Splish, splash, I was takin' a bath, all alone on Saturday night!*

August 21, 2009. It was a bad day. The weather sweltered. I couldn't use my AC. I worked all day. I sweat all day. I missed Mike all day. Luckily for me, Theo is a good kisser.

Sweat-Soaked Self-Portrait With Dog Tongue - 8/21/09

That's Valentine in the background, nibbling my ear.

August 22 was a great day. I got a lot done, I was giddy knowing Mike would be home the very next day, and I had friends over for dinner. Then? THEN I COOKED. And you know what? I didn't set anything on fire. Not a thing! I mean, the stove, yes. But that's supposed to be on fire. I didn't set anything else on fire. I harvested my basil plants and made fresh pesto and served it with pretty little noodles, roasted chicken seasoned with thyme and oregano from my herb garden, ricotta and asiago cheese, and then, just for fun, I topped it off with Cherokee Purple tomatoes from our CSA. I completely invented the recipe, just threw things together as they seemed to fit, and it was delicious. I was so thoroughly impressed with myself that I took this photo:

I made that garlic bread, too. I used a gorgeous french loaf that Josie and Johnny brought over, drenched it in olive oil, threw on some chopped garlic and doused everything with a hearty helping of shredded asiago. Heaven in my mouth. Seriously.

And this was the early morning of August 23. The very early morning. The very, very early morning. In fact, we were still awake from the day before! And? We're sweating! Because it's sweaty! At 3 a.m.! (Though The Valley may thoroughly fry it's residents all day, AT LEAST IT COOLS DOWN AT NIGHT.)

We spent this evening early morning on my fire escape, talking ab --

Hold on. I've got to interrupt myself for a minute.

As a Valley Girl growing up in Southern California, whenever I fantasized about living in New York City, I imagined myself spending a lot of time on my fire escape. I imagined that I would sit out there and read. I would sit out there and sketch. Sometimes I'd sit on my imaginary fire escape and compose poetry, play my lute, and have long, impassioned dialogues with the handsome Puerto Rican boy who lived across the alley. It would be grand and romantic, this fire escape of mine.

And then I moved to New York and realized that fire escapes are filthy, cramped and difficult to get on and off of.

Still, in the very early morning hours of August 23rd, Adam, Joe and I sat on my fire escape drinking red wine, talking about life and friendship, romance and babies and it was every bit as lovely as I could have imagined.

Joe breaks glasses when he drinks. It's why we love him.

And why we switched to plastic.

*You're all, what? I know. Totally.