Dissed Again!

Posted June 29th, 2004 by Steve

Steve, here. I’m Michelle’s big brother. Well, one of ’em.

This posting to Michelle’s blog is my revenge on her for forgetting to mention my birthday present to her, lame-o tho’ it is.

I gave her the spanky new domain name that you see at the top of your web browser window: www.mlwms.com.

What am I, Michelle, chopped liver?!

Posted June 29th, 2004 by Michelle

My birthday was a ridiculous affair. Three days of good fun, unbelievable presents, outstanding friends and family. Truly amazing. I would have written a blog about it much sooner but I’ve been chomping at the bit to get pictures from my new digital camera on here and I have yet to figure out how it all works. This whole “resizing” thing is a bummer.

But, yeah, I got a new digital camera. It is an Olympus, and it couldn’t be cooler or easier to use. Just last night I figured out that I can take movies as well as pictures, and I stumbled upon that without ever reading the handbook. My mom took me to a wonderful dinner last Thursday, and as we sat in the late afternoon sun I opened her gifts: The Oz Clark Book of Grapes, The Pirates of the Caribbean DVD (because Johnny Depp himself will not fit into a box), and then this wonderful, light, easy, perfect camera. I was beside myself.

The next night, Jon whisked me away from my place of work and drove me through Alexander and Knights Valley, heading towards Healdsburg for a night out with Elizabeth and Matthew. Oh, what a night. Terrific dinner at Manzanita and then drinks and pool at the local dive bar. I’m proud to say that Matty and I ran the table all night, even with the tequila (oy! Tequila!). At 2 AM, Jon and I were too wired to crash, so he took us on a drive under a sky so littered with stars it almost seemed dirty, like if I could have run my hand across it I could’ve wiped away a million little stars so only the big ones remained. We were frolicking between Cabernet vines, and then staring at the sky, and then apparently I fell fast asleep.

The next morning was as painful as any post-party morning in college. I managed to rally enough to get through breakfast, but then the drive back over the mountain found me curled up in a fetal position in the front seat of Jon’s car. But after a nap and a good swim, I was ready for my pool party. Again, big fun. I found that the best cure for a hangover is a swim and a glass of rose. As soon as my friends all arrived, my dad ran back to the house and then wheeled out his birthday present to me: a wine fridge. I’ve been coveting my dad’s wine fridge since I learned the importance (and coolness) of them years ago, and now I have my very own which I hope to fill with German Riesling and Italian Amarone. And then I opened my brothers’ and sisters’ gift: an iPod!!! Have you ever heard of a more spoiled birthday girl?!?! It was simply outrageous.

Jon and Matty both blessed me with much-needed stemware, and Elizabeth hooked me up with the most wonderful skin care products imaginable. More than that, though, was just the time spent. These wonderful people gave me their time, their energy, their love, and god knows plenty of their wine to make my weekend wonderful from Thursday to Sunday. Sunday was particularly nice- mostly on my own, playing with my new toys.

So, yeah, a little lost in my world here. I start my new job essentially tomorrow when I spend the day with the woman whose job I’m taking. She’s been doing it for four or five years, and I have one day with her. And then, two more days here, a three-day weekend, and then it all begins. My mom was saying last night how crazy these two weeks are, how stressful and overwhelming, but I have to say, I’m thrilled. I will finally be in a position where I might have the ability to create change, where I can help make things happen. I am not remotely scared by how hard this will be. I can’t wait.

Posted June 23rd, 2004 by Michelle

God, we are so fucked. I mean, even if we get Bush out of the White House, we have decades and decades of clean-up to do. I know I get irrational and ridiculous about all of this, but sometimes that is better than absolutely losing hope and bawling all over my keyboard at work. I was just looking at the pictures of Kim Sun-Il’s parents, taken at the moment they found out their son had been beheaded in Iraq.

I just feel so hopeless, so defeated, because for millions of Americans it just doesn’t matter what Bush does, or for what he is responsible. I’m eventually going to talk to my little old landlady about voting this November, and in my mind there is a scenario played out not unlike a conversation my mom had with my great Aunt Donna. My mom made some offhand comment about the war and Bush, and my Aunt Donna asked her to not speak about Bush that way in her home, or something to that extent. Because it doesn’t matter what Bush does, my Aunt Donna, one of the coolest women alive, is going to vote for him. Not only that, she doesn’t even want to talk about it. In her case, it’s hopeless.

