Another Rainy Sunday in The Noog

It's going to be a long day. I have been up for barely five hours, and I'm thinking, "It's not even 10:30 yet?"

I slept in this morning. I figured I deserved it since I'm kind of sick. It was cold-like but didn't hit me the way a cold usually does, and I can tell I'm nearing the end of it. (Note: if you're in the slightest squeamish, skip to the next paragraph.) The really weird thing is that, when I blow my nose, I see blood (just a tiny bit) in the tissue. It's not as if I've been blowing my nose a lot this week, since it didn't hit me the way a cold usually does, and it's not as if it's dry in The Noog, least of all today. I'll chalk it up to things being utterly different for me here and leave it at that.

It has been raining off and on since some time overnight. I could hear it on the roof. When I got up this morning (45 minutes later than usual), I didn't hear it on the roof, and it wasn't raining when I got outside, but I took my umbrella and decided to walk on the indoor track. It turns out I couldn't, since they had a basketball game last night and the bleachers covered half of the indoor track, and since the other half was blocked by pull-down chain gates like you see at stores in the mall. I wasn't about to sit on an exercise bike or tramp on a treadmill for half an hour or more without benefit of a book, so I decided to go back home. However, I did hear rain on the gym roof, so I opened my umbrella. Half a block away, the rain stopped. (The forecast must have called for "local showers".) It poured a little while later, and it's "misting" now, so I think I'll eat somewhere with soup for lunch.

The first place I thought of, the Acropolis, is on Death Row (the area of town next to the mall and all the "big box" stores), so I can't go there (at least not safely) until after everyone returns or exchanges all their Christmas gifts. The Epicurean is good (and, the website's glamorous self-declarations notwithstanding, it's actually a darn good diner, both in appearance and menu). However, it's chock full of post-church people on Sundays, which I learned once when I couldn't find a parking space within a block of the restaurant, so there's no way I'd even have a quiet table at which to read and sup at leisure. Incidentally, the New York Diner, despite it's name, isn't all that diner-like, but that could be a difference between the establishment's name and my South Jersey diner upbringing.

Why don't I cook for myself, especially since I whined about having less money to waste since I joined the weekly bowling league? Because I can't cook anything until I free up all my leftovers containers from back when I did cook once. I can't free up my leftovers containers until I get a microwave. I can't get a microwave because I'm stubborn. The first time Target (a good store with quality merchandise at reasonable prices) had a small, inexpensive microwave on sale, I got a raincheck for the out-of-stock item -- which never appeared on the shelves again. The second time they had a similar size and power microwave on sale, my store credit card was declined because the credit arm of the company "sucks big donkey dong" (to steal a phrase from one of my bowling teammates) and keeps charging me late fees because, after five months, they still won't update my address in their system, so by the time my monthly statement gets forwarded, it's too late to meet the payment deadline, and I'm not going to pay the fees because I have challenged them. I am not making this next part up: I finally received a letter from the company, stating they are crediting me $16 to "resolve" the problem. The letter is dated November 3 and postmarked November 5. The forwarding sticker (since they don't seem to have resolved the problem at all) isn't dated until December 7. I received the letter December 11. I'm about to give up and go to the Habitat for Humanity Re-Store or one of the many thrift shops around The Noog and find myself a small microwave at a decent price -- and help out the needy to boot.

So what have I done with my morning since I couldn't walk? I logged on and started catching up on five months worth of blogs and other web pages (since the blogs link to such interesting things, doncha know?). I don't know what was on TV because the newspaper hadn't been delivered yet, so I didn't have a TV schedule, and my limited channel package (even with the accidentally free channels) doesn't have that obnoxious TV Guide Channel. I resolved to phone the paper and complain about the late delivery if it didn't show up by 10 a.m. (Even if everyone else sleeps in on a Sunday, it would be nice to have the paper sometime before noon.) The paper was delivered at 10:04 a.m. and, big surprise, there was nothing worth watching on the 26 channels I get.

Maybe five months of blog posts just makes it seem like everyone else writes more than I do, but it made me feel as if I haven't been witty enough for you. Not that this post is witty, either, but it fulfills my obligation of giving you something to do when you're just waking up or on break from work or waiting for the results of an experiment or something. Speaking of which...

I must not allow myself to whine about how freaking cold it was inside my apartment when I got home from work on Friday. (Honestly, when you can see your breath inside, you know there's a problem.) After reading Geosomin's post about her furnace going out, I will resign myself to an exorbitant electric bill this winter. I covered all my windows with plastic, but maybe I should have covered all the walls, too, for the microscopic R-value they seem to provide. When I lose all heat completely, and when the temperature drops below 0 degrees (in Fahrenheit!), I will be allowed to gripe.

Getting back to where I'm going to eat lunch, I sought out a restaurant yesterday called the Blue Coast Burrito at 1100 Market St. Except there is no 1100 Market St. There's a funky intersection of Market St., 11th St., and Georgia St. There are three buildings at that intersection: two with entrances and addresses on 11th St. and one with the address of 1020 Market St. That, however, was the door to The Pickle Barrel, which was a place I have intended to try, so I did. (Yay! I only got up to Plan B this time!)

The menu was salads and sandwiches, but they also had a boatload of microbrews and a dark, woody-and-bricky interior, so I don't know how you'd classify it: deli or pub. The floor was authentic brick (i.e. not level anywhere, so my chair kept tipping annoyingly). The table was a trestle-type, with a 6" or 8" wide plank along the ground to steady it, so after repeated attempts to stretch out my legs without encountering the plank, and with all the wobbling on my chair, I was ready to scream. And, I was ready for a beer. I tried the Old Rasputin stout, which was quite good, and which made my brain wobble without the assistance of an uneven floor. Seriously, before my sandwich arrived, I was pondering how much water I would need to drink, how much dessert to order, and how much walking around I would need to do before I could drive safely back home. This is my second experience with a Russian stout, with the same effects, but since I started both of them on an empty stomach, I can't isolate the variables (yes, I am geeky enough to use the scientific method in all aspects of my life) and determine if it's the potency of the brew or the lack of food in me that causes the alcohol to go straight to my brain.

I still don't know where I'm going to eat, though.