m-c

Man, if I got as much done every day as I did today, I would be unstoppable.

Working backwards, I went out biking on the path for an hour or so, then salad dinner with Shelley and Steve, then replacing the brake levers on my bike with Steve, then planting tomatoes and mint with Shelley, then brunch with Shelley, Steve, M-C and Alex.

It was M-C's going away brunch.

Last night under the pergola, a bunch of our drunk friends around us, I headbutted her in the arm and said "You're moving tomorrow."

We both looked a little... sheepish? Surprised?

"Yeah," she said. "I was talking to The Wren earlier and saying that the only person I'd ever lived with was MH, and The Wren gave me this weird look until I was like 'Oh, of course, and Megan.' But I sometimes forget."

It's true. I've lived alone so often and for so long that I'm just used to being that person who lives alone, over the past 9 months would sometimes say that I did and then catch myself with shame-faced recanting. Take my word for it, people think it's odd if you don't remember that you live with someone.

I am not an easy person to live with. I know this because I am much like my father in some of the ways that made him difficult to live with. That M-C and I have lived together so long not only conflict-free but entirely amicably is something of a joyful mystery to me.

Not that I'll be unhappy on my own again; I'm suited to it. But I've gotten used to having her around, her chair rolling above my head as I sit at the Archipelago, the rhythm of her typing vibrating through the desk, her floor and my ceiling. Her giant laugh and distinctive hand clap.

I've been wanting to make a lentil loaf for several months now, for reasons, well, the short version is that I played the lentil loaf trump card in a spontaneous game of "Who's the Deepest Lez?" and won pretty handily.

At the time I was joking. I've never eaten lentil loaf in my life, only laughed at its existence.

But there it was, lodged in my brain like a dried legume. I found what I thought might be a decent recipe, gathered the ingredients. Tonight was the night.

It had been in the oven for 10 or so mintues by the time Jennifer arrived. I cleaned, she knit, we chatted about our days, and dates, and girls, and boys, and apartments. We ate salad.

When I took the loaf out of the oven at 35 minutes to spread the remaining tomato paste over it, the top layer kept coming up. I allowed as how we might be in trouble.

Indeed. 10 more mintues in the oven did not make my loaf more moist. Jennifer was entirely kind, ate her slice all up, and suggested that mushroom gravy does wonders for just about anything.

Halfway through our dinner, M-C came downstairs.

"Hey M-C," I said, which is how I start 90% of my conversations with her. "There's some lentil loaf on the stove if you want some."

"Lesbo loaf! Really? You made it!?"

"Help yourself."

"Well. I dunno. Nah." She paused by the counter, almond milk in hand. "Well, maybe a little. Though I'm not sure I know what to do with it."

"You put it in your mouth, M-C."

"Riiiiight, right. Thanks for the tip."

She cut herself off a wee slice, put it in a bowl.

"I should warn you though," I said. "It's a little dry."

You can tell it's winter. For one, I'm starting to see 8:30 as a reasonable bedtime. And considering that 8:30 is four hours after sundown, I really think it is a reasonable bedtime. For two, all I'm blogging about is food.

And snow. Because what else is there? Besides the transit strike, of course, which I am lucky enough to be completely unaffected by. Well, except for the fact that my office will be pretty much empty tomorrow.

When I got home this afternoon, it was already dark, of course is was, because it's December and unless you go into work when it's pitch fucking black in the morning, it's at least twilight when you leave.

One of the extraordinarily cute girls that I did not stun with my wit has described this winter as her Winter of Not Fucking Around. I have totally adopted this saying for my own self, except that my winter gloves? They are totally gloves for fucking around.

By the time I had finished shovelling the steps, I was in a furious crank and my hands were numb. I looked up the metres and metres of driveway (I kid you not) and stomped inside, upstairs. I lay on my bed, held my held my hands in my armpits and whimpered a bit as they came painfully back to life.

Fucking around leads to whimpering. You heard it here first.

Not long after, I heard Steve out on our metres of driveway, with the giant snow scoop. I suited up again and went out to help him.

Halfway through shovelling the mouth out, I took a break, turned around. "Steve! What are we going to do?"

The front lawn is nearly full of snow, the planter couldn't hold all the snow I threw on it, the area on our driveway that isn't shovelled is up to my chest in a snowhill.

It's December 9th. What in blazing hell are we going to do for the next four months of storms?

Something good came out of it though. Not long after I asked Steve what we were going to do, he asked me what I was doing for dinner. I finished my puny shovel shovelling long before he finished with the scoop and went in to make dinner.

About 20 minutes later, M-C came home, and before she'd even gotten properly in the door, we'd filled her in on all the news, invited her for dinner and informed her that no more bags of beets were allowed into the house, since there were nearly two bags full to go to compost, but could we use her squash.

Dinner took ages and ages, the damn squash, but it was so fun. I live in the perfect situation, I really do. I wrote a few days ago that I was staring into lonely, and it was true, and there is certainly a part of myself convinced that not having a partner means being lonely, but man, come on.

They're talking about cocks and shaved balls.

Lonely? Not a chance.

Dear Internet,

I have missed you, and how. The past few days have been trying, but the stomach aches and dizzy spells are gone.

And now? Now my modem is lighted all up in just the right places, my comuter is once more a computer. My house is still a disaster, but it's my house, and it's painted. I blew off the housework this evening to loll about, shoot the shit, and drink single malt scotch with handsome butches. CT is going to be here in three sleeps.

I thought I didn't miss you at all, but here I am, at 2:17 in the am, writing you a note to tell you that I'll never ever leave you again.

xom.