Okay, so let’s say we do get the ultimate Evil-Doer out of the White House. Then what? Where do we begin to address the seething hatred for the US? Clearly this hatred, particularly regarding Israel, goes back many years, but where do we begin? Or is that simply too far ahead to deal with right now? Maybe every ounce of focus must go towards getting Kerry elected.

I don’t know. Clearly Kim Sun-Il is just one man, and thousands of innocent Iraqis are dead, and hundreds of Americans, but it is still so hard to see his parents’ grief, and to think that I am in some small way responsible, even if only by association.

Posted June 22nd, 2004 by Michelle

Write a letter.

I’m serious. You say you are going to do it all the time, flippantly, but do you ever actually do it? Letters are so freaking awesome. It doesn’t even have to be a letter, it could be a note. Just as long as it is written down, hard copy, something that the recipient can touch. This will be the one and only time I suggest you contribute to global warming by cutting down another tree. It’s just that letters mean so much.

A very sweet, young Irish man came to see me a few weeks ago, wondering about the program and lamenting because he could never afford to take a class here. He’s here just for six weeks and then going back to Ireland to open a wine shop. A few emails later I had him registered for a class under a full scholarship. I know what this guy does to make money. He works at a burger joint- upscale, but still a burger joint- where it is very hot and very busy. This is the kind of guy who deserves a scholarship. He took the class, loved it, and then went back to flipping burgers for his last two weeks here.

Two days ago he stopped by my office. I saw him pedal up on an old Schwinn. He came in bearing a bottle of wine and- get this- a letter, a note, a written thought- and thanked me for getting him into the class. He shook my hand and left. The note was so simple, and the wine was Riesling which means he was PAYING ATTENTION. A lesson to all you would-be lovers out there. The note is taped up on my wall, alongside several others of its kind. These words, in particular, mean something. They mean a lot. So the next time you think you should write a note or a letter, even if it’s because you have a complaint, DO IT. Emails are too easy, phone calls to laborious and ask for something in return. A note or a letter is so simple and so giving. It asks for nothing but a little bit of reading time.

So do it.

Posted June 21st, 2004 by Michelle

Just when I’m feeling sorry for myself…

This morning I got a frantic phone call from a mother who couldn’t find her daughter. The daughter, let’s call her Leslie, took two classes here early last week although she wasn’t feeling well enough to complete the second one. She was supposed to have checked out of our Guesthouse last Tuesday night. The mother said she spoke with Leslie this morning at 7 AM, and that she was still here. I got on my computer and told her that it was impossible that she spoke with her daughter in her room here because someone else was booked in that room for a class this week. Mom insisted, though. She became very upset and explained that her daughter was not well, that she was refusing to take her meds and that the mother was very concerned for her daughter’s mental health.

Leslie had come to me on the first day of the second class saying she was not feeling well. I told her she was welcome to sit in the class if she wanted, but that ultimately she should take care of herself and if that meant going back to bed, she should do it. She didn’t seem terribly sick, just sort of down. She didn’t show up for the second day at all, which was the last day of class, and I assumed she just went home (which is about ten hours north). But I checked the phone number her mother had been using to communicate with her all week, and indeed it was the number to Leslie’s room at the Guesthouse. The mother said she had called her daughter very early this morning, on that number, but that now her daughter was not answering the phone. Her mother was terrified for her daughter’s health. But I knew that someone else was supposed to be in the room- the education department hadn’t had any housing complaints- so the mystery deepened. Finally I went to Security, explained the situation, and said I wanted someone to go to the room with me because frankly I was afraid of what I’d find.

The manager of Security and I were on our way to the Guest House when he realized he hadn’t checked his mailbox for keys from students who hadn’t shown up. Two hadn’t, one of which was the woman who was supposed to take over Leslie’s room. My stomach dropped. We walked over to the Guesthouse, listened at the door, knocked, and finally opened it- to find it empty and clean.

I went back to my office to call her mother who is in another country and who was trying to decide if she should fly out here or if maybe her daughter might have gone to the airport to fly home. She also asked me to canvass the parking lot, which I did, looking for her daughter’s car. It wasn’t there. This worried the mother even more because when she had spoken to her this morning, her daughter had been almost comatose.

I spent the next hour trying to find out if Leslie could have been on an airport shuttle or taxi of some kind, but I found nothing. Finally, half an hour ago, Leslie called a woman here at my place of work. Leslie could not identify where she was, or why she had left, but she did know that she felt terrible. The woman who answered the phone told Leslie to call her mom, and then Leslie hung up. I just called her mom to let her know that we’d heard from her, and her mom had just heard from her as well. Leslie managed to say she was somewhere in Napa, but she didn’t know where, and that the maid service had told her she had to leave the Guesthouse this morning. Her mom begged her to find a hotel or restaurant, and to call her back, so someone here would know where to find her.

