Today I walked six miles, during the course of which I:

-picked up transcripts
-picked up birth control
-dropped off transcripts at the new home of Educational Policy Studies, which is a ghetto little building off Regent
-bought a butterscotch latte from Indie, love of loves
-bought three kinds of pasta, including my favorites, strozzapreti, and jordan almonds (best vegan junk food ever!) from Fraboni's
-set up a recommendation file at the English department
-scored an awesome little black (J. Crew!) dress and a couple of sweaters at the Goodwill
-listened to "Darkness on the Edge of Town" twice in its entirety, among a ton of other Springsteen

Then, because I am a glutton for punishment sometimes, I went for an 7.5 mile run, which I completed for the first time in under 1:10.

Then, I made dinner, which included doing that thing where I chop a habanero for peanut sauce and then blow my nose and spend the next five minutes pacing around the apartment thinking It will stop burning it will stop burning it will stop burning and considering doing rash things like chopping my nose off or inhaling milk. The moral of this story is that while I can score high enough on my GREs to be considered really damn smart, I am something less than a genius.

Then, I read the rest of The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. Right to the very end, I was intrigued but not sure whether I liked it. Having finished it, I'm still in that same boat. It makes me very uncomfortable, not just because the violence portrayed is almost entirely directed against women, but because so much of the book seemed really...out there. I'm sure I'll think about it more and decide.

Now, it's past my bedtime. I think I'm going to drink a glass of my delicious delicious cabernet, and then go to sleep.

On Tuesday, I left work at 2 pm to take the GRE.

Doing this involves schlepping all the way out to the West Transfer Point, walking to the test center, hand-copying a paragraph that says you aren't going to tell anyone anything about the test ever in life so help you God and if you do they will magically know and HUNT YOU WITH THE EYE OF SAURON. I mean, that was the gist of it.

Then, you are supposed to hand them a piece of identification that tells them you're you, receive in exchange a little pamphlet of scrap paper and two pencils, and go bust a move.

This was where things went wrong.

I arrived at the test center with my vitamin water and my granola bar. I ate my granola bar and drank half my vitamin water. I went into the room to begin the test.

"This ID is expired," said the woman sitting behind the desk.

Oh, I thought. Shit. It had expired on my birthday, something I'd completely forgotten since no one else in the world cares.

"Well," I said, "I've got a student ID that also shows me."

"We don't accept student IDs," she said. "Only government-issued documents."

I did not think this the time to begin an argument about the fact that the state of Wisconsin, which issued my student ID, is the government. "You can't take them together, even?" I asked. I started shuffling around in my bag, pulled out a pay stub, a phone bill, and the bill from my last dentist appointment. (Why I had all these things and not a valid ID, I cannot begin to explain.)

"No," she said. She handed me a card with a toll-free number at the top. "You can call customer service, though, and see if they'll make an exception."

"Thank you," I said, and stepped outside the office to call.

The man on the other end answered each one of my increasingly desperate questions with a "Yeah...so you see, I can't do that." He could not: reschedule my test without charging me another $150, allow me to test with the ID I had on me, refund me any of my money, or stab himself in the face with a spork. The last one was actually just something I fantasized about asking, but it came pretty near the surface. I hung up the phone and walked back into the office.

"What's the latest you can start my test?" I asked.

"Five," said the woman. It was a quarter to four.

"Okay. Hold my seat. I'm going home to get my passport."

I called everyone I knew who had a car. Most were at work. Some didn't answer. One, I hadn't called in such a long time his number was no longer in service. Finally, nearly in tears, I picked up the phone, scrolled down the list, took a deep, deep breath, and called Justin.

He picked up on the third ring. "Hello?"

"Hi," I said. "Are you at work?"

His hesitant "No" conveyed a degree of understandable wariness.

I explained the situation as quickly as possible. He repeated after me, "So you need me to drive out there, drive back here, then drive out there again, then drive back?"

"I will owe you a lot of food," I said.

As it turned out, the reason he was at home in the first place was that he was waiting for Left for Dead II to show up via UPS, which required a signature. I assured him that UPS drivers are understanding and generous people who will leave a package if you write them a note.

He took a breath, during the course of which I watched $150, half a week's pay, waver in the balance.

"Okay," he said. "Give me a minute for the note."

I hung up the phone, nearly crying with relief, and sat down to wait. True to his word, he arrived twenty minutes later, drove me home and back again, and got me there by five.

I took the test. They say it's going to take you four hours. I don't know how it could possibly take four hours, unless you're actually reading all the tutorials on "How to use a mouse" and "How to scroll up and down." I finished it in two and a half, including a ten minute break. At the end, I clicked to say that I wanted to see my scores.

Verbal: 750
Math: 660

Me: "Yay!" (Possibly, though I will deny it until the end of time, aloud in the test room.)

I gathered my things, bought a big bar of chocolate and a bottle of wine, and got on the bus to ride home, grinning the whole way. Because, you know, there's nothing like a good Tuesday disaster to make the rest of your week look mighty fine.

Today, after having walked past JTaylor's on the square hundreds of times, stopping each time to stare into the window and wonder about the things inside, I went up to the door, took a deep breath, and rang the buzzer.

A man came up behind me. "Is it open?" he asked.

"Maybe," I said, pointing at the sign, which tells you that the hours are irregular, whimsical, and that you basically have to get lucky to get in.

We waited there for a moment, peering in. Finally, a small man emerged from behind a tall stack of nautical equipment and opened the door for us. "Hello," he said.

I asked him if there was anywhere he wanted me to set my things. "Anywhere up front," he said. "The door's locked."

I set my bag and lunchbox down, and took off my hat, and unwound my scarf. Then, I stood and stretched my neck back and saw the moose.

It stared down from above the door, antlers at least six feet wide, eyes huge and smooth like obsidian. It said, I belong here.

And I thought, I belong here too.

The man who had come in with me engaged the owner in talk about fly fishing books and materials and maps. After a brief moment to ask me if I needed help, ("No," I whispered in awe), they departed to a corner full of old papers and I was free to wander.

I stood for a moment to take it all in. I don't think I can describe in words how the place looked. I will try.

