Taking a bus is one of my little pleasures. It's not that I hate the subway all that much - I mean, how else would I get somewhere in a hurry? But riding the bus is much more fun.
Today, for instance, I noticed a little restaurant that I've never seen before on my way up Sixth Avenue to work. I think it's around 29th or 30th, and on that stretch I'm usually reading a book. For some reason I was looking out the window this morning.
The restaurant is called something like World Cafe. Right under the name of the restaurant on the front of the building, it says Chinese - American - Italian. Italian? I mean everybody knows that greasy spoon Chinese that says Chinese American and serves bad fried rice and the world's greasiest fried chicken, but Italian? And even better, below that line, in neon in the window, this place has a sign that says Hand Rolled Bagels.
You've got to admire these people - they're certainly trying to cover all the bases here. However, the joint is really tiny, and I worry about what must be terrible confusion in the kitchen - what with all those bagels being rolled and the woks going full speed and the spaghetti sauce steaming away.
You see, I imagine that they must have come up with some insane version of fusion food. Can't you imagine it? Macaroni and cheese with bean sprouts. Veal parmesan dim sum. Spaghetti Bolognese with hot fresh garlic bagel. Tofu panini. Fried rice on an everything bagel.
This is even better than my all-time favorite Chinese restaurant name. This one is on Eighth Avenue right by the big post office, and when they decided to have the sign made for it, they wanted to call the restaurant Dynasty (face it, there are only about six Chinese restaurant names in the city). However, to save money, they obviously hired a member of the family who'd been in this country somewhat longer than they had, and was therefore presumed to know more English. Unfortunately, he didn't. Which is why the restaurant is called, in very big letters, Dinersty.
Having spent the other evening waiting for my clean underwear, I am now spending this one waiting for my clean outerwear. Although I may just say the hell with it and go to bed, because I've been afflicted with insomnia the last two nights and I'm dropping in my tracks. Luckily I provided myself with my own personal form of sleeping pill on my way home from my office - Ben and Jerry's ice cream. In a new flavor called Peach Crumble or something like that. Well, I don't take sleeping pills because I'd rather drink beer, and I'm not silly enough to do both, and I can't drink warm milk on account of I'm allergic to it, but for some reason I'm not allergic to ice cream and it puts me directly to sleep. No, I don't know why either, but it sure is a neat reason to eat ice cream - "Why, yes, it's a medical necessity." Hee, hee, hee.
My child didn't quit reading last night's blog when I told her to and has sent me a nasty comment. Hey, not my fault. I told her that story was coming up. She hates the notion of my once having cavorted around with friends in the rude nude...kids today are so Victorian. Of course, in my day sex wouldn't kill you - makes a difference.
Oh, to hell with the laundry. I have clean underwear and at least one clean sweater, so I guess I'll throw caution to the winds and wear an actual skirt tomorrow. It's almost spring, after all. Isn't it?
Bed. Now.
Love, Wendy
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