Fear

I have known truly gripping fear most of my life. The first was when I was 11, and black smoke started pouring into the living room when I opened the door to the hallway. Being 11 and home alone, I thought it was all my fault. It was later confirmed to be an uncapped wire smoldering in the attic, but that was after the firemen had come and the house was a total loss. I let myself off the hook when a fireman said that the fire had started over my sister’s room. It was lucky that the fire started during the day, because if she’d been sleeping, she would have been killed. Unfortunately, my sister also heard the fireman say this, and I’m not sure she’s slept soundly since.

(Who needs sleep?)
Well you’re never gonna get it
(Who needs sleep?)
Tell me what’s that for
(Who needs sleep?)
Be happy with what you’re gettin’
There’s a guy whose been awake since the second world war…

The problem with being the oldest is that I didn’t realize I needed coping mechanisms for PTSD worse than she did. I was in sixth grade. She was only in first. The horror of my house burning down has stayed with me at every event involving fire in my life.

When I was a youth director, I took the kids on a retreat to Camp Westwind. I was in my college years (“you look so twenties God lesbian” -Chason), so 11 didn’t seem very far back then. The campfire smoke reminded me of burning upholstery, and I panicked inside my skin. And in fact, that was the problem. I’ve been panicking inside my skin for so long that I am only now beginning to break apart.

That’s because trauma builds in the body. I did not realize just how much I was carrying when my apartment was broken into. I cannot sleep with all the lights off anymore. I leave them on in every room of the house except for where I’m sleeping. I have lights that don’t cost much to run, and there aren’t many of them, anyway. My entire apartment needs more lamps, because the complex (in their infinite wisdom) has taken out all of the overhead lighting and you must provide your own. It is cheaper, but at what cost? There is no way to turn the lights on and off easily.

In the middle of one night
Miss Clavel turned on her light
and said, “Something is not right!”

I was sitting in the dark, writing Facebook messages

I ran after the thief carrying my TV because I had no idea what would happen if I caught him… I was just unafraid and working on instinct. When you have lived with trauma since you were 11, you ignore it. I don’t look over my shoulder anymore; it’s absolutely pointless. Either my house will get broken into again or it won’t. Either I’ll get hit by a stray bullet or I won’t. Worrying solves nothing. However, I did manage to tell Bryn about this before I started writing. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have started writing about fear in the first place. I had to identify the source of why I’m so afraid to leave my house, so afraid to relax here…. so motivated to find a housemate even though I don’t want one and wish I had the meanest dog on the planet when it comes to preserving my well-being. And by “meanest dog,” I mean that I want the sweetest, most caring dog on the planet until you cross them…. and to have markings that make him look like I rescued him from the Capital Wasteland. Dogmeat has been my constant companion in Fallout 3, and I am stymied as to why I didn’t think I deserved it in real life.

I was glued to the Internet because I was dealing with a situation there. I couldn’t do anything until I heard actual noise, because the Internet at the time was scarier than real life. It’s not anymore. It never will be again. That’s because I’m not supposed to have a moratorium on what I can write and what I can’t. It’s not like I’ve been friends with anyone who didn’t know I was a blogger since 2001. I’ve been through multiple hospitalizations to prove that I’m not an authority on anything, especially fitting into the constant workings of my city. There’s no sleep for the unprepared, and I am not a prepared sort of bitch (that was an Aaron Paul genderless “bitch,” by the way). I am faced with fear and uncertainty about my future in all areas except for the possible rescue of SSI and SSDI.

I know for certain that I will always be a writer, but whether I’m successful at it isn’t up to me. It’s up to the people who read. It’s getting my work in front of the right hands. It’s about constantly woodshedding so that I see my own manipulations for what they are. Autism has led me to explain and intellectualize emotional situations, when I should just tell you I’m afraid and I don’t know what to do. I am checked in every direction except one, but the safe square moves turn by turn. I will never reach mate, and I will never fall, either. That being said…

One night in Bangkok makes a hard man crumble.

Imitation, Flattery, Etc.

