For the price of a cup of tea.

Dear foreboding, rumbly-tumbly storm clouds,

Since you decided to set in and chase me inside from my sanguine Sunday bike ride, I guess I will write something. (P.S. I don't like you.)

If I have many flaws (which I do), one of them is that I get really attached to places and days gone by. I also get attached to people, but that is probably more normal than being in love with a coffee shop or a doorway, so we'll leave that one behind.

If you are the kind of person whom I talk to frequently, you know that I haven't been able to get over the beloved Citrus and Sage cafe since it closed last August. If you are one of these people, don't read this and save yourself from hearing me repeat myself.

Citrus and Sage was by far my favorite place in Logan, located conveniently on my favorite street in Logan. I sometimes ride by it on my bike, looking for signs of life and wondering why one of the lights is on. The "for sale" sign hangs resiliently, waiting for someone's interest (and money).

This place brought a great crowd of people together. There was that guy with the face tattoos and that Bill fellow who basically lived there. There were snooty people and college professors. There was Saturday night Jazz, poetry readings and study sessions. In the summer, you'd sit outside on the big wooden deck that was draped with potted flowers, and you'd sip your iced tea while folksy singer-songwriters would play into the dusk. I used to tell myself that one day I'd get up the nerve to play my songs in public and perform there.

One time, for some reason, someone hatched chickens in the upper level of the house where the tiny used bookstore was. Just these little eggs in a little incubator, sitting on a table waiting to be born. That's just the kind of place it was. (The awesome kind.)

One time I interviewed the former owner. She said she opened Citrus and Sage to bring people together to a place where they could just relax and hang out. She mentioned that she and her husband would often end up at Village Inn at night because there was no other place to relax and have a cup of coffee (and maybe a goopy cinnamon roll-- the ones at Citrus and Sage were quite outstanding).

Now it's back to Village Inn for a while, I guess. I am not opposed to pie. But it certainly 'aint no cinnamon roll or scruffy musician.

People.... people who need peopllllle.....

I love people. Though it may not be readily apparent to some, seeing as I sometimes have the asocial tendency to snarl and cower awkwardly in a corner in social places, I am fond of people. Most people. I think they are puzzling, lovable, and fascinating. (Except for people on "Rock of Love"-type reality shows.) And lately, though it reeks of creepitude, I have been craving them.* For you see, I live alone in a little box-like dwelling. I share a wall with an elderly (albeit spunky) lady who brings me freezer jam and Valentine's treats. Bless her.

I remember when my dear friend Adrianne asked me if I could really live alone, I brazenly said yes while imagining myself in a hip little kitchen, letting the cat out while sipping a cup of tea. Though I have let the cat out many times and have had many a cup of tea, my kitchen is not hip, and I think the oven might explode someday. But that's fine. The point is, I miss people. I'm not saying this for sympathy purposes-- living alone has its share of perks (see fig.1). But I dearly miss having roommates. People bustling and hustling about their day. People who tell you about their skin diseases and how far they've been with a guy. So if you're looking for a roommate, I'm yours.** If you want. Especially if you like boy-hatin'-on, secret eating, secret underwear pillow-fights,*** and secret secrets. In the meantime, a gangsta-style shout-out to roommate homies of the past will have to do.

To the freshman-year roommates: Poo '99 was fun. So was going to concerts. And interpretive dancing with underwear on our heads.

To the roommates I never really knew: I think we spoke, like, twice. You and your boyfriends were mostly annoying.

To the "Crack House" roommates: I love(d) you more than my own kidneys. Remember when one of you would run around in your underwear all the time? And remember when you awarded me the "Who shot the couch" award at the roommate awards? And one of you would pretend to be a grandma and joke about her diabetes. That same one bought me the new Shins album for no reason. And I learned many, many slang terms for female anatomy. And I got electrocuted by the stove. And someone left a colossal gift-poo in the toilet and I got really, really mad. I still have nightmares about that particular poo.

To the former roommate who sometimes lets me sleep on her couch: Thank you for letting me sleep on the sinky couch.

.....Oh, sweet memories.

Fig. 1) A perk of living alone:
My underwear hanging to dry on the shower curtain rod.






(I probably shouldn't post pictures of my underwear. Good thing it's a low-quality photo.)

*I am not a cannibal.
**Unless you're gross.
***Not really. That's gross. But it did make me sound hot for a moment, huh?