--

Imagine this: You are standing in an empty room. Insert around the edges shelves constructed haphazardly from bits of wood and glass, and a central glass display case lit from within. Then a ceiling of russet pressed tin, a hardwood floor scarred and pitted by time, covered at intervals by threadbare rag rugs. There is a particular smell, not unpleasant, of wood and leather, of rusted metal and old glue. Something organic persists underneath, like the daw-laden scent of the morning. It is silent but for the murmur of the men's voices and the rustle of paper. You are acutely aware that you must approach this environment with respect, as a guest. You stand with your back to the entrance, unsure of how to enter. Each shelf, each case, has sprouted from another as if by accident, and it is only by following their lines back to the walls that you can identify their origins. A tiny shelf abuts a larger one which sits next to a mirror which turns out to be part of a tremendous armoire, buried under mounted animals and duck decoys and vials and vaguely medical devices. To your right, a ten-foot statue of Anubis, standing guard over an antique display case packed with everything from pistol cufflinks to clip-on earrings that look like baseballs to silk gloves. Beyond the case, again, two silver Ionic pillars, a podium asking all visitors please to sign in, several anvils, an assortment of wooden tools. Hanging near the ceiling: a row of mercury thermometers, many from now-defunct service stations specializing in fuel and greases, all of which agree that the temperature at that height is about 72.

You walk closer. In among the tools is a tiny calendar from a grocery store that existed on East Washington Avenue. It is February, 1952. "Turn this over and meet a friend of ours!" it says. You turn it over and find a mirror on the other side and laugh out loud.

"You doing all right over there?" asks the owner.

"I'm just enjoying myself," you shout back in the general direction of his voice.

And you are. You've found a shelf of compasses, some broken, some unsure of which direction is north, some as true as the day they were made. And a lighter, manufactured in Paris, France, in 1942. Still in its snakeskin case. You wander back further. Old pills and remedies. Some jars--a jar full of snakes! You withdraw your hand and proceed with a little more caution. An old leatherbound copy of Mark Twain's Innocents Abroad. Mediocre condition, valueless, and all the more precious because of it. A robot, made so early in the manufacture of plastics that there are giant seams down each of its appendages. A tie clip from Chicago, 1933.

You press further into the store. You've begun to feel comfortable there, like it accepts you. You touch the edge of a surveyor's transit, watching the bubble inside the level tremble. You crouch to look at scrimshaw, and then look up to see, floating near the ceiling, a huge, three-level galleon, rigging still but itching for a wind.

The shopkeeper has finished his dealing with the other customer. He asks you if you see anything you like.

You can't answer that. You like everything. You love everything. You want to explain to him how you love humans and love artifacts and especially love other humans who love artifacts. You think that no matter how you say this you will sound sort of crazy. So you tell him you're looking for Christmas presents and start a three-hour conversation that covers: old photographs, cycling, travel, social networking, the Smithsonian, treating artifacts as both things of beauty and objects of scientific study, social justice, alternative education, the Edible Schoolyard model of alternative education in particular, race relations in Washington DC as opposed to Madison and the UP, the importance of communication within the family, healthcare, homelessness, and the absolute refusal of many nonprofits to do anything but fail to profit.

"Wow," he says when you finish up and are rewinding your scarf and tugging your hat over your ears. "We covered a lot of territory."

You grin and say yes, yes you did, and that you'll be back Saturday to look at those photos he said he had in the basement and that you could pick through. You step out into the cold and can't stop grinning, because, as you explain to your friend later, it was a little like meeting God.

Because if there are people like this, who try to keep the world from imploding by loving little bits of it, by thinking about the other bits and how they fit together, by coming from a position of unconditionality, then I think we might make it. We might make it.

They call that: faith.

I read an article this evening on the Obamas' marriage. It was rather enlightening on several levels. First, I realized that there is no worth in a relationship that does not involve challenge and continual growth. Second, I realized that I have not yet met anyone who challenges me enough (without just pissing me off) that I could even sort of imagine spending the rest of my life with him. Third, I realized that I'm not sure whether that person exists.

I have friends who challenge me, who force me to grow and develop. And I've had men that I've loved, who have really allowed me to define who I am, who I am willing to be. But I've never had both at the same time.

George and I went down to Brocach this evening, and we told Russell that we're both tired of being single and want him to find us boyfriends. Somewhere underneath the joking, though, I started to wonder whether that's what I really want, or whether I'm going to fare better on my own. Whether I'm never going to find someone who appeals to me on the holy triumvirate of levels: physical, intellectual, and emotional.

This idea used to depress me. It used to send me into days of deep anger and something even close to despair. Now, though? It barely touches me.

Maybe that's why they call it "finding yourself." Huh. Guess I'm found.

Hi, world. I'm Carmen. Who are you?

I went to breakfast this morning with Justin, and after we spent the first fifteen minutes in supremely awkward and self-conscious avoidance of one another's eyes, it was a huge relief. I'm glad I still like him, and wasn't just making that up to make myself feel better about missing the friendship.

I had a nice quiet day at work.

I closed the shop with a couple of the girls, then walked home and went for a quick three-mile run. I ate dinner of popcorn with my secret blend of herbs and spices, an apple, and a handful of almonds.

I relaxed for a while with Rhea, petting her until she purred herself to sleep.

Then, I started applying for grad school, and I could just feel my stress level skyrocket. Seriously. I do not want to go. I have to go. I do not want to go.

I feel exactly like I felt applying for college out of high school, except here there's no incentive to at least get out of your parents' place and see the world. You still have to pay rent, and you still have to work, and you still have to try to figure out how your life is supposed to shake out, except now you have to do that and write papers, too.

Goodbye, social life (such as it is). Welcome back, four hours of sleep, semi-coherent syntax, and ream upon ream of bullshit.

I think I'm going to go to bed now, in avoidance of the rest of this application. Tomorrow dawns fresh with the promise of open roads, heart beating like a drum in my chest, and the pull of rain-air cool as a handful of sea glass.

Because I try to be a generous person, I am going to assume that the two people who sat at my four-top for nearly two hours, ringing up a $40.60 tab, meant to tip an extra five and not the $42 they actually left.

Still, yanno, on a night as slow as tonight, that kind of table really throws off your groove.

Otherwise, I had some fantastic customers, including one apartment-seeking older couple that I may have convinced to move into the tobacco lofts, and one three-makers-and-seven-deep gentleman who had a long conversation with me about chef's knives. We agreed that while Wüsthofs have a delightful curvature and cutting edge, the sharp corner on the where the blade meets the handle makes them rather uncomfortable for people with small hands. He congratulated me on my selection of a Global instead. Also, I told him about the shiny shiny Japanese knives that I want with the passion of a thousand burning suns because I would feel like a samurai every time I chopped a carrot. Unfortunately, they run into the $500s. He wished me luck in saving for one, and tipped like he meant it.

All right, time to go to bed, as I have a brunch tomorrow morning (how sophisticated!) followed by an 11-6 at the Luxe. No one actually calls it that, but I'm trying to start a trend. I am also way too punchy right now. Perhaps I should watch the next episode of True Blood (digression: the amount of boobage in that show exceeds that of Deadwood, which is mighty impressive) and drink a tall glass of water and wait until I'm sleepy.

At any rate: this post was brought to you by the letter B, the number 9, and carries with it a friendly reminder to tip your server!

