for me. When I’m home alone, I don’t eat meals, I graze (case in point, my dinner tonight: Cheez Doodles and Pepperidge Farm cookies). There is joy in sharing a meal that should not be compromised by nitpicky details such as how the bill is going to be divided.
If I’m eating out with someone I like (and I try to avoid eating out with jerks, though there are rare occasions when I get stuck sitting across from someone I can’t stand), I will happily pay the tab and expect them to return the favor next time. I’d much rather pick up the bill than sit there trying to figure out who owes what. As I rarely have cash on me, I’m going to either have to ask the server for a seperate check or put the entire thing on my credit card and take cash from my friend, which seems wrong. Honestly, I’ve probably paid for more than fifty-percent of the meals I’ve eaten in restaurants and that is okay with me. If I like you, I’m more than willing to pay for your meal in exchange for the pleasure of your company.
I once had lunch with an acquaintance (who was on her way to at least being a casual friend) who pulled out a CALCULATOR in order to figure out her half of the bill. Now, keep in mind that we ordered the exact same entree, but she had water and a side salad and I had an iced tea. We split dessert. She still felt the need to use a calculator to tally the exact amount of her tab. This was not a pricey restaurant, it was Ruby Tuesday’s. We’re talking a difference of maybe two bucks in what we each owed, if that. I was horribly embarrassed. I spent time with her after this mortifying event, but I never went to a restaurant with her again.
The other thing about taking turns paying the bill is that it becomes a promise for a future meal spent together. I get it this time, you get it next time. If I like you enough to share a meal with you (excluding the aforementioned occasional jerk), I will want to see you again. If I ever offer to split the bill with you… well, don’t expect me to be calling any time soon. If you suggest splitting the bill, I may be slightly offended whether that’s your intention or not. Splitting the bill feels like you don’t like me and want to be done with me. That’s hardly a way to end a pleasant meal.
Oh, and the woman with the calculator? Despite her obsessive/compulsive need to make sure we each paid our fair share, she stuck me with the tax and only tipped ten-percent.
Life. Love. Writing. Friendship.
Sex. Books. Movies. Travel. Politics. Feminism. Academia. Insomnia. Rants. Raves. Chocolate. Lots of chocolate. Some names have been changed, some stories have been embellished. Thanks for stopping by and beware of the dog. Read more...
