If I were among the tweeting masses, slavishly feeding your insatiable appetite for MtnGrl's musings minute by minute, you would've known this yesterday. Instead, I leave you there, impatiently drumming your fingers on the desktop, refreshing the page every few seconds, waiting with bated breath and daring to hope that fresh MtnGrl minutia will appear. Forgive me dear readers. I know blogging this way is the equivalent of snail mail--(shall we call it schlogging?) but please bear in mind: old school is cool; retro is what's up.
I was in the East Village yesterday (where many birds flutter though few tweet) brunching at Mercadito Grove (the mahi mahi tacos are superb; mimosita frutas, mediocre. Get the Jamaica Margarita instead--it comes with hibiscus adornment, but I digress...) when, coming towards us down the sidewalk, not ten feet from my streetside perch, was the man I enjoy in bed at least 5 nights a week -- pushing a double stroller!! (Who knew there were two kids?!)
Never fear, dear reader, I don't make scenes-- I am waaay too cool for that. Instead, I pretended I didn't see him, while simultaneously digging my fingernails into my brunchmate's thigh, saying through clenched teeth (sotto voce of course), "It's Jon Stewart!!" My brunchmate, stymied by my timing, emitted a respectful "How are you, Mr. Stewart?", when he passed our table seconds later, rather than the stranger-grabbing, cellphone thrusting "will you take our picture?" calamity having a few seconds more might have elicited. When he replied, "Very well, Thank you." I lost it a teensy bit. I mouthed "WE LOVE YOU!!" (meaning the royal we, of course) while still gazing nonchalantly in the general direction from which he'd come. Oh. The brunette with the diaper bag? The wife, I guess.