(no subject)
Whenever I go to a free evening reading at Prairie Lights, I can't help but think:
Photo credit: Tracey Rae
1) Why the hell do I not do this all the time?
2) Damn, Iowa City.
And the coffee shop upstairs serves wine, now.
When I was younger Prairie Lights meant kiwi Italian sodas (with a straw to poke the maraschino cherry) and The Boxcar Children chapter books from the kid-sized shelves in the basement. And then I went to college and suddenly the authors were my teachers, my classmates, or at worst, someone off the recommended reading list. I was one of those doe-eyed undergraduates in pea coats that talk funny -- "Let's get vodkas and cronberries" -- and someday I'll probably be one of those older, wiser, silver-haired women that have incredible jewelry on their slightly frumpy sweaters. My life in a bookstore.
It's cold now. The frozen toes kind of cold, give up on your cute wool tights and flats kind of cold. Just four days ago I bought two peach cinnamon muffins and two milk boxes from the Co-op. Bryan and I had a 10-minute muffin date in the ped mall. It was so sunny I couldn't see, warm enough that he could roll up his jeans (well, he does that anyway).
Yesterday he sat out at my bus stop with a bouquet of just-because flowers, to surprise me after work. It was also the day I had forgotten my cell phone at home. And, if someone wants to use this in a movie please do (Hugh Grant, are you listening), I stay on the bus instead of getting off at my usual spot because it's too damn cold, and my toes could really use three or four more blocks to thaw, unknowingly leaving my boyfriend of four years and his white-and-pink paper cone abandoned on the bus stop bench.
We made it up by watching Pokemon and listening to Clipse.
Photo credit: Tracey Rae
1) Why the hell do I not do this all the time?
2) Damn, Iowa City.
And the coffee shop upstairs serves wine, now.
When I was younger Prairie Lights meant kiwi Italian sodas (with a straw to poke the maraschino cherry) and The Boxcar Children chapter books from the kid-sized shelves in the basement. And then I went to college and suddenly the authors were my teachers, my classmates, or at worst, someone off the recommended reading list. I was one of those doe-eyed undergraduates in pea coats that talk funny -- "Let's get vodkas and cronberries" -- and someday I'll probably be one of those older, wiser, silver-haired women that have incredible jewelry on their slightly frumpy sweaters. My life in a bookstore.
It's cold now. The frozen toes kind of cold, give up on your cute wool tights and flats kind of cold. Just four days ago I bought two peach cinnamon muffins and two milk boxes from the Co-op. Bryan and I had a 10-minute muffin date in the ped mall. It was so sunny I couldn't see, warm enough that he could roll up his jeans (well, he does that anyway).
Yesterday he sat out at my bus stop with a bouquet of just-because flowers, to surprise me after work. It was also the day I had forgotten my cell phone at home. And, if someone wants to use this in a movie please do (Hugh Grant, are you listening), I stay on the bus instead of getting off at my usual spot because it's too damn cold, and my toes could really use three or four more blocks to thaw, unknowingly leaving my boyfriend of four years and his white-and-pink paper cone abandoned on the bus stop bench.
We made it up by watching Pokemon and listening to Clipse.