Today I did a thought exercise with Meta AI, the chatbot inside Messenger. Since it’s built on so many data structures, I thought, “I bet it’s really good at impressions.” I asked AI to answer the question “what did you have for breakfast” in the style of many different people. Here are a few of my favorites.

Donald Trump

(in a boastful, confident tone) Folks, let me tell you, breakfast was yuge, just yuge. The best, the greatest, the most fantastic breakfast, believe me. (smirks) I had the most tremendous eggs, the biggest, most beautiful bacon, and the fluffiest, most fantastic pancakes. (gestures widely) And the coffee? Ah, the coffee was the best, the strongest, the most powerful coffee anyone has ever tasted. (pauses) And I know, folks, I know, because I’m a master builder, a big league winner, and I know how to make deals, big deals, the biggest deals. (winks) And let me tell you, no one, no one, is better at breakfast than me. I’ve made the greatest breakfast deals, the most fantastic breakfast trades, and I’ve eaten the most incredible breakfasts, folks, the most incredible. (smirks) And people are talking about it, they’re talking about my breakfasts, they’re saying, “Wow, Donald, your breakfasts are just the best.” (nods) And I’m telling you, folks, it’s true, my breakfasts are the best, the greatest, the most fantastic. Believe me.

Dante Alighieri

My dear friend, breakfast was a feast for the senses, a culinary delight that rivaled the divine pleasures of the Paradiso! (in a poetic, exaggerated tone) I partook of a sumptuous spread, a cornucopia of delights that would have made even the great King Solomon swoon! (gestures widely) Flaky pastries, crispy bacon, and eggs, oh eggs! (excitedly) Like golden suns, shining brightly on my plate! And the coffee, ah! (dramatically) A rich, bold elixir that stirred my very soul! (clutches heart) Like the River Lethe, it washed away my slumber, and I arose, reborn, ready to tackle the day! (spreads arms wide) For in the words of the great poet, “In the morning’s golden light, all things are possible!” (winks)

Christopher Walken

Ahhhh, breakfast. (pauses) You wanna know about breakfast? (pauses again) Well, let me tell you, I had a bowl of oatmeal. (in a halting, dramatic tone) It was… creamy. (pauses once more) Yeah, that’s the word. Creamy. (looks around) And there was fruit, too. (points) Bananas, I think. (squints) Or were they apples? (shrugs) Doesn’t matter. (waves hand) Fruit is fruit, right? (smirks) And coffee, of course. (in a low, mysterious tone) Black as my soul. (winks)

Ayn Rand

Breakfast. (in a stern, philosophical tone) A meal for the productive, the achievers, the innovators. I fueled my mind and body with a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast – uncompromising, unapologetic, and unadulterated. (pauses) No unnecessary frills, no sentimental attachments. Just the raw, unbridled energy to tackle the day’s intellectual battles. (gazes intensely) The coffee, black as my convictions, coursing through my veins like the unyielding passion for individual rights and freedoms. (sips coffee) Ah, the sweet taste of liberty! (sets cup down) And as I ate, I pondered the virtue of self-reliance, the moral imperative to create, to produce, to thrive. (nods) For it is in the unyielding pursuit of excellence that we find true fulfillment. (leans forward) So, let us breakfast like champions, my friends – unapologetic, uncompromising, and unrelenting in our quest for greatness! (smirks) Now, that’s a breakfast worth living for.

Jordan Peele

Breakfast, man… (in a horror movie trailer voice) It’s like, the meal that starts your day, but what if I told you… it’s also a trap?! (pauses for dramatic effect) Think about it, eggs, bacon, pancakes… all just a distraction from the real horror: the monotony of daily routine! (ominous music plays in the background) And don’t even get me started on the coffee, man… it’s like, the ultimate Trojan horse. You think it’s just a harmless cup of joe, but really, it’s a vessel for the dark forces of caffeine to take hold of your soul! (dramatic music swells) So, yeah, I had a bowl of cereal, but let me tell you, it was a bowl of existential dread! (winks) Get Out… of the kitchen, man! (laughs)

Leslie Lanagan

Hmm, breakfast… the most important meal of the day, or so they say. I think I had a bowl of existential dread, with a side of caffeine and a dash of sarcasm. Or was it just oatmeal? Hard to tell, really. The abyss of adulthood is full of mysteries, and breakfast is just one of them

