Me and Dr. Zhivago

drzhivago

It is so damned cold today, and I had to go out and order a cake for my daughter-in-law’s baby shower. I tried to get the cake at least somewhat customized, but Stock’s bakery has been around 125 years and they do a certain thing. They have their system, and it’s not going to change. I’m willing to settle, since their cake (which tastes better than just about any cake in the city) is $25.25. I could have gone to the hipster bakery and gotten exactly what I wanted, but that would have been $200 and I can’t afford that. Even if I could, I don’t think I could bring myself to pay it.

Anyway, I stopped for some soup at the local cafe. Everyone was wearing coats and hats, huddled over bowls of soup or mugs of hot beverage. I had to laugh; it reminded me of Dr. Zhivago, where Omar Sharif and Julie Christie were hiding in the old mansions that were filled with snow and ice.

On my way home, I stopped at a light. There was a young guy standing on the corner, lighting a cigarette. He had no hat. I rolled down my window and yelled at him: “Pull up that hood or I’m going to tell your mother!”

I drove away, chortling to myself.

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