Friday; I went back to work yesterday. Got a lot done but found myself wishing I was able to take the whole week off.
Tonight we all walked down to the little family-owned Italian place across the road from us. The place has been around forever, has a following and everything. It was across town for years and only last year moved into its new location which is, near enough, close enough to hit with rocks. By comparison, our mailbox is at the end of our block (one of those new-fangled community boxes like you’d see in an apartment complex), and if you walked over again that same distance you’d be at this place’s front door. It really is that close. That close and this is the first time we’ve been there since they moved into the neighborhood. We wanted to take Sharaun’s folks somewhere nice for their anniversary, which was last week.
It’s a nice place, but not so highfalutin’ that you can’t wear jeans or order a cold beer. Prices are high… but the food is fantastic. While sitting there tonight I kept thinking about how I’ve always wanted a “place.” Y’know, a local joint where I could be a “regular.” Even though being a regular probably means spending money and gaining weight, there’s something about being ingrained into the local color that is all old fashioned and seems endearing to me. I have this fantasy of having a favorite dish, maybe ordering it once a week with Sharaun, having a glass of wine, whatever. Something fixed, something old-time, something diner-out-of-The-Honeymooners. But I can’t afford it; and spaghetti costs next-to-nothing to make at home… so I’ll never do it.
Tonight Keaton prayed, “I hope the pipe stops leaking.” I think that girl knows too much about current events.