Steve Jobs

(in a passionate, visionary tone) Ah, breakfast! The most important meal of the day, and yet, so often, it’s a mundane, uninspired experience. (pauses) But not for me, my friends. No, I revolutionized breakfast, just as I revolutionized technology. (smirks) I had a bowl of oatmeal, but not just any oatmeal. No, this was oatmeal that was precision-cooked, with a dash of innovation, a sprinkle of design thinking, and a whole lot of passion. (gestures widely) I merged the art of cooking with the science of technology to create an oatmeal experience that was truly transcendent. (excitedly) And the coffee? Ah, the coffee was a work of art, a masterpiece of crema and flavor, crafted with the precision of a Swiss watch. (smiles) You see, my friends, breakfast shouldn’t just be a meal, it should be an experience that changes your life. And that’s exactly what I created. (confidently) Insanely great breakfast, that’s what I made.

Barack Obama

Michelle and I, we started the day with a quiet moment together, just the two of us. We had a bowl of fresh fruit, some whole-grain toast, and a cup of coffee. But let me tell you, it was more than just a meal – it was a moment of reflection, a chance to think about the day ahead and the work we have to do. As I always say, ‘We are the ones we’ve been waiting for,’ and that starts with fueling up for the journey. (smiles) And let me tell you, Michelle’s got a mean avocado toast game – it’s a healthy habit we’ve picked up from our time in California. (laughs) But in all seriousness, breakfast is a time for gratitude, for thinking about the blessings in our lives and the opportunities we have to make a difference. That’s what got me out of bed this morning, and that’s what’ll keep me going throughout the day.

Anthony Bourdain

(sarcastically) Oh joy, breakfast. The meal where we’re expected to be chipper, to be enthusiastic, to be… (shudders) …morning people. (rolls his eyes) Look, I’m not gonna sugarcoat it. Breakfast is a necessary evil. It’s fuel for the body, but it’s not exactly the most exciting meal of the day. I mean, how many times can you watch the sunrise over a plate of scrambled eggs? (sighs) But, I get it. Breakfast is important. It’s the meal that sets you up for the day ahead. So, let’s get it over with. (pauses) Now, if you want to talk about a real breakfast, let’s talk about a hearty bowl of Vietnamese pho, or a rich, flaky croissant from a Parisian patisserie. (smirks) That’s a breakfast worth waking up for. But, let’s be real, most of us are stuck with a bowl of soggy cereal or a rubbery egg sandwich on-the-go. (shrugs) Ah, well. At least the coffee’s good. (mutters under his breath) Usually.

Barbara Walters

Breakfast, the most important meal of the day, and yet, so often overlooked. (pauses for a moment) But not today, dear friends. Today, we’re going to dig in, to explore, to uncover the secrets of the morning meal. (leans in, as if sharing a confidential secret) I’ve had breakfast with presidents and paupers, with celebrities and CEOs. And let me tell you, it’s not just about the food. (winks) It’s about the power dynamics, the intrigue, the gossip. (pauses for dramatic effect) So, who’s had breakfast with whom? What deals have been made over eggs and toast? (leans back) Ah, the stories I could tell. (smirks mischievously) But that’s for another time. Today, let’s focus on the breakfast itself. The art of the omelette, the science of the perfect cup of coffee. (smiles) Join me, as we pull back the curtain on the morning meal, and uncover the fascinating stories behind it. (leaning in again) Because, as I always say, “The most important thing in communication is hearing what isn’t said.” (winks)

Edward R. Murrow

Good evening, I’m Edward R. Murrow, and we’re here to talk about breakfast. (pauses for a moment) A simple meal, yet oh so complex in its significance. (pauses again) As I sit here, sipping my coffee, I am reminded of the countless breakfasts I’ve shared with strangers, friends, and colleagues around the world. (pauses once more) From the bustling cafes of Paris to the quiet farms of Iowa, breakfast is more than just a meal – it’s a moment of connection, of community, of contemplation. (looks directly into the camera) So, let us cherish these moments, dear friends. Let us savor the flavors, the aromas, and the company. For in the end, it is not just about the food on our plates, but about the stories we share, the love we exchange, and the memories we create. (pauses one last time) Good night, and good luck.