Sometimes my mind makes strange connections. Like today, I was thinking about a woman who makes the most gorgeous cakes, and then thinking that cutting cakes is a pain. A few minutes later, looking for a photograph of a sunflower for the project I'm working on, I saw a sunflower cupcake and thought how pretty it would be to have a field of them.

Then, out of nowhere, my brain goes, "You're getting married at the beginning of September so you can have sunflower cupcakes."

I mean, seriously, brain. Where the hell did that even come from? Why can't I have sunflower cupcakes without getting married? Who exactly am I going to be marrying in this early-September wedding-of-many-sunflowers?

And I'm not one of those girls, either. I didn't spend my childhood designing a dream wedding. (I did pick out a ring, but that was because it was the right size to cut out of a magazine and tape on my finger, something I did with quite a bit of jewelry in my 6-year-old bling phase.) In fact, when I was a kid, I was pretty sure that weddings were stupid, a conviction solidified by having to dress up like an avalanche of lace and attend them. Given my general opposition to lace and all things girly, this was an unpleasant experience. And I haven't given weddings much thought since, except to appreciate my uncle Mark's classy and understated one for its elegance and utter lack of frilliness.

Still, though. Some part of me has to admit, I like the idea of having sunflowers as the wedding flower of choice, mostly because I could grow them myself. And because I like the idea of being surrounded by green and yellow and orange, my favorite three colors.

But you know how it is. Whatever happens, it's a long way off.

And now, to St. Vinny's!

Yesterday, I was bored and very awake. Also, I had just eaten an apple. Also, it was 10 pm.

So I decided, with a mental apology to my downstairs neighbors, to redecorate/rearrange my apartment.

For those of you who have known me for a while, you know that I can't actually live in the same space for more than 8 months to a year before it begins to make me anxious. I solve that problem by periodically making my space different.

This time, I have the following goals:

1. Replace all the boring tan drapes with something exciting. Possibly a muted orange. Also, lose the mini blinds altogether. I hate those things.

2. At some point, replace the crappy unsupportive chair that is falling apart with a two-seater sofa, or, preferably, a small futon. So I could in theory have houseguests of the platonic persuasion. Or, you know, seat more than one person other than me in my living room.

3. Figure out some solution to the problem wherein I have no table or chairs, meaning I eat most of my meals standing at my breakfast bar/workstation, which is where I spend most of my time anyway. I'm thinking some sort of fold-up-and-put-away solution. I even know where I'd stash them. I just need to find something of the right size. Or have carpentry tools. I miss home sometimes. Incidentally, I moved my computer and other electronics from the desk to the breakfast bar, so I mostly stand to work now. It's improved my moods immensely, and there's much better track lighting over here.

4. Cover the wall next to my bed with small, colorful prints. I finally figured out a way to do it that is inexpensive and not too irritating (in theory.) More on that once I've spent lots of money and am very irritated and still have nothing on that wall.

5. Organize my craft/bookbinding supplies and place them in an easily accessible place so I'm not constantly rummaging through boxes after my bone folder or craft knife.

6. Convince the Powers That Be to open a goddamned IKEA within a reasonable distance already.

On Saturday, I went for a long tempo run along the shore of Lake Mendota. I ran across the isthmus, over the series of rolling hills that makes East Johnson, past Tenney Park and up into the Maple Bluff area. Once I got to Warner Park, I ran out to the shore and did a few stretches to ensure my body was in good working order before I demanded its best performance. Then, with Peter Gabriel's "I Grieve" on my iPod (can I just interject here that I love the way it suddenly gets all upbeat about two-thirds of the way through?), I stood up. Looked across the wind-ruffled inlet to the bluffs on the other side.

Oh. Oh.

The trees outlining the cliff had turned from their usual dark green to the most brilliant red I've seen since the fall of 2007. The fall when we drove out to Devil's Lake and things were going to be perfect and I was so happy.

I waited for the little twinge of nostalgia to come. It didn't. I just looked at the colors, and understood when I had last seen them. The events belonged to the same timestream, but had no other relationship to one another.

And I realized, standing there with the wind drying sweat from my face, that the colors were in me. In the celebration I carry in my heart and invite from the world. In the breath coming hard into my open lungs, the absolute freedom of knocking out five miles and knowing that this thing that now brings me joy started because of my deepest grief.

I thought for a while, when I misunderstood the continuity of time, that I had perhaps already experienced my happiness. Perhaps I would have to carry that in my heart to wait out the bad times. Now, I understand that happiness and sadness exist simultaneously at all times, that it is how I look that matters. So I choose.

Once, I was running away. Now, I'm running because I can't live without the feel of the wind in my hair, because I relish the strength and endurance of my body, because my heart beats so fast it feels like falling in love, every time.

I don't often make food from recipes. When I do, I generally use the recipe as inspiration and substitute away, ending up with something tasty for dinner.

But tonight, I had about-to-expire tempeh in the refrigerator, had just gotten home from a long day at work, and wanted nothing more than to let someone else figure out what I wanted for dinner. So I googled recipes, scrolled through the first few pages, and settled on a tempeh satay. It was supposed to take about twenty minutes.

The recipe had two parts: first, you boiled the tempeh in what amounted to a vinegar reduction with a little oil mixed in, then, when it was reduced, seared it on all sides. Simple enough; I'd done variations on that theme many times. To make the sauce, you sauteed some onions and garlic, curry, turmeric, and ginger, then added a little water and blended the whole mess with cashews to add a little heft.

It all started innocently enough. The tempeh seared beautifully, leaving it crispy on the outside and meaty on the inside. The sauce did exactly what it was supposed to do on the stove, hissing and boiling and turning quite an attractive yellow. I put it in the blender. Put the lid on. Held the lid on tightly. Pushed the button. It started slowly, pulling the sauce down and into the blades.

Then, it exploded.

I mean, exploded everywhere.

For those of you who have never experienced the tininess of my apartment, let me define everywhere: every vertical surface for about half my living space.

"Huh," I said. I remember thinking very clearly: 'Huh' is not language of the level appropriate here.

Still in a state of minor shock, I surveyed myself for damage. Somehow, none of the sauce had ended up on me, probably because the lid of the blender acted as a sort of shield. I grabbed a paper towel and wiped the closest wall. Instead of wiping the sauce off, as I had vaguely expected, it streaked a splotch of bright yellow down the white paneling.

"Oh, shit," I said, the severity of the situation beginning to hit me. I began to think about the amazing staining powers of turmeric, and how my fingernails sometimes stayed yellow for days after making a big batch of curry paste. I began to think about how many white, vertical, matte, and charmingly textured surfaces exist in my apartment. I began to reevaluate my attachment to my security deposit.

