Monday Memos // 104


“Miss Chew” (feat. Jesse & Forever) by Nick Hakim.

“Color Me Badd” by Land of Talk.


Is It Ever Okay...To Eat the Food Off Your Date’s Plate?

One Scene, 42 Takes and 2 Hours in a Bathroom Stall

Updated Etiquette Posters from the M.T.A.


I am an avid craver of bowls. Rice bowls, quinoa bowls, noodle bowls, sautéed greens bowls. Sometimes, when I make them at home, I call them piles. Those tend to be the exhausted moments after work when I just throw together whatever ingredients appeal to me or are readily available (eggs, sweet potatoes, kale, peas, crushed up chips, weird “free table” snacks, hummus, etc.).

This week I went wild on dairy-free ice cream. Super rich and creamy chocolate citrus cake from Van Leeuwen. Ben and Jerry’s vegan Chunky Monkey and PB Fudge, too. Oh, also Pressed Juicery’s chocolate soft serve freeze. I might need to go to Ice Cream Anonymous.

Even when it’s freezing, I love ice cream. (image via  medium )

Even when it’s freezing, I love ice cream. (image via medium)


Last week my nails were painted bright blue. I wore lots of wide leg pants—black, mustard, denim—and lots of sweaters—grey, cream, and more grey. I’m really ready for spring now. I miss seeing my legs and ankles and arms.


TV: A steady stream of the greats: True Detective, High Maintenance. Also, remembered SMILF, and the second season is better than the first—definitely worth a watch. Plus, I started Nurse Jackie while on a Showtime perusal. (I was feeling under the weather so the couch was my best friend this weekend.)

Movies: I rewatched Frances Ha, hence the story about the scene above. I also rewatched The Royal Tenenbaums, excited about living near the house but forgetting how sad makes me.



Stories: One of my favorite things is hearing stories. From friends, from strangers, from lovers, from relatives, from children, from performers. I love eavesdropping, I love a really long text, I love a phone call filled with stories. Over the weekend, I stopped one night at an Italian place near my apartment to get a slice of cake to go—cake sounded great and I had a gift card. While I waited for the slice—the kitchen was slammed—I sat at the bar next to a man with great, wild, white hair. He was a writer working on a biography of a modern dancer. He had spent his day going from place to place, snack to snack, writing and writing. Now he was here with a cocktail and a finished chocolate mousse. He admired my wrinkle-free face and I learned a little bit about his days traveling with a dancing company (he had stopped in Gainesville at lease once) and he showed me photos of his stunning dancer leaps and turns. Good stories, good people. The cake wasn’t as good as the last time, but worth the trip.