The most memorable of the squeezings

I just now noticed that when I'm reading back something I wrote to see if it is coherent, my eyes get all squinted and I feel whatever the adjective form of consternation is creep upon my face. Though no one has, to my knowledge, ever watched me read something I wrote, I imagine that I seem constipated.

Speaking of  constipation, ever since my resolve to "be here now" took hold of my brain, I'm feeling lighter. Metaphorically, of course. But I've decided to stop living alternately. (Not alternatively) Alternately as in either dwelling/romanticizing the past or idealizing the future. I spend a lot of my time doing that. If I'm not pining for some perceived notion of the past then I'm grappling for some future existence that is entirely conjecture, as all future existence kind of tends to be. (Side note: Is that a split infinitive?) It is so much simpler to meet those dark thoughts of missing out on something with the idea that it does not matter. I am here now. Make the most of what is going on now. And sure, all these feeble attempts to become less anxious, less doomsday, happier, fitter, more productive could all be futile but seriously, whadddaygonnado?

I had a busy weekend. I worked both Saturday and Sunday but had Monday off. Many fun things happened that included but were not limited to:

• 80s dancing
• catching up
• walking through downtown Patchogue in a kind of stalkery way
• driving to the city in under an hour
• snow flurries (maybe three of them)
• learning chess on a cat and dog chess set
• watching and criticizing the golden globes with aplomb
• cleaning my apartment like a freaking maniac
• random, but ethereally delicious, pad see ew
• not random, but unexpectedly delicious falafel
• cat ear drops
• sublime napping

It wouldn't be a proper post if I didn't talk about what I drank this weekend. Yes, it was another boozer. Can I help that I'm young(ish) and single and free and fun lately? No. No I cannot. Nor can I help that I had a cocktail this weekend that surpassed even my beloved Sidecar. It was a dirty pickle martini. At Sweet Afton in Astoria. I lost count but they flow like water.

Salty, spicy,boozy water.*

 Our kind waitress also bought us a round of shots called "picklebacks" which were some kind bourbon (I think) with a chaser of pickle juice. You just haven't lived until you've had this. Nancy's birthday was the reason I went but the cocktails and food and atmosphere are the reasons I'll go back. We were there for a few hours and on our way out the bar had gotten packed. We had to squeeze past a lot of people but the most memorable of those squeezings was past a guy who stood, staring off into space asking each female "Do you want to pet my rabbit?" He had one hand under his shirt as he said this. I'll never know what that meant but I'll always remember it. I'll always have that guy and his phantasmic rabbit. That I did not want to pet.

*Actual size. 
Picture taken from this photoblog:
http://lorrainemarieescoto.tumblr.com/