In a blind panic, I abandoned the paper towel idea altogether and brought in the big guns: a scrubbing sponge and all-surface cleaner. Banking on the fact that most walls in the apartment were covered with at least several layers of white paint, I began the lovely task of scrubbing the top layer off various surfaces with a vigorous dedication that lasted for the better part of forty-five minutes.

Hungry and grumpy, I walked back into the kitchen. As I turned the corner, something blue on the floor caught my eye. I bent closer, thinking that it resembled a paw print. Especially since there were about fifteen more of them in a little loop leading from Rhea's favorite box around the rug and back to the box.

"Oh no you don't, kitten," I told her, evicting her from her box. As I had suspected, a bit of paint or ink, long-dried in the corner, had become wet in the Blender Blast. I blotted it dry again with a paper towel and then, with a long-suffering sigh, began scrubbing paw prints off the floor.

By the end, I was starving. I mean, I'd been hungry when I started dinner, but over an hour later, my stomach wasn't hearing excuses. So I turned to my tempeh, forked a piece, and dipped it in the sauce.

And you know what?

The sauce sucked. No, I mean, really. It was oddly textured and boring. The substitution of cashews for the more traditional peanut sucked half the flavor out of it. The spice mixture was all right, but the base tasted like...well, like carrots. It was like dipping tempeh into a spiced carrot puree.

Oh, fuck this, I thought, and spent the next five minutes whipping up my go-to peanut sauce. By this time, I was madder than anything and suddenly not very hungry, so I ate five or six pieces of the tempeh and a handful of wasabi crisps and washed them down with a big glass of water before sitting down in a huff with my Margaret Atwood and reading until I felt better.

Now, it's dark as pitch out and I'm about to go to bed so I can be up for the Farmers' Market tomorrow. (Which had better be a goddamned treat.) I am taking deep breaths, so deep I imagine I can smell the coffee already.

Saturday was intense. I got to the farmers' market around 7:30, bought my usual stuff, walked around for about three hours total running various errands, and then went home, took a shower, baked some mushroom pastries, and went to work at the bar. Work managed to be both slow and insane at the same time. Being quadruple-sat when one of your tables is an 8-top bachelorette party is a little stressful. But then my section died around 9, so it was dull as anything until 2, when I drank my shift beer, hung out with the boys for a while, and got home around 5.

Sunday and Monday, I literally did nothing. I just relaxed. I wrote a lot, and cooked a lot, and rewatched quite a bit of Friday Night Lights. I slept ten hours each night. I felt the stress seep out of me like the end of an illness, and let it go.

And today, tips from Saturday in hand, I went to Berkeley Running Company to get myself a pair of running tights.

This is not as simple as it sounds. Since running tights are extremely fitted, getting the right size matters. Furthermore, since I'm a size small in terms of weight but a medium in terms of height, finding a happy compromise doesn't always work. I really wanted to buy a pair of black compression tights with badass dark blue support webs, because they (a) made me feel like Bionic Woman and (b) made my legs look damn sexy, but the small was too short and the medium was too loose. Sigh.

At long last, after spending forever in the dressing room running in circles and knocking into walls, I settled for a pair of medium ASICS tights. They're a little loose, but have an adjustable waistband and enough structure that they don't bunch up anywhere. And they're nice and warm, with a thin layer of fleece on the inside and water-and-wind-resistant cloth on the outside.

Quite excited about my purchase, I took my tights home and went for a run.

They are awesome. I cannot stress this enough. It is so nice to be running into a wind that would have made me want to die a few weeks ago, only to discover that it really doesn't phase me this time around. It is so nice to feel my muscles warm up in five minutes instead of fifteen. And they're tight enough that once it gets really really cold, I can just put another pair of pants on over them.

So anyway, I spent the entire half-hour of my run geeking out about my pants, which I realize is absurd.

Now I'm home with a mug of vegan eggnog+Meyers, the next episode or two of Deadwood, and a happy cat who keeps falling asleep on my lap. (And my tights!) I think I'm going to call it a day.

I couldn't sleep last night, so I got up at 5 am to bake some apple strudel for work-folk. It made the apartment smell absolutely delicious, and as I woke slowly from the cold and haze of dozing and waking for hours, it brought me to life.

All day at work, my mental clock kept ticking down. I work here for five more hours. For three more hours. For one hour and twenty minutes.

And then, the part of me that really loved the job kicked in. I'm leaving some of the people most dear to me in the world. I'm leaving behind the last part of the life I had when life was really good. I'm leaving the books! Who will care for them? Who will love them and touch them and know them when I am gone? Who will people ask when a customer can only describe one facet of a hardcover? Who will be their advocate?

I know. Emma tells me I'm so idealistic that I give her cavities. But I feel like I'm betraying something bigger than myself, the authors whose books won't find their customers because I won't be there.

I'm sure this feeling will pass. Probably with the end of this beer I'm drinking, which caps off an evening of beers with Parrish and Andrea. I am, despite how I sound here, really excited about my new job. I'm excited to be a new person. I'm excited to discover new things, and capacities. I'm excited to have Fridays off.

I suppose this will be like any mix of emotion. Three weeks from now, I'll suddenly find myself crying in the shower, and that will be a low I didn't know I was reaching, and then I'll be fine.

Right now? It's like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders, and I'm once again free to fly.

1. It's my second-to-last day at Borders! (Wow, two weeks passes in a heartbeat.)

2. It might snow later this week. SNOW! SNOW! Hehehehehe. For those of you who are joining this blog after last winter, you probably don't know about my unhealthy obsession with the first snow. Or how it is annually the most beautiful day of the year, and the day on which I dance around like a crazy person.

3. I have finally gone totally vegan at home. I have started a food blog to commemorate this. On it, I supplement recipes that I make with the best pictures I can coerce from my takes-a-lickin-and-keeps-on-tickin camera. I figured it was just easier to keep the food part of this blog elsewhere, plus the interface is way more pic-friendly.

4. Rhea is insanely cuddly.

5. My legs did not feel like wood after yesterday's 8-miler. More like bamboo. Stiff, but flexible.

Woken from strange, uncomfortable dreams by the sound of chainsaws as men outside removed part of a tree broken earlier in the wind. I tried to go back to sleep, but then my stomach grumbled, so I got up and made a little batch of popcorn and a cup of chamomile tea.

I am happy to be leaving. I'm too happy to be leaving. I'm so happy because I'm also terribly sad. Making that last cut was more difficult than I expected. It's a dream come crashing down, and it hurts to lose. I've wanted to work in a bookstore my whole life, and I'll miss it. A few days ago, I recommended two books to a customer who bought both and loved them and came back to ask me for more. He'll come back again and I won't be there. Someone else will recommend him a book he'll love. But it won't be me.