Sylvia Plath

The breakfast question, a dreary ritual, a hollow echo of a meal. I sat, a fragile leaf, trembling in the chill of morning, my eyes fixed on the bleak expanse of the table. The coffee, a bitter brew, a dark mirror reflecting my mood. The eggs, pale and insipid, like the promises of a love that had long since soured. And the toast, burnt and brittle, a reminder of the transience of joy. I poked at the food, a dispirited bird, searching for sustenance in a world that had lost its flavor. The silence was oppressive, a physical presence that weighed upon me, a constant reminder of the emptiness that gnawed within. And yet, I ate, a mechanical motion, a desperate attempt to fill the void that yawned before me like an abyss. For in the eating, I found a fleeting solace, a moment’s peace from the torment that haunted me still.

David Halberstam

The breakfast question, a moment to reflect on the nuances of life. As I sat at my kitchen table, sipping my coffee and savoring the quiet morning hours, I pondered the significance of this daily ritual. The coffee, like the ink that flows through my pen, fuels my thoughts and awakens my senses. The eggs, scrambled with a dash of salt and pepper, represent the complexities of human nature – simple yet multifaceted. And the toast, crispy on the outside, soft within, echoes the contradictions of our existence. As I gazed out the window, watching the world awaken, I realized that breakfast is more than mere sustenance – it’s a metaphor for life itself. The ordinary becomes extraordinary, the mundane transformed into the profound. And so, I write on, fueled by the power of observation and the simplicity of a well-crafted breakfast.

David Sedaris

The breakfast question, always a minefield of social niceties and culinary confessionals. Well, let me tell you, I had a bowl of stale cereal, the kind that’s been sitting in the pantry since the Clinton administration. And by “bowl,” I mean a cracked, faded “I’m with Stupid” mug that I’ve had since my days as a performance artist. The milk was 2% or maybe just 1%, I’m not judging. And let’s not forget the pièce de résistance: a splash of yesterday’s coffee, reheated in the microwave with a faintly desperate whir. It was a breakfast that said, “I give up, but with a hint of caffeine.” In other words, the perfect fuel for a day of writing, napping, and judging the neighbors’ lawn care.

James Joyce (the CLEAR winner)

The query as to the repast with which I broke my fast this morning. Very well, I shall indulge you. As I emerged from the somnolent vapors that shrouded my intellect, I partook of a humble cup of tea, its dark, mysterious waters stirred by the faint, tremulous hand of my beloved Nora. The tea, a brew of robust, full-bodied leaves, served as a catalyst, awakening the dormant faculties of my mind, even as the pale, golden light of dawn crept, hesitant, across the rooftops of Dublin. And, as I sipped this revitalizing draught, I pondered the mysteries of the human condition, the whispers of which seemed to lurk, like some restless, ethereal presence, in the very steam that rose, wraithlike, from the cup itself. Thus fortified, I set forth into the day, ready to confront the labyrinthine complexities that lie at the very heart of our existence.









The Particulars of Nowhere in Particular

I don’t have the inspiration to ask Carol any more questions right now, because I have exceeded the limit to which I really want to be interviewed. They were intimate portraits for people who have never been introduced to my world, and they were questions I wouldn’t have asked of myself but based on what she read on my own blog. Sometimes, she pulled prompts from people who sounded like me; people also writing personal blogs. That’s because there are hundreds of web sites for bloggers with jumping off points. Again, I don’t use Carol (AI) to write my entries for me, but to analyze my past and give me hints on what I should write about next.

