Shhhhh. Be quiet. You don’t want to wake the city. Shhhhhhhhh.
You’d think today was some kind of holiday or somethin’, what with the relatively desolate streets and uncrowded crowds at Whole Foods and paultry number of passengers on the bus (yes, the M5, yes) (no, I never tire of talking about the M5, no) and all the free figgy pudding available on every street corner. It’s all so very very quiet. Almost creepily so.
I love the city when it’s like this. This must be what it’s like when you have a baby, and the baby’s away at, like, a sweat lodge for a weekend of much overdo bonding. And the house is, at long last, full of a silence as light and airy and sweet-smelling as a pan of just-about-done Poppin’ Fresh biscuits. (P.S. Is there anything more fun than slamming that cardboard roll against the edge of the kitchen counter and witnessing the immediate release of a mass of unbaked dough reminiscent of an obese person’s edematous calf?) What a wonderful relief the calmness is, especially after the mayhem engendered by the transit strike.
But Christmas, for me, really just passes by like flour through a sieve. (You’d think I was doing some baking today, wouldn’t you, what with all these baking references. Alas, I didn’t. I never do. I do, however, have a bag full of partially eaten cookies from Levain Bakery. Stepping foot into that tiny bakery is about as close to baking as I’ll get. And eating the cookies [or at least parts of them] is about as close to festive as I’ll get.) I pay it very little mind. I wave hello to it in passing and go about my merry little way.
I am, however, breaking tradition this year and actually going out on Christmas Eve. Matt and I are going to see The Woman In White. His boyfriend, K, does something stage managery for the show, and one of the benefits is that he gets a couple of free tickets for tonight’s performance. One of the benefits of being Matt’s friend is that I get to be his date. Our seats are sheer perfection. I will not tell you where they are, though, so you won’t be able to hunt me down and shoot me in some sort of twisted Abraham Lincoln fantasy.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Fine, Jodi. Fine. I’ll just show up at the theater, then, and wait outside until you come out. I think I’ll be able to identify you. You’ll be the slender, vivacious, raven-haired woman in black and high heels, arm-in-arm with a very attractive gay man.”
In this city, that’s like looking for a needle in a gaystack.
We’ll be at the London location, anyway, so don’t even try. (Unless, of course, you’re in London.) Which means I’ve gotta bolt if I’m to get to the jet in time.
Is there a point to this entry? No. Of course not. Is there ever? I just wanted to give you a little somethin’ for being so nice, in honor of the holiday season ‘n’ all.
Oh, and I also have this golden oldie for you, which may make you reconsider your plans to do me physical harm, or, come to think of it, reinforce your desire to inflict it.
Happy, merry, joyous. Etc. :o)
Hasn’t she mentioned the glory of Levain Bakery before? Oh, yes. Yes, she has. There’re some pretty sexy cookie shots in that entry, so you may want to have a li’l looksee.