I'm sure I'll enjoy my new job. But I am not passionate about kitchen gadgets and plastic-lens cameras and cute baby gear. I like them. I think they're fun to buy and sell and give. They will never leave me breathless, like the last passages in Of Mice and Men, or crying with laughter, like anything by Wodehouse, or with a heart too full to close the book, like A River Runs Though It.

The men with chainsaws seem to be done now. Rhea holds council from the coffee table, but her eyes don't leave me. It is time for me to take off this bathrobe I've wrapped around me to ward off the chill, call the cat, and curl warm under my down comforter. The pain is not enough for tears, but enough that the ache settles in my lungs like the first morning breath of January air.

We find after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us.

I suppose it's time for the next direction.

It's time to take the air conditioner out of the window and install the storm windows in its place.

This is a behemoth of a task, because the air conditioner weighs about forty pounds and the window has an inclination to slam shut after it, trapping cords, fingers, and curious kitten noses while rattling ominously. Around the air conditioner are a variety of scraps of material that I've jury-rigged as insulation. Underneath, little squares of wood that you can't extract without taking out the machine, but like to leap to their deaths and attack your toes. After you've managed to remove the machine itself and trap the spiders that came indoors with it, all the while preventing your cat from jumping out the window, you have to prop the window open while you try to jimmy the obstinate storm window back up into the frame. And you have to try to keep the obscenities to the minimum, lest a neighbor pass under your window and think the "Fuck you, you fucking piece of shit!" might be directed at him.

In the past, I've always someone to help me. More specifically, I've always had a boy to help me. A boyfriend, a stander-by, a brother.

So I did what I do best: chopped vegetables for dinner while I thought about the problem. I considered several pulley-based methods, but discarded them as impractical. I considered jury-rigging what amounted to a set of sawhorses to set the air conditioner on while I held the window open with my elbow, but decided that the risk of damage to myself and furniture was far too high. I considered calling Parrish and being a girl about the whole thing, but he was closing.

Then, I thought, The hell with it, I am a capable woman with a college degree. I'll make it up as I go.

I set the vegetables on the stove to simmer away for soup and approached the window. Propped it open. Found a wooden box to slip behind the air conditioner to hold the window while I extracted the machine. Brought it inside, set it carefully on the floor, and caught and evicted the spiders.

Damn, I'm good, I thought.

Ha! said the storm window. Also, Muahahahaha! Also, You totally do not remember where you stored me when you took me out of the window!

I turned to my computer and dialed up "Sisters Are Doing It For Themselves," like I do whenever I'm determined to be a badass. On a hunch, I checked for the window behind my chair. It was not there. Next, I tried the tall bookshelf. Also not there. Finally, it turned up with an assortment of screens and dustballs behind the short bookshelf.

Okay, I thought. Now all I have to do is put it in the window.

Ha! said the storm window.

With some trepidation, I hooked the top tabs into their channels and began to push the window upwards so I could hook the bottom tabs into their fittings. I pushed upward gently, wary of the ancient glass and wobbly frames.

The whole thing fell out the window.

I nearly fell out after it keeping it steady enough to pull back in.

Tehehe, said the storm window.

Well, I thought, fuck you too.

So I jammed the whole thing upwards until the top tabs caught on something, pushed the bottom tabs into some semblance of nearness to their fittings, and closed the inside window, freezing cold and feeling rather silly about the fiasco.

The aftermath: My apartment is noticeably less drafty, and with the soup just done simmering on the stove, warm and comfortably filled with the smell of leeks and curry. My cat has decided that the bath mat is awesome and spends all her time rolling herself up in it and then treating it like it's attacking her. Crazy critter. My last day at Borders is one day earlier than I thought.

Life is a many-splendored thing.

--

Sigh for Exotic Lands

or

Curried Squash and Leek Soup

1 smallish butternut squash, seeded, peeled, and cubed
2 small potatoes (I used yukon golds), cubed
4 leeks, tough greens removed, roughly chopped
5 baby carrots
olive oil, for pan
4 cups water
1 Tbsp sweet curry powder (or more, depending on strength)
1 Tbsp fresh ginger, grated
2 boullion cubes
small handful of walnuts, to top

Notes: Squash soup is my all-time favorite autumn food. Pair this with a nice, crusty piece of bread and it's a perfect whole meal.

1. In a large soup pot, saute squash, potatoes, leeks, and carrots with a bit of olive oil until slightly browned and fragrant.

2. Add water, curry powder, ginger, and boullion. (You could also use stock instead of the water/boullion combination, but I did not have any on hand and did not feel like making it. Also, if you used stock, you'd want to add salt, as you wouldn't have the saltiness of the boullion.)

3. Bring to a boil, then simmer, stirring occasionally, until vegetables are very tender (35-45 minutes).

4. Blend until smooth, adding water a bit at a time if it's too thick.

5. Top with a sprinkle of walnuts and serve immediately. Freezes well.

I can't believe I get drunk and make salsa. And post a freaking recipe. And do not cut myself. I cut myself quite frequently in the kitchen, but always when totally sober. Having salsa verde and roasted tomatoes on the rest of my baguette today really made it worthwhile, though. Still. The last time I was drunk and had company (before the OOOHS come forth, it was George), I made an omelette with carmelized onions, roasted garlic, poblano peppers, and goat cheese. Obviously, this was before my vegan days, but the point stands. Namely, that when it comes to food, I am two things: (1) obsessive, and (2) a little nuts.

I whipped up some spring rolls and soba noodles for dinner tonight. I love Asian cooking, because once you've gotten through the irritating part where you have to chop up lots of somewhat small things into lots of very small things, the assembly takes mere minutes. Plus, spring rolls, like frittatas, are a great way to get rid of all the odds and ends you have lying around your refrigerator. And in the meantime, I roasted some eggplants for baba ghanoush and did all the dishes and dusted the bookshelves and cross-stitched a set of Christmas ornaments.* Just call me Martha.

Tomorrow, I have two Goals: (1) make a tofu scramble that is aesthetically inoffensive (namely, that does not look like the Great Tofu Apocalypse), and (2) find a variety of non-dairy cheese that is worthy of being allowed into my kitchen. I'm on the verge of just accepting that number two is a pipe dream, but one must always hope.

Rhea is meowing for my attention. I am mostly un-hungry. My apartment is mostly clean. My bank account is mostly in the green. My feet are mostly not in pain. Life is, you know, mostly good.

*I may be lying about that last one.

I have discovered tomatillos.

They are delicious. Why did I always pass them up before?

Wanted, Dead or Alive

or

Roasted Tomatoes and Salsa Verde Sandwich

serves 1 (drunken) person

Salsa Verde

4-5 decent-sized tomatillos, diced
2 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 sweet onion, minced (I used a vidalia)
1 serrano pepper, seeded, minced
juice 1/2 lime

1. Mix. Let sit, refrigerated, for at least an hour and up to a few days to allow the flavors to mix. You can add cilantro if you want, but I prefer adding cilantro to salsas right before I use them so that the flavor layers instead of mushes.