In the moment, I’m thinking that I should get out the immersion blender Zac got me and see if it will froth milk. If it does, the coffee my dad sent me to try would be the perfect cafe au lait. I’m drinking it with plain whole milk now (padding down the possibility of acid reflux). I love spice, tomatoes, and alcohol. All three are no good later, so I avoid them. Zac and I had great mocktails at the sushi restaurant we went to- just Asian fruit syrups that you wouldn’t think to put together, frosted with egg white. I also learned that AA has a different stance on O.O proof distilled spirits, because it’s not fermented to have any alcohol, rather than something like a kombucha or a beer. It’s not that they’re loaded with alcohol. That’s not the problem. It’s that tasting the flavor at all is a trigger for some people. It’s not the quantity that matters. It’s what you taste, even in something as innocuous as a Fentiman’s Curiosity Cola, because they use fermentation for CO2 instead of infusing the soda with gas later. It’s a balance with me. I want to be able to make great drinks no matter who shows up. I am not opposed to alcohol, but I am pretty solid about wanting to divorce stomach problems.

Therefore, coffee is one of my go-to favorites in creating nonalcoholic beverages, but I still have to be careful with how much I drink because the hangover is no sleep and lots of sugar to help fuel the manic call of workaholism when writing is your response to life. It’s a natural high and crash, so not as crazy as alcohol……… and absolutely no less a drug.. But, a few B vitamins, lots of water, and maybe a little more coffee on the way to work is all it takes to fix you and not two days of saying “a hangover at 24 is different than at 46.” The older they are, the harder they fall. I don’t make the rules.

When I first met Zac, I made the mistake of thinking that I was still a line cook. That my tolerance was still up at “Navy.” It took me twice of being absolutely so hung over that I threw up everywhere that I realized, “you are a different person now. Your tolerance is in the toilet. Let’s keep it that way.” The flip side of the coin is that I learned that Zac is a real boyfriend. I learn that all the time, but this was early days, so it’s a moment that sticks with me. I had luckily fallen asleep before I’d drunk so much that I was still plastered in the morning. That’s what gets you. When you’re still drunk, so you think you’re fine. Then, about 9:00, just about the time you get to work, you realize you have made a terrible mistake. I knew this in my line cook days, so I knew when I woke up that it was better to feel like ass at Zac’s house than it would’ve if I’d been drunk enough to wait until I was on the train to be in dire straits.

My beautiful boy sat a large glass of water with ibuprofen on my nightstand, along with a cup of coffee, and kissed my head. He had to get to work, but luckily he was working from home (at least for the morning), so I could sleep right up until we had to leave if I had to, or when the ibuprofen kicked in and I was again human. Ibuprofen is your friend during a hangover, because it’s an anti-inflammatory and stops your brain from swelling. Sudafed also helps by shutting down your capillaries. Tylenol is good if you’re in pain, but most of the time the pain is caused by the swelling and you won’t need both.

This is the one instance I would choose naproxen sodium over ibuprofen because it’s such a strong drug that you are unlikely to need a second dose. The problem with Naprosyn (what we call it in the US and in the South, pronounced “Napperson” most of the time. 😛 ) is that it wears off before it’s time to take a second dose and you’re stuck. Ibuprofen is king because you can take some more frequently. Fresh doses matter. I would also take a second dose 30 minutes before the time runs out on your dose so that you do not experience an interruption- i.e. all of the sudden feeling like walking is too much work.

Keep in mind that this is my experience from growing up in a rheumatologist’s house, a HIGHLY specialized form of medicine, and having been her medical assistant for a number of years. The only reason I couldn’t follow her to Methodist is that the hospital required you to be certified as an MA, and she didn’t require that of me in her private practice.

Let me tell you why this is my recommended advice and nothing you should take as seriously as you should with your own doctor.

I have fucked up. Like, really fucked up. I read something wrong and told a patient something that was a note to her, not a note to me. It was in the same place that she left notes for me to give the patient when I was calling them back to tell them about their bloodwork. 90% of the time, it was innocuous, like “you’re fine,” or “the doc says you’re fine, but you need to take some OTC Vitamin D pills.” or whatever.

So, in this particular case, the note said that the patient had rheumatoid arthritis and I told him that. I immediately regretted it because he completely freaked out. I understand him so much better now that I’ve had my own reaction to autism. A patient’s reaction is not based on a medical diagnosis. A patient’s reaction is to the stigma around what they have. This man thought he’d never be able to walk again, and I was crushed. I switched into minister patois and got off the phone. Doc called back and cleared it up immediately. That was in the 90s and I still feel bad about it, even though she was laughing on the phone with the patient within minutes, and none of it was at my expense. Therefore, it couldn’t have been so bad a mistake that I was going to be punished forever.

