I walked to State Street (two miles or so), taking my time, feeling vaguely stalkery as I took in the invididual houses and homes, the yards, the stories each property tells.
I returned some things from my epic shopping spree earlier this week and both salespeople remembered me. One had been trying to figure out whom I look like, and she came over to tell me that she'd figured it out. I told her that that's what everyone says. Then her coworker obsessed about how fabulous my bag is. Really, what more does one need?
I wandered around a bit more, watching the sky turn pink and purple and blue and bluer, and happened across The Hungry C@t. I'd been there a few times before, and I was compelled to go in and sit at their bar. Of course, my server was one of my regulars at the bar--I still can't go anywhere without seeing someone who knows me.. I overheard him say to his coworker, "That's the best bartender in Goleta." I turned around and smiled.
Jaime texted me to see what I was up to, and when I told her I was getting ready to walk back to my house, she said she would come pick me up so I didn't have to walk to the house. That's such a nice fucking thing to do.
I hadn't eaten, and when I opened my fridge, just like magic, Past Morgan had left me raw homemade tortillas in my freezer, home-rehydrated black beans, crazy delicious cheddar from my local cheesemonger, and tomatoes from the farmer's market. Tickled pink by my planning, but feeling as white as I possibly could, I prepared the most Caucasian Mexican meal ever.
I made plans to go out, got ready, sat down, and spent the rest of the night watching the first season of Mad Men (it's so much better the eighteenth time around) in fabulous heels. If there's anything else I need in this world, I don't want it yet.