Sandwich

2 pieces lightly toasted bread (if you can accomplish this safely while drunk)
4-5 leftover roasted tomatoes (see last post for instructions on this, as it is NOT SAFE to attempt while in previously mentioned state of inebriation)
a decent amount of salsa verde
1 tsp Vegenaise (which is, I have discovered, actually spelled like this, instead of "Veganaise," as one might expect)

1. Put things on sandwich.

2. I swear this is good for real and not just because I would eat basically anything right now.

So I just completed the rather heavy task of dragging my tomatoes and pepper inside to protect them from the frost tonight. Rhea is very confused about our new friends. She's pulled out her wtf? meow.

Seriously, though, Wisconsin, I am not losing the one lousy pepper I managed to nurse through this "summer" business you seem to have forgotten (though for some reason you're right on time with the September 27-October 3 range for the first killing frost). That pepper is going to feed me. It needs another couple of days, and it's damn well going to get them.

Plus, it's totally not fair to do that one week of warm weather so my tomatoes get all excitable and bloom again, only to get frozen a couple of days later. They're just plants! Have a heart!

--

Hundred Miles an Hour on the Brand New Road

or

Roasted Tomato and Spinach Salad with Shallot Confit and Balsamic Reduction

serves 2 (as appetizer)

1/4 cup olive oil
4-5 shallots (it should work out to about 1.5 cups when minced)
15-20 smallish tomatoes (the ones I used are called juliets, and are a late-season harvest that look like little romas)
walnut oil
coarse salt
1/2 cup balsamic vinegar
1 Tbsp dark honey (I used buckwheat)
1/4 cup walnuts, coarsely chopped
enough salad greens for two people

1. Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Pour olive oil into a medium skillet and let warm over very low heat while you finely chop the shallots. Add shallots in an even layer.

2. Place tomatoes in a pan, coat with a little walnut oil, and sprinkle with salt. Place in oven.

3. This is the part where you have to keep an eye on things, but aren't really actively involved. Every five minutes or so, make sure the shallots are browning without burning. Every ten minutes, check on and turn tomatoes. Both should take about 45 minutes, so it's the perfect amount of time to watch an episode of your favorite serial TV show or do a load of laundry (or both!)

4. About ten minutes before the shallots and tomatoes are done, add vinegar and honey to a small saucepan. Stirring over medium heat, allow the mixture to reduce by about half.

5. Top salad greens with tomatoes, confit, walnuts, and a drizzle of the reduction. Eat. Die of delight.

ETA: Now with a ( picture I was too lazy to rig a light box for and is therefore a little dark )

I am thinking (hunched here in the internet-favorable corner of my apartment, which happens also to be cold, because for some reason Wisconsin decided to skip summer and fall and go straight from spring to winter again) of starting a food blog.

Mostly because images do not integrate supremely well into LJ, and if I get my birthday/Christmas wish HINT PARENTALS, HINT, I will finally have a nice and not mostly-broken-but-finagleable camera with which to document my cooking successes. This, and the fact that I have committed to going totally vegan at home (that was the compromise that worked). Also that most of my people have moved to the ends of the earth and I will therefore be Bored with a capital B this winter, which translates to cooking a lot.

In semi-related news, I have discovered shallot confit. You are supposed to use it as an accent on things, but I eat it on toast, because Oh. My. God. It is delicious. In the spirit of full disclosure, I eat a lot of accents on toast. Mayonnaise. Balsamic vinegar. Pesto. Tomato sauce. A bit of Earth Balance mixed with a touch of curry paste, which wakes you the hell up but doesn't kill your stomach as long as you drink it with a little soy milk. Mustards. Confits of various sorts. And I chop things and put them on toast on a fairly regular basis. Basically, toast is the perfect palette for any combination of fat and vegetables and seasonings you can come up with.

I'm a little hyper right now, having consumed a bowl of curry and cup of orange juice for my late afternoon meal. Time to clean/do laundry/plan what I need at the farmers' market tomorrow. Whee!

Life rocks. It's freezing cold outside and windy and I haven't run in a few days and the internet only works intermittently (probably because it belongs to a neighbor) in one corner of my apartment, and the cat's been crazy whiny. But life rocks anyway. And even though Kanye's kind of an ass, his music is fun. Sort of like Charlton Heston, except with music instead of movies. And with talking out of turn instead of being into threats involving cold, dead hands. So basically they're nothing alike at all.

Anyway.

I've been writing again. I've been reading again. I've been sleeping through the night, and waking up wanting to get out of bed. I have not been calling in sick to Borders, even though I really really want to. I'm planning out a race schedule for next year, comprising an early-spring 5K (not sure which one), the Monona 20K, the Madison half-marathon, and the Chicago marathon. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that I don't get injured again. I'm also keeping my fingers crossed that I get some good tips the next couple of Saturdays, because I really need a new pair of shoes and a pair of running tights. I can improvise the rest of the gear, at least for a while, but having something to cover my legs when it's 40 degrees and windy is not something I can compromise on.

Time for bed, so I can get up before dawn to get to work by 7 for the SECOND-TO-LAST TIME! Yay!

Today, I discovered several new things.

First, life has no meaning before Cafe Soleil opens. Actually, I've discovered this before, most notably when they changed their opening time from 7 to 7:30. But I rediscover it every time I'm downtown before I can get hot, delicious coffee and croissants fresh from the oven.

Second, the only time to go to the farmers' market is before Cafe Soleil opens. I've sort of discovered this before as well, but it's always a revelation when I haul my ass out of bed and get there around 6. I get the best produce, and have the most interesting conversations with people.

Third, working at Pop Deluxe is highly preferable to working at Borders.

Fourth, I am really quite unbelievably happy. I haven't felt like this in years. I'm beginning to think I might not get depressed this winter, especially if I keep running regularly, which really brought me out of my funk last winter.

Fifth, there is really nothing as beautiful as fresh, ripe produce. Photos of today's bounty are cut below.

( Deliciousness! )

I went to see Michael Pollan speak yesterday. I took a lot of notes, so I'll post a write-up at some point. He was an extremely engaging speaker, and I enjoyed listening to him tremendously. It really reinforced my resolution to go vegan this time around. (It's like how I imagine quitting smoking. I've done it for a week. For two weeks. For six weeks. For a couple months. We'll see how long this goes.)

For dinner, I am planning a sandwich with roasted purple peppers and eggplants (the purple peppers have a name, though it escapes me at the moment), some baked tofu, and the rest of my mustard greens, lightly dressed with a smidge of a vegan lemon-garlic aioli I've been perfecting.

