the flour-based saturday night activities of convalescents

Saturday night at the Fort means G-R-A-D-I-N-G! Disco inferno! Strobe... and re-strobe! My social life is an absolute nonstop whirlwind of excitement, absolutely befitting of a 27-year-old woman living in the middle of a major metropolitan area. (Other nights of the week that mean G-R-A-D-I-N-G! at the Fort include Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Sunday. Stop by anytime to get a piece of the action.) From my window I can see all the people dressed in their clean clothes heading to dinner. Some of them are clearly already drunk and a lot of them are in love or are doing a good job of appearing to be. It is about 65 degrees. All the cars have their windows down. Women are wearing these carefree, sort of muslinesque scarves that seem annoying. The Bay, at work, informs me that other people are hateful and I should be glad that I am inside by myself.

Sometimes on Saturday nights, alone, grading, I bake. This is because I am basically a cat lady without the cats. The problem with baking on Saturdays, however, is that the goods do not have an immediate exit point (for example, work on Tuesday or The Bay's mom (I pretty much make all my impressions on The Bay's mom through baked goods, in the style of young Jewish women everywhere)). One cannot even mail one's baked goods away the next day if one bakes on Saturday. One has no choice but to eat all said goods and then cry out for the cats she does not have. Boy, I am such a catch. Leap on this right now! All items must go!

I have decided not to do this tonight, only in part because of the strange packaged cookies I ate earlier. They were purchased by Juan during the days she was here and have been sitting on top of the refrigerator. They are those Chessmen cookies that used to have actual chess pieces emblazoned on their cookie bodies, but now they have things like flowers and watering pots. They are no longer strategic. They are now cookies that were made for the people under my window who are drunk and young. I ate about six of them.

Tonight's baking substitution: Some Montaigne essays that are fun to read when you are feeling void of enthusiasm. It's a thing I do. I know: I'm not normal.