The thing is, Leslie is operating a moving vehicle without being capable of reading a store or street sign to her mother. Her mom said she’d been “crazy” for years, but she did not say it unkindly. Over the last two weeks, I talked to Leslie several times, both on the phone and while she was here taking classes. I even got her a scholarship for her second class. She seemed so “normal” and balanced. I have a feeling that this episode will end okay- at least, I hope it does, with Leslie landing somewhere safe and one of her mom’s local friends finding her. But my god- how scary. When I was walking towards the Guesthouse room, I honestly thought I would have to deliver terrible news to the mother. It’s a pretty significant reality check, and yet another reminder that my life is just one of seven billion.

Posted June 20th, 2004 by Michelle

My mom always says that depression is not deeper sadness, per say, but that it is feeling as though one doesn’t have any options. I know she’s right, and nineteen times out of twenty, when I’m feeling bad, I can isolate my unhappy feelings and realize that what I’m actually feeling is trapped, bored, lazy, useless- i.e., that I’m not seeing the gazillion options in my daily life. But today, and yesterday, and some of the days before, I’ve been battling a grey cloud and I can’t seem to get through it. I know it’s ridiculous, in a way. I know that there are people in my extended family, and all over the world, who have it much, much, much, much worse. Vastly worse. But I can’t fight my way out of this one.

I am sad that my baker is far away and that there are things pulling us apart emotionally as well. I can’t get away from this feeling, even though I know that had he stayed, there would have been far more destructive issues between us than the ones hurting us today. I am sad, deeply sad sometimes, that I’m not working as an actor right now, and haven’t been for a long time. I am sad that I’m not working in relief in any capacity. I am sad for silly things, like… well, I never built the community in New York that I wanted. I’m sad that yet another man who screwed things up when he had the chance to work on a relationship with me is now courting me with excessive persistence (even an offer to fly me to NY for the weekend). I’m sad for him because that window of opportunity is shut, with rusty nails bent into the wood. I’m sad for me because a year ago his attentions would have made me so happy.

It’s been a hard sadness to shake, even though I got to see so many friends and family this weekend. Even though I gave my notice at my job, even though I’m about to start something really extraordinary. I know that all of these great things are happening to me, but I’m having a hard time relishing in them, being present, appreciating everything coming my way. I honestly don’t know if I’m doing the right things or going in the right direction. I mean, what is “right” for me?

Posted June 18th, 2004 by Michelle

It’s a go!

I’ve accepted a new job, about which I cannot now and possibly may never be able to talk specifically, but suffice to say that it is very exciting and I cannot wait to begin. I have two more weeks, starting today, at my current place of business, and those weeks are going to be challenging in all sorts of ways. First and foremost, I coordinate the classes where I work, and there are no classes to coordinate for three weeks. So basically I get to watch paint dry and look like I’m busy. Fun, fun, fun. After the 4th of July weekend, I will officially dive into my new job. As the days progress, I’ll feel out what I can make public, but the job itself is exceedingly high-profile so I’ll do my best to keep my big mouth shut.

Quitting a job is a hard thing to do. You think that you’ve got the best possible words and timing, but something ALWAYS goes wrong. When I quit my job at a winery earlier this year, I had already planned a trip out east that was approved and my shifts were covered. I gave two weeks and was gone for most of them, but wasn’t scheduled anyway, but then when I got home the winery asked me to work an extra weekend which I couldn’t because I was already starting the new job. Which pissed off everyone at the winery. Clearly not the best timing, but I thought my bases were covered. And now, I made the mistake of telling my boss’s boss first, because my boss (as usual) was out of town, so she didn’t even get to hear it from me. She thought I’d chosen to go behind her back, and she is a very defensive, suspicious creature, so I’ve had to deal with her hurt feelings all morning. But I wanted to give proper notice; I did not plan for her to be gone the day I had to tell this company that I’m leaving.

All in all, though, my three bosses have been very supportive and excited for me. My direct boss is not entirely surprised, because she knows what an ugly uphill battle this institution is. I think I will be able to keep good relations with the other higher-ups as well- when they heard what I will be doing, they understood completely and were very disappointed to lose me but happy for my new opportunity.