I am one with the eggplant. I've been getting the absolute best eggplants at the market for the past few weeks. They're firm and the darkest purple, lightly seeded, and roast into sweet, spicy rounds that just melt in your mouth.

Hand-in-hand with my newly-resolved veganism, I'm going to try to eat exclusively from the farmers' market. Well, mostly anyway. There are things--chocolate, avocados, olives, etc.--that simply don't grow in Wisconsin. But other than that, I'm going to trust the farmers to give me my food with the turning of the seasons. I'm excited! I'm also thinking about getting a plot in the community gardens next year, since I could jog there from working at Pop Deluxe, do my gardening, and then jog home in the evenings. And I would have much more produce than I get from these bins on the balcony. The bins on the balcony could, in turn, serve as herb planters, since you can shove herbs in pretty close together without any ill effects.

But this is all fairly idle planning, since it's the end of the growing season coming up here soon. Maybe I should try canning some tomatoes for the winter. I mean, people had to get through winters in Wisconsin long before there were readily available trucks from Argentina to keep them in off-season corn.

Okay. I'm done now. Time to wash dishes and wait for my eggplant to emerge from the oven, slightly browned and tender and delicious.

I got the job!

(Well, I got a "training period" after which they will officially offer me the job, but I'm not concerned in the slightest.)

This is fairly awesome.

--

You know what else is fairly awesome?

Just an Old Sweet Song

or

Oven-Roasted Vegetables in a Creamy Pesto Sauce

1 eggplant
1 summer squash
2 bell peppers
1/2 cup water
1/2 cup soy milk
1/3 cup nutritional yeast
1/4 cup pesto
1 Tbsp cornstarch
salt, to taste

1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Slice eggplant into fairly thin rounds. Cut squash in quarters lengthwise and then into inch-long pieces. Seed and slice peppers into inch-wide strips. In a lightly oiled 8X8 Pyrex dish, lay down a layer of eggplant, a layer of pepper slices, another layer of eggplant, and the squash on top.

2. Bake for 35-45 minutes, until the squash has begun to brown and the eggplant is tender. While the veggies are baking, put the rest of the ingredients in a blender and blend briefly.

3. When the vegetables are done, remove the dish from the oven, pour the pesto sauce over it, and return it to the oven for another 2-3 minutes, until the sauce is thickened and bubbly. Serve with grain of choice (I used quinoa.)

Well, I just sliced the shit out of my left middle finger chopping onions for this evening's repast.

On the plus side, I have finally figured out a recipe for vegan "macaroni and cheese" that doesn't require purchase of strange ingredients and/or reconstitution from powder in a box.

Geez, Cheese

or

Vegan Mac 'n Something Cheesy

serves 2

2 cups dry macaroni (or any sort of small pasta, really)
1 Tbsp yellow mustard seeds
1 cipollini onion, minced
1 clove garlic, minced
1/3 cup water
1/2 cup soy milk
1/4 cup nutritional yeast
1 Tbsp tahini
1/2 teaspoon turmeric
1/2 teaspoon paprika
pinch cayenne
salt, to taste
1/2 avocado, finely diced

Notes: Adjust spices to your personal preferences. I like my mac n cheese quite paprika-y, and often rather spicy. If you're not a fan of the texture of mustard seeds in your mac n cheese, you could probably just use mustard powder instead, but I think their taste is really superior. I also know the avocado seems like a strange choice, but this is a comfort food because people are naturally drawn to the smooth, comfortable mouthfeel, and I think the avocado really boosts that without just adding unhealthy fat.

1. Put water on to boil for pasta. In a small pan, saute mustard seeds and onion until translucent (the mustard seeds will probably begin to pop around this same time.) Add garlic, continue to saute until fragrant (1-2 minutes), then remove from heat.

2. Put remaining ingredients in a blender and blend briefly.

3. When pasta is nearly cooked, drain it, reserving about 1/2 cup of the liquid. (This is quite important.)

4. In the pasta pan, combine pasta water with blended sauce, mustard, onion, and garlic, and simmer until pasta is cooked through and sauce is thickened. (The starch in my water was enough to thicken it, but if it's not, you could add a little cornstarch. Or if you don't want to bother with reserving boiling liquids, you could probably just add a couple of teaspoons of cornstarch to the sauce. But I like using the pasta water.

5. Stir in the avocado, serve immediately.

I'd like to be able to run the Chicago marathon next year.

This is not to say that I want to run the Chicago marathon next year. There are way too many variables for me to commit to that. But I would like to be able to do it if I choose. Preferably in under 5 hours.

This means, unfortunately, that I will have to train over the winter. Which in turn means that I need:

-tights
-pants
-a good upper baselayer
-many more pairs of SmartWool socks
-a pair of Yaktrax or something similar
-a good wind-and-water resistant jacket
-sunglasses

Time to start saving! (And they tell you running is a cheap hobby. Well, not if you winter over in Wisconsin!)

In my search for a vegan substitute for yogurt/sour cream, I found quite a few soy-based products that honestly just didn't taste that good.

Then, I discovered SO Delicious Coconut Milk yogurt, and fell in love.

Okay, so it's relatively high in saturated fat. But my diet is otherwise ridiculously low in saturated fat, so I figured a little bit here and there wouldn't kill me. But the best part is that it DOES NOT TASTE LIKE SOYBEANS.

I seriously want to hug whoever came up with this stuff.

--

Otherwise, being mostly vegan with a little cheese on the side has been going well for the last few weeks. I've been eating tons of fruits and vegetables and pita chips. I have a fairly amazing weakness for pita chips. I mean, it's bad. I've been known to eat half a bag in a sitting. This from the person who can't even finish a can of soda (unless it's mixed with something worth finishing...), and who finds it difficult to eat a whole apple. I suppose I could have weird cravings/addictions for much worse things.

Also, I have discovered Italian-sausage style seitan. It tastes nothing like Italian sausage. Its texture is fairly off, when one considers the texture of Italian sausage in comparison.

But once you get over the fact that you're eating something that is nothing like Italian sausage, despite the fetching little dark-haired mascot on the label, it is delicious. It is so good in pasta sauce, in soup, in the thing I made last night where I just chopped up everything in my refrigerator that looked like it was near a turning point and tossed in can of beans and a ton of cilantro and pushed it around a skillet for a while, adding spices until it smelled good.

I spend perhaps a bit much time thinking about/making food. It's so much fun!

--

Went for a run this evening. My lungs hurt. My legs hurt. My back hurts.

My soul sings.

