magicbeans. nothing if not awkward.

Dreamt that I was taking Chesterfield to a new vet, down on 181st St. Couldn't find the place until I had walked around for a few minutes, checking out signs, addresses, peering in windows. It was in the first floor of an apartment building, but looked as if it were an old schoolhouse, or library. There was still a wall of dark wooden bookshelves, filled with fat volumes that looked like case-law reference, although I assumed maybe were historical books on veterinary medicine. Sitting in the waiting area, my awareness wandered into the exam room, where Stef was working. Or, not just working, she was the vet. I watched her exam a dog, talk with its owner, then saw her expression as an assistant announced 'Bean, and his cat Chesterfield.' (Or maybe 'Chesterfield, and her person, Bean,' since vets tend to say things like that.) Interaction between us was awkward. Awkward, awkward, awkward. Leaving, I ran into Dan and his mother, but we were now five or six storeys up and in an elevator lobby. Upon reaching the ground floor we were no longer in Washington Heights, but downtown, a few blocks from Astor Place. We walked past the green line subway entrance, which in reality is like nothing in New York, but which I had crystal clear memories of having walked past once before, in the winter right after I had moved here.

And then the phone was waking me up.

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Work this afternoon. (Good.) Scraping the very bottom of the barrel to assemble dinner from the tiny amount of food I actually had in my house again. (Bad.)

And watched this week's Deadwood, which dealt, fairly peripherally although it did lend the episode its title, with the subject of cinnamon allergies. Which prompted me to google the phrase "allergic to cinnamon" again, which yielded 171 results and quite a bit of conversation/info, considerably more than when I first discovered my own cinnamon allergy about 10 years ago. (The fact that Google didn't exist 10 years ago notwithstanding.)