one sugar-coated fat tuesday

let's get one fact out of the way. the highlight of mardi gras 2009, for me, was a stack of three (3) fluffy buttermilk pancakes, served to me free of charge at the international house of pancakes.

mardi gras / fat tuesday started off something like this. i was dreaming that McFlannel had asked me to go to another show (yes, okay, sometimes my dreams are a bit ninth-grade-esque) and i felt bad, but went anyways, subsequently abandoning barista boy (who in my dreams was continually holding a portafilter, oddly). i think i might have even sleep-mumbled "i would love to, ----!" after which i was shaken out of my dream by said barista boy, who laughed and asked who i was talking to. back to reality.

i half sat up in bed. the rain streaming down the windows, the large room full of records and posters, a pile of shoes and socks and undies on the floor. i look down and see myself entangled, once again, with barista boy in his creaky old home.

after a few hours of cuddling, going back to sleep, waking up, making out, cuddling ... (you know. rinse n' repeat.) i finally detangle myself from his sheets and start getting dressed. he hangs over the side of the bed, watching me try to find my bra. i am grumpy, not wanting to travel all the way to redmond that afternoon for my McCatering job. it is pouring buckets, i have to go all the way back to capitol hill to get my uniform, and i am hungover. barista boy hands me my undergarments (a highly embarrassing faded orange bra with a pink bow in the middle, compliments of my high school taste in lingerie and current lack of clean laundry) and listens to me grumble. he has a far-away, sad look on his face. sometimes he gets like this.

it bothers me. it bothers me that there is so much about him i don't know. we never, ever talk about the ex-girlfriend. i think he may have tried to bring it up once or twice but i switch the subject. it just feels weird, like someone you're dating showing you their dead wife's clothes. that stuff should be kept in a locked closet.

but then again, we are NOT dating. and it was so recent. and he can't detach himself from that past. the half unpacked boxes all over his new room, the photos all over myspace. his weird bed sheets (side note. while having a drink at linda's with my friends ian and dennis a few weeks back, i confided in them about a pressing issue in my mind. i tried to choose my words carefully, but they all rushed out at once. "should i be concerned if ...he has little mermaid sheets?" a second of silence, then ian and dennis were pounding the table and laughing. they never let that one go). anyways, the weird bed sheets, apparently "inherited from his ex-girlfriend." and now, at this moment, barista boy was staring up at a funny amateur acrylic painting on his bookshelf. it was of a small, square-jawed girl with intense black-lined eyes, grabbing the hand of a tall, lanky boy wearing a red sweatshirt. the old couple. a piece of art. and he still had it.

i pretended not to notice and got my shoes on. barista boy, suddenly snapped out of his trip down memory lane, grabbed my hand. let's make coffee before you leave, he whispers, kissing my neck. i sigh, smile, and agree. what the hell, let's pretend for five minutes.

on the bus back to my house a while later, i get a phone call from McCatering, inc. the secretary informs me that the event has been canceled for the day and i do NOT need to haul my ass all the way out to redmond! i secretly cheer, even though it means i don't get paid. but, in a moment of clouds-parting-and-rainbows-and-sun-and-maybe-a-unicorn-or-two, she informs me that events canceled day-of mean that i will be paid for a minimum of five hours. for doing nothing. hot damn!

i get back to my house and my roommates are sitting around in the living room. they ignore my bus ride of shame look (same clothes, unbrushed teeth, eyeliner all over my face) and immediately shout out good news number two of the day: it is free pancake day at international house of pancakes.

at this news the clouds LITERALLY parted, the sun appeared and dried up all the nasty rain puddles all over capitol hill. in two minutes we were sitting out on the front steps, soaking up vitamin D and unzipping our american apparel hoodies. my house walked as a collective over to the junkie-ridden IHOP 3 blocks away and prepared to wait half an hour for a stack of free pancakes. it was so, so worth it. i poured four different kinds of syrup on mine. best day of my life.

the rest of the day was a lovely haze of recovering from 3000 calories of pure glucose, watching bottle rocket with my roomies all crowded comfortably on the couch and making vague plans for getting off said couch. around six, frey came over and she and i decided to hit up liberty for happy hour, some former roommate girl talk time and to visit her McCrush of the moment. mostly successful, but we did end up with a bitchy little server who tried to correct me when i ordered a 'french 76' (its made with vodka instead of gin, and that is its proper name. i know, i work behind a bar) andddd micah tagged along. i love my roommate micah to death, but he is sort of the little brother i never had and never really wanted. you know. he sat in between us two ladies whining about his weekend and work, while downing three mexican cervezas. in the end he didnt have any cash so we ended up paying his tab. whatever.

afterwards, i parted ways with my friends and headed over to THE coffee shop to see if i could score some espresso and a little breaktime fun. barista boy closes on tuesdays, so i knew i would catch him. i was right. he was in the back room, eating a gyro when i showed up (a little boozy, too). he was surprised to see me but we talked for a bit while i stared at the printer (what did that printer spit out the night we tore up the back room like it was part of the set of "zack and miri"?). and then i realized something. we are awkward. i knew it before, but it never bugged me that much. my mind suddenly jumped back to a conversation i had with McFlannel the night we got drinks before the show. we were sitting in this intimate corner of the cha cha, deep in conversation about our families, about death, about life. we connected on every single level. it was nuts. i had no reservations. and now, barista boy and i stood around awkwardly, trying to make conversation about some article in the stranger. i sighed. barista boy looked around and saw his buddy walk into the coffee shop. "oh! its ----! i'll be right back, ok?" and kissed my cheek swiftly before running off to spend the rest of his break laughing heartily with his friend.

is this it? is this going to fizzle out, like every other one of my boy situations in the past two years? another pin on the map of capitol hill and my ridiculous history of unintentionally hitting up each and every business, from one end of broadway to the other. seriously, this needs to stop.