I May be a Hater, But That Doesn't Make me Wrong

That Sunday (the day after Miel) the T.s and my parents and I met up and went to Lucky Bamboo for dim sum. The addition of dim sum to its menu was covered by many a Nashville foodie, and positively. But, and this is just the truth people, the offerings weren't nearly as authentic or delicious as the many accounts suggested. The shumai looked awful. Nothing like the many other pork dumplings with yellow egg noodle wrapping them and a little nib of carrot centered in the middles that I have eaten over so many many many years. Instead, there were these brown, dried out lumps of grey meat with pale white wrappers clinging too tight around the middle. The shrimp dumplings made me feel funny, weren't hot and didn't taste so good. What can I say? If this was the best dim sum option in Nashville, I would abstain. Their fried options were slightly better but, come on, it really is almost impossible to fuck up a fried thing. I'm a hater. What can I say? Also: the tea tasted like moldy seaweed. Maybe this is authentic dim sum and each and every other place I have been - be it in Wheaton, Maryland, NYC, Chicago, Philadelphia or Seattle (oh man, Seattle dim sum made many of my earlier experiences pale in comparison) - is the pretender, but I think not. Vitriol! I guess my point is this: if you have stumbled upon this blog looking to learn about Lucky Bamboo as your dim sum haven in Nashville, go, maybe your standards aren't as high or your palate as snobby...but in case they are, be prepared to be majorly bummed.
After dim sum we went to the craft fair being held at Centennial Park. I was quite taken with the look of these wooden chairs. Something to tuck away in my head as I continue to dream about my own little place, with my own furniture and whatnots and whozits.

Death of the Futon (sung to the tune of Death to the Party)

So at some point in the last few months, the futon done died for good. Maybe, if I were a carpenter, it could be saved, but I think it goes without saying that I am not a carpenter of any kind...though I did take shop in sixth grade and make a wooden boat that managed to float. Now it's just a matter of getting the dead thing out of the living room. We don't really use the living room; it's taken up with S.'s large dining room table up against one wall and the sofa against the other (there are four walls, of course, but the other two are besides the point in this pointless recounting of facts). Zul doesn't consider the futon broken. He logs many hours on it each day. He has made the afghan I made, lo so many years ago, rife with cat hair (can a blanket be rife with something?), but what can you do? Take better care of your belongings? What? Shhh.

Growwwwwl cat....minus the growl.

On Saturday I woke up all early and walked to the current location of my car in order to meet gal J. at her home in Roxborough. During my time in Philly I walked past this street corner building all the live long time. It's old school and it's way out of business and I have no doubt that in the next year, maybe two, it will be renovated so that no one will ever know that it supplied fresh meats (or, as you can't see, chickens and eggs). But I like it all not redone...which is funny...since its the last remnant of what the neighborhood once was but this kind of storefront is all over the frickin' place in other locations in Philly. The difference is that these other abandoned storefronts are surrounded by equally sad houses whereas this neighborhood is quite gentrified. At least in a six block radius east and west...ish.

S. and N. came with us on our trek of the day. J. was willing to accompany me on my trip to Ikea. The sole goal of which, for me, was to buy a bed. S. insisted on wearing his train goggles. Yeah, that's his own phrase...sweet.
Once at Ikea, S. also thought it'd be great to get into one of the display beds. I thought that was fine...S. even, of his own volition, took off his shoes...but J. was a little less sure and asked the dude helping me with bed questions. Turns out that if S. was a year older it would not be okay but his well-behaved-ness and youth made it okay.
So I chose a bed frame. I chose it before even getting there. It spoke to me. It was totally the frame for me. Then I got convinced, by my mother (when I called to make sure it made sense to buy all this stuff...frankly with funds given/lent to me by my parents....that I wasn't making a mistake) my mother said I might as well get a box spring as well. It was stressful. Then we had lunch. I ordered a kid's size of mac and cheese and a kids' size of Swedish meatballs. Neither made me very pleased.
Other things, also, didn't make me pleased. Like when I went down to the 'pick up your shit for yourself' warehouse and had to maneuver a full size box spring onto a cart by myself. Yeah. It took me forever. The carts don't have brakes, so I'd have to leverage the heavy ass thing on its edge and every time I treid to move it forward the cart would slip away. This happened nine million times. I saw people walk by the aisle (that I was at the end of) and this included Ikea personnel without even thinking about helping me. Now, of course, fellow customers were under no responsibility to assist me but, really, ugh. So eventually I maneuvered the stupid too narrow and short cart up against a wall in order to scoot the damn boxspring onto the cart. Having achieved this an Ikea dude came up to me and asked me if I needed help. Son of a bitch. He was actually quite nice and helped me get my mattress onto the cart as well but, I"m not going to lie, I could have done my mattress on my own...it was light as a mother effin' penny. The effects of my boxspring/cart efforts were a slight shaking of my arms, a definite exacerbation of my feeling out of control and a general grumpiness (it reminded me of trips to Hannaford in my last year of college...where I'd get entirely overwhelmed by the experience of a grocery store and found myself emotionally shutting down). In the end I checked out successfully, spent a lot of money to get the stuff I just spent a lot of money to buy delivered to the apartment and left. And, oh yes, it rained the entire time. Except walking to my car and driving to Ikea.