So that’s that. In other news…

I’ve been following all the articles on BBC news about the genocide in Rwanda. I’ve actually been reading about it and studying it for years, because when it was happening, I knew nothing about it. In 1994 I was ensconced in my Musical Theatre BFA program, heedless and careless of what was going on not just outside my country, but outside my college. Which is strange considering how politically active I’d been the years prior. But I knew nothing- I’d never heard of Tutsis or Hutus and maybe, just maybe didn’t even know the meaning of the word “genocide”. (Interestingly, that very meaning is the one Clinton skirted around for dismally long.) Historians say it is one of the worst events of the 20th century, along with the Holocaust.

Sometimes it seems as though I can’t absorb all of the evils of the world- I have to pick and choose which ones I can deal with in any given period of time. I know as much about the Holocaust as the next person, which is to say, not that much. I visited Dachau in southern Germany, I’ve read as many articles and books as I’ve been able (including the incredible Maus comics), but there is only so far I can go, so much I can explore in that chapter of history. However, the events in Rwanda have captivated me. This is something that happened in my lifetime, when I was an adult. Not knowing about it happening at the time may have fueled my gentle obsession, but regardless, it’s something I’ve had to look at close up. I’ve not shied away from one picture or one fact, and god knows if you want to know all the gruesome, horrific details of what happened, the information is out there.

I guess it’s just the question of what can make a man take up a machete and drive it into the heads of his neighbor’s children. Clearly there was a group-think conceived in hatred happening, a horrible join-or-be-killed ideology, but there also was so much more, so much violent hatred, so much blame, but also so much I will never, ever, ever understand. I suppose if I can understand abandoning people you love, or the capability to hit or in any way abuse people you love, I could extrapolate that to even more violent behavior. And I know that there is a way, somehow, to make other people seem less human. The forefathers of this country succeeded swimmingly in that pursuit. But somehow I just can’t let it go, can’t stop reading and learning about it. Especially now, when the things that we thought would never happen on US soil, or to Americans, have come to pass.

Regarding the apparent execution of Paul M. Johnson Jr., our President Bush said, “America will not be intimidated by these kinds of extremist thugs.”

Well, Mr. President, I’m intimidated. I’m certainly intimidated by that kind of anger and hatred. But I think that as a man and a president, I’m just as terrified of what you’ve done.

Posted June 15th, 2004 by Michelle

I was just sitting here, minding my own business, staring absently at my computer screen when my contact fell out of my left eye. Just fell right out and plopped onto my keyboard. Yeesh.

But, dear readership, that is not the story I’m here to tell.

I had dinner at Calistoga Ranch last night, which is the brand-spanking new resort here in the Napa Valley, owned and operated by the folks who brought us the ever-awesome Auberge. This is going to be a treatise, a treatment, a rare, detailed description of What Can Go Wrong When No One Is At the Wheel. Or, Very Sucky Expensive Dinner.

I should have known when we pulled off the Silverado Trail onto a little sweet back road, only to see “Calistoga Ranch” and an arrow crudely spray-painted onto a plank resting at the base of a dwindling tree. Jon and I looked at each other and said, “Mmmm. Classy.” We drove up into the parking lot where two lonely cars looked over a man-made ravine. A sign said “Wait here for attendant”. So we did. And then we finally got out of the car and went up to the reception area and talked to a woman who had been looking out the window at us for some time. She fetched a valet, who showed up with a golf cart to drive us up into the main body of the resort.

And it was beautiful. Rustic, smelling of both fresh cut wood and woods, trees and flowers. Each “unit”, or hotel room, is a freestanding building sharing no walls. After a seven minute drive we were dropped off at the restaurant. The valet cheerfully took our $5 tip. We found our friends and embarked on the best part of the evening- a tour of the rooms and spa. It was incredible. The bedrooms in each unit are separated from the living space so if you have friends over to your room, they aren’t actually in your sleeping space. Everything was marble, brick, wood and copper, hot tubs in the decks below the stars, Egyptian cotton spreads, beautifully detailed furniture. The spa was outrageous- particularly the couples massage room- and the two-person outdoor granite tubs and copper showers inspired fantasies galore.

But then we had to go back to eat dinner.

