Day of rest.

Phone call to disrupt what was supposed to be a low-production sunday at home. Picked up in a tricked out pickup driven by a lady with a dog. Drive over the bridge to pick up a rocking chair, then a pair of hats. Park and shop for fabric to make into a baby blanket, drop my hat in a curbside puddle of new york sludge. Drive and park and look for more fabric and find some and walk around a little to find a place to eat. The sushi place was big and empty and had what looked to me like a small, private lap-dance room with sliding paper doors. We talked. We went next door to shop for food. We drove to chinatown to drop off the goods. We went back out to look for legal parking. Drove around for an hour, stopping for gas, and going through red lights. She just doesn't have the patients when she's parking. Parked and went back up to the third floor and put away groceries and oiled some cutting boards and listened to music and left Amy a message and looked at fabric combinations and sat in the rocking chair while it rained outside. She made yummy popcorn in a pot while we wondered if they still made Jiffy Pop, and she told me the Orville Redenbacher employees suffered respiratory problems because of powered ingredients in the air at the factory. We watched Barry Lyndon, which was long and slow and disappointing and just a bad movie. She started fast forwarding through the scenes of people walking or riding a horse, and it still seemed slow. I put on my hat, now dry, figuring I'd wash it, and my head, when I got home, and said goodnight. More of this kind of thing in the new year, please.