Today rocked. I'm in a fantastic mood. I'm going to go for a run in a moment with my Ben Folds-heavy mix (the one that starts out with Joan Jett, cycles through Boston, Edgar Winter Group, Foreigner [DUN DUN dun dun DUN DUN dun [da dum] DUN DUN dun dun DUN DUN dun [da dum] DUN DUN dun you're as cooooold as ice], then heads over into Justin Timberlake and Kanye territory [we want pre-nup], then hits up some Peter Gabriel for the slow, steady, endurance part [you know your plastic from your cash] and finishes up with Song for the Dumped and three straight Van Halen bits, concluding with Jump, tackiest/best song of all time.)

So yeah. Today rocked. Tomorrow's going to rock as well, I think. And the day after that. Gonna hit up the farmers' market on Saturday to fetch home some basil for a pesto extravaganza, and I have a third of a vegan grasshopper brownie leftover from savoring it for the last few days that I get to eat when I come back, and I'm thrilled that it's cool enough to run in the evenings again. I love running as the sun sets. It's perfect, somehow.

All right. Time to stop talking about it and start doing it.

Go ahead and jump.

This morning, I was first woken by Rhea's cool nose against my shoulder as she curled closer to me in the darkness. Then I went back to sleep, only to be jerked back awake by the sound of jackhammering outside my house. There's a high-pitched sound and a low rumbling, all accented by what it would sound like to live inside a very very large popcorn machine.

Given that this was not the most pleasant way to begin the morning, I cranked up the Wailin' Jennys and started working on breakfast.

Sweet Wild Road Ahead

or

Quinoa for Breakfast!

serves 1

1/4 cup dry quinoa
1/2 cup soy milk
water, as needed
1 small, crisp apple, diced
1/8 cup walnuts, chopped
1 tsp ground cinnamon
1 Tbsp maple syrup

Notes: The best thing about quinoa is that it has a slightly nutty taste and it doesn't get gummy like rice or pasta-y like couscous. So you can add whatever you want to it, sweet or savory, and it's always delicious. Plus, you know, insanely good for you.

1. Simmer quinoa and soy milk together for about 15 minutes. Stir occasionally, adding small amounts water as needed, until fluffy.

2. Add the rest of the ingredients, stir, and enjoy. Preferably outside.

--

Following my delicious breakfast, I tidied up the apartment, found all the balls of cat hair that accumulate in strange places, like under my bed, and read a book of essays on the craft and business of writing. It's a good collection, even if I strongly disagreed with some of the authors.

Then, I made a sandwich for lunch:

So If You're Tired of the Same Old Story

or

Avocado, Bruschetta, and Green Leafy Things Sandwich

For the Bruschetta:

2-3 ripe tomatoes, diced (about 1.5 cups)
1 medium shallot, minced
3 cloves garlic, minced
2 Tbsp olive oil
1/4 cup fresh basil, chiffonaded (or in the winter, about 1.5 Tbsp dried)
salt and white pepper, to taste
a tiny pinch cayenne, if desired.

Notes: There are no hard and fast rules about what goes into a bruschetta. You can add corn, beans, bell peppers, poblanos, parsley, cilantro (although that tends to turn it more pico de gallo)...basically whatever you have lying around. That's the beauty in it. This is just the base recipe.

1. Mix the ingredients. Let sit in the refrigerator for at least 2 hours, preferably overnight. Eat within a day.

For the Sandwich:

2 slices hearty bread, lightly toasted
1/2 avocado, sliced
bruschetta
romaine lettuce, or whatever crunchy greens you have on hand

Notes: If you are like me and often have only spinach, which is delicious but not renowned for its crunchiness, a thinly sliced radish or summer squash does wonders for texture.

1. I think you know how to make a sandwich. Put the stuff between the bread. A touch of Earth Balance or Veganaise never killed anyone, but it has been known to make taste buds dance with delight.

I really like the unintentionally funny title of this article on the Yahoo front page: House rebukes Wilson over "You lie!" outburst. I just keep imagining an irritable Hugh Laurie waving his cane around as Robert Sean Leonard defends his actions. It's a good image.

--

I am thinking about volunteering to cook, clean, and generally help out at a Zen monastery next summer in exchange for room, board, and daily practice. I'd like to study more before I really commit to it, but something about it resonates with me. I'm trying to meditate daily, though that is not always successful, especially on days when I'm stressed or worried. It's been getting easier, though. Well, not really easier. It's been getting more accessible. Some days, it feels like I'm poking my insides, like I'm an infinite number of boxes inside boxes and every breath opens another lid. I don't expect to find something inside. They're just boxes with lids, and I open them because they are there to be opened. Some days, I seriously want to murder whoever invented the idea of sitting still for that long just breathing because I have laundry to do and errands to run and dinner to cook and a cat who has a tendency to crawl into the nest of my folded legs and fall asleep. But then on those days sometimes Rhea starts to snore a little in her sleep, which I still think is the cutest thing ever, and she vibrates almost imperceptibly against me, and there is peace.

Overall, though, it's been interesting. I don't feel irritated or bored or lonely as often. Or perhaps I feel those things and let them pass more readily. I don't cling to irritation or boredom or loneliness as a way to be something. I'm more willing simply to be.

Like on Saturday, an older couple walked out on a check. It was only a glass of wine and a beer, but they had reminded me of my parents, and it was intensely disappointing when they failed to pay. But it didn't make me angry. I kept waiting for it to make me angry, and the anger never came. I could simply accept that it had happened, that I could do nothing about it, and that although it cost me financially, it did not cost me anything personally. And that turned into a beautiful night that might otherwise have been ruined. It was delightful.

I have felt full for days now.

Not food-full, but soul-full, and perhaps even soulful, as if I have found some part of myself that was long missing. I feel graceful in my body for the first time. Perhaps it's because I grew so quickly when I was a child, from a round little kid into a tall curvy woman with a speed that unbalanced me. Perhaps it's because I had to change so quickly from a sheltered student into a fully-functional adult, with taxes to calculate and bills to pay. Or perhaps it's because this is the first time I've been truly free: my parents no longer own me, I have no boyfriend and no desire for one, and I have no friends who drag me into situations I'd rather avoid. I don't drink much, but I enjoy myself when I do. I don't smoke. I don't eat meat (with a few recent exceptions to sample things at Brocach). I've been listening to Ani Difranco's "32 Flavors" over and over.

My friends are exploring the world, moving to exotic and faraway places, going to grad school.

And I have no desire to do these things. I have no need to find myself. Although there are days when I am angry or sad or tired or sick and rail against the world and its capriciousness, I am by and large at peace with the way things are and who I am.

I'm sorry to keep posting about this. I know I sound like a broken record. But it is a new feeling for me, the idea of being simply content: content in the morning to eat my oatmeal with cinnamon and cardamom and diced crisp apples, content in the day to do my work and have it done, content in the afternoons to meet good friends to exchange good words, content in the evenings to sit with my cat and watch the sunsets, squinting to read in the last light of day. My world is whole, and I within it.

Where I'll end up, well I think only God really knows.