Our reservation was at 7:30, and we probably didn’t sit down until 8:30. We sat on the deck overlooking a huge man-made pond, complete with ducks and swans and vigorously healthy population of mosquitoes. Lucky for everyone else I was there; the mosquitoes ate more of me than I did of my dinner. We took turns looking over the wine list, and I was told to order the first bottle. I chose a steely, racy Chablis, since I don’t drink it very often. I then passed along the list and we started discussing the menu. A full twenty minutes later, the bartender comes over with the bottle of wine and presents it to one of my friends, a man, at the far end of the table. He looks at it, and then says, “Oh, they ordered that down there,” gesturing towards us. So the bartender walks over to my friend Jon and presents the bottle to him. “She ordered it,” says Jon, pointing to me. I can’t help it. I’ve got a gimlet in me already, and I’m pissed. “You really shouldn’t assume,” I said to the bartender, who is also a friend and who was responsible for getting us this reservation where only members are supposed to eat. “Just because I’m blonde and goofy looking, don’t always present to the men. Man, you know who is at this table!” I’m trying to laugh while I say this.

He finally shows me the bottle, then circles around to the other side of Jon, and pours Jon a taste. At this point, I’m defeated. Jon scoots the glass over to me, I swirl it, put it down and say, “It’s too warm.” And it was. It was actually room temperature, and “room” meaning a hot night outside. The bartender looks at me, nods, and then pours Jon a full glass. “Wait, uh, too warm to drink at all right now!” I say, and the bartender looks at me, and then leaves to go put the bottle in the fridge, leaving the very full glass of warm Chablis on the table.

The night only got worse.

We didn’t get to drink the Chablis for at least another 45 minutes. And our food took so long it became funny. It was well after 10 PM when we actually got our first salad course, and close to midnight before we saw dessert menus. My bedtime these days is 10:30 or so, so I was getting truly sleepy at the table. The salmon course was excellent, but ANYTHING is excellent if you are made to wait long enough for it. We even started to tire of each other, taking long trips to the loo or away to make phone calls.

And here’s the thing: there were four other tables at the restaurant. “Tables” meaning tables with someone sitting at them. What do they do when the place is full? Or will it ever be? It was remarkably, laughably bad from start to finish (except for the salmon- oh, my, the salmon) and when we got the many-hundred-dollar check (paid for by the best friend a girl could ask for), it only confirmed what I’ve always known: SERVICE SUCKS IN NAPA VALLEY. Don’t come here looking for world-class dinners, even though it’s a world-class setting with a few world-class wines. You do NOT get what you pay for in this town. If hard-working American citizens are going to drop hundreds of dollars on a MEAL rather than, oh I don’t know, donating it to a homeless shelter or something a little more worthwhile, then it better be a transcendent experience. Clearly we are lucky as hell to even spend 5 bucks on dinner (which is about what I could have afforded last night) but last night was a waste of time and resources.

That’s the end of my rant. Back to my regularly scheduled diatribes about men, President Bush, foreign policy, garden management, etc.

Posted June 13th, 2004 by Michelle

I’m starting to think that maybe having a garden is utterly selfish. And crazy expensive. This is the first time in my life that I’ve had to pay for water and I can’t help obsessing about it. Every time I turn on the water to wash dishes, I see greenbacks pouring down the drain. I wait until I’m absolutely desperate to do a load of laundry, and the days of me standing in the shower, hair lifted, drumming water on my back, are long gone. I’m also realizing how much water one little ‘ol person consumes. I live alone and yet when I think about the shower, toilet, kitchen sink, bathroom sink, washing machine AND garden I just can’t believe how much water I use. And what was I thinking, planting things in earth so dry and hard-packed that the tree roots have risen to the surface in hopes of someday feeling rain.

And am I going to eat every single tomato that grows on the vines? I can hope that each of the four plants will ripen at different rates but HOW CAN I EAT FOUR PLANT’S WORTH OF TOMATOES???? Seriously, what was I thinking. My squash plant is wilted by about 2 in the afternoon, long before the hottest hours, and I have to cover it with a slatted deck chair and spritz it with more precious water if I want it to survive the day. I sit out there, in my lovely yard, and watch liquid money dance all over my baby plants while simultaneously usurping what feels like half the world’s clean water supply. I mean, clearly this is my latest neurosis but I’m confronted with it every day. It’s an interesting exercise, having to pay for what I consume. I wonder how many hamburger eaters would be willing to kill, skin, and butcher a cow. I wonder how many hamburger eaters actually think about the life extinguished in the process of creating said hamburger.

