You know what’s good after a run? Caramel popcorn cakes and hot coffee enjoyed on my balcony (fire escape) while listening to Fugazi and someone practicing their violin somewhere on this block. I love sitting out here to do my work because it feels like I’m getting away with something, though it does require me to put pants on instead of my usual uniform of a comfy cotton dress and slippers. It’s a look.
We have a nice view of the statue of liberty and lower Manhattan from the roof top. It’s a little hard to get up there because you have to stretch from the last rung of the ladder to the side of the opening. If you try to step forward from the top rung you will step off the building.
I went up there last night to look for the blood moon, forgetting it wouldn’t be visible on the east coast until around 6:30 am. Then this morning I forgot to look for it when I went for my run because the laundry lady down the street has it out for me. I should really get into the habit of setting out running clothes the night before. As it is, I make a guess that it’s cool and breezy (YES!) and grab the first pair of socks I find.
This morning it took me some time to find clean socks. Last week, I got into a little kerfuffle when the lady of the laundromat pretended she didn’t speak English when the machine ate my money and have not been back since. That’ll show her. I’ve passed by a few times, wanting to go when she wasn’t working, but she’s always there probably counting giant piles of stolen quarters. I’d take my business elsewhere, but the next nearest laundry place is down the slope and I really don’t want push the bunny filled with laundry back up. The bunny, by the way, is my push cart. Drivers get to name their cars. Carless urban dwellers get to name their push carts.
It wasn’t until I was already a mile away from home that I realized the socks I chose this morning were evil. The elastic was shot. I kept stopping to pull them up and they kept inching back down, creating a painful friction. Finally I tried stuffing leaves between my foot and the shoe to stop the rubbing – that worked about as well as you’d expect.
Seven miles later, I have a tiny patch of skin missing from the side of my foot. It’s more like a scratch but it feels like a gash. Shea butter, chocolate and wine should heal it fast. I’m just going to sit here for a while and fantasize about living in a tiny little house in the mountains with a washer. And if somebody could come and do my laundry for me that’d be great. Takers? I’ll be your best friend.