I felt I had left everything so sweet and pleasant way back in November that, when things started to go awry, I just didn't have the heart to mention it. If you don't have anything nice to say....
In brief, the neighbors frequently drive me to distraction with the noise required of them to just live their lives. Their noisy, door-slamming, stereo-pounding, stair-clattering, hearty-guffawing, motorcycle-riding lives. They are still nice boys, of course. I just sort of wish they were nice somewhere else. See? Not very nice. Also, I am single once more. Best not to dwell on THAT.
What with one thing and another, I've just kept my lip zipped, but today I had an unexpected delightful experience and thought: if ever there was a moment to get back on the ol' blogging horse, that time is now. Because I have something nice to say. Mind you, they have changed everything about how this site works since last I was here, so it will be a miracle if I can actually post it, but I will try. I will try.
This afternoon, I read an article that mentioned Ampersand. I had never heard of it, but apparently, according to the article, it is a little flower shop in a converted garage on a very unlikely block in the Mission. A block I associate more with shady drug dealing and people pooping between parked cars than with fairy lights and lilies. Could it be true? I was all excited. I went there the very minute I left work.
Not only is it real, a bright and fragrant refuge on an otherwise dingy street, the owner was very charming and, best of all, they sell flowers by the stem. This has become curiously uncommon, which I find to be a great pity, because putting together modest little arrangements is one of life's great pleasures. I prattled on to Emerson (the convivial young owner)--in fact, I was so overcome with excitement that I might have accidentally told him my life story--while I picked through the flowers.
I finished with roses and kumquats and freesia, which is a combination you want to bury your face in and breathe deeply through your nose.
And do you know how much all that joy cost me? Twelve bucks.
I don't know how familiar you are with florists, but that is a miracle. I may move in. It's very pretty there and they have a little sofa, so I think it will work out.
I practically skipped back to my car, clutching my bouquet, sweating through my extraneous woolen items (as it was, according to the car thermometer, 65 degrees out). Dozens of pink-hued clouds were scattered liberally across the sky behind Mission Dolores like a 1950s technicolor backdrop. And there was nothing wrong at all.
I can't think of anything nicer to say that that.