I don’t think I’ve broken the fact on this blog that I am now officially a flesh eater. The only thing I can stand is fish, and lighter, whiter fish at that, but I’ve probably eaten something that had a mother every day for a solid month. It was my baker’s fault; he cooked me scallops. But he was also thankful, clearly, openly thankful for every beast that died in order to create sustenance. I’d never met anyone who actually thought about these things, and it certainly goes in the Top Ten Reasons Why My Baker is One of the Coolest Men Ever.

But I digress. Who am I to plant a garden when I’m surrounded by excess? There are hundreds of heirloom tomatoes at the farmer’s market every Friday, and every week I can’t eat the last one or two that I bought the week before. Those will keep appearing, and they are probably grown in soil far better suited to plant life and therefore far less wasteful. Yes, they are a whopping $3.50 a pound, and that certainly sucks, but god knows that by the end of summer I’ll have spent exponentially more on my water bill, and probably shaved years off my life because of all my guilt.

Oh, and these stupid little bugs are eating my basil. Damn bugs! Stay off my favorite herb! (Which, incidentally, needs very little water.)

The skin tags on my face are back, as is my plantar fasciitis and eczema. Man, getting old sucks. Know why I’m feeling older all of a sudden? Because it’s BIRTHDAY MONTH!!! Only fourteen shopping days left!

Well. That was a paltry effort. I’ve been lax in creating birthday months for the past couple of years. It’s June 12 and there has yet to be fun of any kind.

Maybe for my birthday I should ask Mother Nature for summer rains.

Posted June 11th, 2004 by Michelle

I’m at work, but the computer program I need to get anything done is on the fritz. What better time than now to catch up on blogging…

It’s been a roller coaster week, which seems to be par for the course. My boss was awful enough to me to warrant my writing a scathing letter to the HR department, which I wisely didn’t send. Instead, I slept on it (not the letter itself, but the anger) and then sat her down the next day and detailed all of her abuses and told her it wasn’t okay. She apologized egregiously, agreed that her treatment of me was unwarranted, and then also agreed with me when I told her I wasn’t the perfect person for this job. I’m hoping that is a good warm-up for the news I hope to deliver to her early next week.

And that’s the other thing. This new opportunity, that I thought was lost to me because of money, is actually alive and kicking harder than ever. There isn’t a ton of money to be made immediately, but there is a ton of opportunity and challenge and good hard work that could turn into a fantastic financial situation. It could be a risk, but it is a risk I’m now prepared to take. There is one more major hurtle, and if we fly over this one, I’ll be giving my notice here next week and jumping into something completely different come July. I feel great about it, so excited, and I really hope it happens. I know whole-heartedly that it will happen as it should; right now I’m just sitting back and watching the show.

My baker is alive and well in the woods of Montana, even though a silence of less than 48 hours caused me to doubt him completely. Which is telling about me, not about him. I was prepared to feel full-scale abandoned. I was talking to my mom and I said, “He hasn’t called” and she said, “He will, of course he will. He won’t just not call you ever again,” to which I replied, “Uh, mom, it’s happened before.” I was thinking yesterday about the capability we humans have of abandoning the people we love. I know I’ve done it. I’ve moved from places and never looked back, even when former friends or lovers reached out to me. It is actual work to stay in touch with some of my friends back in New York. It’s not true of everyone- there is a fair number of people whose contact is welcome and easy- but there are those that I see on my caller I.D. and I turn off the ringer and figure I’ll get back to them eventually. Staying in contact with people is hard. Loving people not right in front of you is hard. It is so damn easy to pack the car and leave without saying goodbye.

I’m trying to be better about all of this, trying to stay in contact with all the people I love. It’s certainly becoming easier as I get older and realize how few people mean the world to me. I’m hanging on tighter than I used to. Maybe it’s why I called my baker and left him a ridiculous message about us and staying in touch and generally freaking out a little bit. Or, gosh, maybe it’s because the last man I loved truly stopped calling me quite suddenly, and that was essentially how he ended the relationship. And that all other inklings of hope of love that I’ve had in the last several years fizzled out before they ever had a chance to blossom. But, y’know, whatever. I’m doing the best I can. And I certainly can’t expect the people who love me to stay in touch if I am crummy at it as well.

Right now, though, I feel great about all of this. I feel as though this job could be the start of something big, and that my friendship with my baker has strengthened me immeasurably. It is fascinating to be in a situation that causes me to look at myself as if I was outside of myself, and to take stock of what I see. It seems to be the only way to create change and healing. It also makes me horribly embarrassed sometimes, to see myself from the outside. Embarrassed and ashamed and humbled. But again, I guess I’m just doing the best I can.