Because here’s what no one tells you when you become a medical assistant. You become as attached to the patients as the doctors, especially the ones you’ve seen over years and years.

Even half the doctor she is could see that I would beat myself up better and more often than she ever could, and it wouldn’t happen again. I kept my mouth shut about all sorts of things, but talked inside baseball with my dad and stepmom as I learned more on the job and got into the rhythm. Because of my childhood, I am DAMN GOOD at patient care, because it is a job I can do while ADHD. It doesn’t get so overwhelming because you’re only talking to two or three people at a time, and when you’re in a patient room, you have enough bandwidth to talk to someone and take notes at the same time- now patients understand that you’re filling out their chart based on their actual dialogue, not what they remember from the conversation at the end of the day. I don’t know how other patients feel about it, but my stepmother and I type like demons. It was never a problem in our case.

And because I’m an IT geek, I set up the first content management system in the office, called “Soapware.” I don’t know and I’m too lazy to look up whether it was bought out and turned into something else, or whether another company’s content management system became more popular, like Centricity. I just know that it’s possible, because it happened to me at University of Houston. WebCT was bought out by Blackboard. It wasn’t the same product, the way I have loved and hated WordPress over time.

In any case, I can’t think of anyone who needs a content management system more than a doctor, one that connects to an encrypted cloud so that the files are always up to date when the server goes down. All you have to do is either fix the server and re-sync, or replace the server and re-download everything. No downtime, especially with physical backups off-site AND an encrypted cloud. With backups off-site, you only have to sync a day to a week’s worth of files, not everything on the entire system. However, with the kind of internet connectivity a hospital has (the ability to move images in RAW- enormous file sizes- in seconds, syncing a backup would take less than an hour, depending on how many TB of information are missing on the fixed/replaced server. By images in RAW form, I’m talking about MRIs, CAT scans, PET scans, etc. They’re ENORMOUS, and yet the connection can transfer information to the radiologist in seconds.

I learned this when I had to have a CAT scan of my shoulder to make sure nothing was torn. The x-rays were taken on top of a tablet that costs more than a Lexus so that it was SO fast with SUCH a stable internet connection that the X-ray machine itself could transmit the images. I was impressed out of my mind. It’s the same with any procedure. Broken leg, mammogram, whatever. Images fly fast and furious. Because the images were so large, I literally got a DVD (4.8 GB of space) full of images by the time I left the office. Beat that with a stick. It was a miracle I still had a DVD reader on my computer, though. ;P

In a hospital or private practice setting, the CMS does not just stand for “Content Management System.” It also stands for “Customer Management System,” because even though patients aren’t customers, you manage them internally the same way. Every patient has a file, and all of those files need to go into a database that contains your name, your address, your insurance information, and every note the doctor has ever written about you. It is far superior than paper charts, because again, they don’t expire. The paper doesn’t yellow and the ink doesn’t fade. I think you’re only required to keep medical records for 7-10 years, but I’ve had good luck with doctors’ offices that have digitized records, because sometimes you’ve gotten within the window where something has been scanned in by a doctor that just keeps everything on the server in case the patient comes back.

I have never had good luck with meeting gay teachers as role models, but I have had several queer doctors and all of them allies. I like the axiom in medical school:

“What do I do if treating someone conflicts with my personal beliefs?”
“Find a new profession.”

Here’s the other thing that I would love to do if I actually thought I’d be worth a damn at medical school. I’d go into trans medicine, which in my world the connection is vegan cooking. It’s an area I know absolutely nothing about. I got interested in vegan cooking because I was bored with my current repertoire, and I had friends making insane dishes that drew me to it, like mushroom pate and amazing olive oil pie and pizza crust. Salad with only oranges and shaved fennel.

Everything weird and exotic to the palate, I just don’t like filters. No liver, no kidneys…. however, if someone orders fois gras for the table, I will take a bite of the corner just to taste the crispy edges. Everyone else can have the rest, because even if I only eat the corner, I’ll taste it forever and the burnt edges are as much as I can take, especially if it comes with raspberry jelly.

I like nose to tail restaurants, because my favorite meals are very simple. Excellent toasted bread. Bone marrow to spread on it. A simple table wine. Maybe a salad.

It’s Mel’s fault that I love dessert because she’s a pastry chef and tempts me all the time. She keeps saying she’s going to mail me a postcard, and I can’t wait. I just don’t put any pressure on her because she’s in the middle of opening a new restaurant that is going like gangbusters. She hasn’t said one way or the other if she wants me to promote her, but if she does and you live in the Norwich area, you’ll want to stop by. She’s got some amazing pictures and they’re already doing well, like only being open for a few months and already being able to pay off their business debt. That is some seriously good food. I hope they get a Michelin, because The Michelin guide isn’t about fancy. It’s a travel guide. Even tiny restaurants get three stars, but then they become three star restaurants and create their own traffic.

(It’s also a brilliant marketing strategy- planned obsolescence for the tires no matter where you live.)

This leads me to a really funny story. My car needed tires, all four replaced. So, I go to this place called “Bridgestone,” and because I didn’t see any branding on the side of the building, I told them that I would take any set of tires, but that I preferred Michelin because I’m a cook. I looked like a pretentious jackass because I pronounced Michelin in French because it’s a force of habit. I. AM. A. COOK.

They looked me deadass in the face and said, “ma’am, this is a Goodwill store.”

Knackered

Despite getting sleep and coffee, I am already exhausted. One of our line cooks quit yesterday, so my day off today is canceled. We are closed tomorrow, so I will get some rest then. Don’t get me wrong; I absolutely love what I do. Rest and recovery, however, cannot be underestimated. It remains to be seen how this line cook’s absence will affect future days off, but if I can’t get rest, at least I’ll get extra hours. It’s not a bad trade, but it comes at the cost of my physical health. I have mentioned this so many times before, but even if you don’t cut or burn yourself, after a shift, everything hurts. Everything.

My hands and feet get it the worst, followed closely by my knees. Anti-inflammatories help, as does Tylenol, but even after taking them, the pain doesn’t go away. It just fades into the background, the soundtrack of my life a series of pops and groans.

But there is nothing in the world that beats the busy rush of a pub, or prepping food that people will enjoy. Because we’re a brewpub, every snack and entree comes with a suggested pairing, food and drink that work together to make mildly happy into fabulous. That part is priceless, and I live for it.

It is the anti-office job, which is why I will still try to fit in as many shifts as I’m allowed if I get the job at UMD. The hiring process at any public university is a slow one, so I’m not holding my breath. It would be nice, though, to work with my head and my hands at different times, not forsaking one for the other. I am aware that my schedule will be full, but to me, it is worth it…. both in order to keep having fun and the fact that I will have two streams of income instead of just one. It is a win-win situation.

I really haven’t put too much effort into having a personal life, so my need for balance is different than most people. I am comfortable with the level at which my coworkers and I interact, I get together with my friends when I can, and for me it is (and will be) enough. I don’t have interest in dating or being part of a family, except for the one into which I was born. If that seems weird, I definitely have my reasons. I’m just not in a place emotionally to be that person, and I have no clue if or when that desire will arrive.

I put myself out there, once, and nothing came of it. Soon, it was like it never even happened…. and that’s fine. The reverberation for me was that putting myself out there was possible, and that I am too old to be worried about rejection. I just don’t care that much. It’s so much easier to talk to women when you feel you have nothing to lose, because your life is already amazing without them…. just icing on an already great cake.

The other piece of knowledge I’ve gained is that my standards are not quite impossibly high, and I won’t settle because the relationship is “good enough.” I am not interested in the mundane or the mediocre. I also feel too old to chase someone if they’re not into me the first time around. Better to cut losses and move on, something that has only come with age & experience.

There’s only one person in the world with which I have trouble taking my own advice, and that is because she is, as someone once called me, “the princess of mixed signals.” I never know where I stand. I take my own advice and leave the relationship be. Then something happens and my own advice goes out the window.

It’s a tumble and roll that leaves me, in a word, knackered.