That kind of hurt..

During lunch today, I told my coworkers that I don't own (and have never previously owned) a brush. This came up because we have staff portraits scheduled for Wednesday, so I thought maybe I should step it up and get one.

A little while later my nicer-than-nice coworker, Tom, handed me a package:



I just gave it a test run, and ow. When I was little I had a perma-rat's nest on my head because I screamed and cried when someone would try to run a comb through my hair. Eventually my Mom cut it all off because I don't think she cared much for that battle. And then she started perming it as it grew out, and my Dad would call me "Ramen Head." Talk about a tangled hot mess.

Just one day at a time.

NPR: School Debt A Long-Term Burden For Many Graduates

This article stirred up all kinds of thoughts, and I almost fell down the quarter-life-crisis-rambling-thought rabbit hole, again. Lord, I’m tired of this, “what happened to Plan A?” internal strife that I feel every few months. Maybe this is what a parent is, but I feel like every quarter-lifer should be paired up with a mid-lifer so that both people can simultaneously look into the past/future to recognize that, no, you will never “figure it out” because not a single person in the world has a clue what “it” is. (Perhaps with an exception for the Dalai Lama.) Life is not one “it,” yes? There are a lot of “it’s” and we should be so lucky to discover what those are along the way. The more the merrier, I say.

At first I was going to add my lamentations on how my school loan debt is going to prevent me from “reaching my goals” and “moving forward.” But what do those mean? Yes, I will never be able to save for a down payment on the Colonial-style home I dreamt about. And I am very behind on my first-of-five-kids-at-24 schedule. But had I not gone to grad school, I would never have met some of the closest friends that I have now, I wouldn’t have gone to the Philippines to live and work, and I probably wouldn’t have found my way to San Francisco as quickly as I did.

I think this falls back onto my desire to go to therapy, but increasingly I realize that I don’t recognize or haven’t heard my internal voice. And I can’t distinguish what I truly want from what I’ve been nurtured to believe that I should want. But I need that clarity before I can move onto any next phase of life. So instead, I'm going to cherish what I’ve collected from my life path thus far, rather than bemoan where I’ve fallen short on the “supposed to” checklist.

But Ina made it look so good..

I don't know why I felt this was blog-worthy, but something compels me. And since I've already written about bread, why not again?

Last night I stopped by the overpriced grocery store in my neighborhood to pick up a couple of things. Nine dollars later I ended up with three peaches and a package of pumpernickel bread. Heinously overpriced.

What was meant to be a delightful little sandwich of black bread, radish, and butter turned into me choking down my food. Goddamnit, I just spent $6 on this dumb bread and I can’t throw it away. I had to Google it to find out how to disguise it as edible. This girl loves it, apparently.

Who knew that rye bread was so complicated? Of course I manage to buy bread that has no flour, but rather grains that are steamed and not baked. That sounds terrible, doesn’t it? I like to tear my crusty, chewy bread; not catch chunks of it as it crumbles in my hand. But you know, the smell of balsamic vinegar grossed me out, and oysters and I didn’t get along—so you never know. You might find a tray of canapés served atop some Westphalian Pumpernickel at my next cocktail party.

Does this mean I have to change my Blog title?

I still can't afford a therapist, but I've come to a decision that I could (should) see one. My friends, of course, have been the first line of defense against the crazies. In fact, Julia just talked me out of a potential "why did I do that" moment about an hour ago. Oy, how do I even manage to dress myself every morning?

I've always said that my friends are the rational me when I'm overrun by so-called feelings. I hate those. But there comes a time when your friends, who are undoubtedly overrun by their own feelings on occasion, will get sick of your quirky-but-redundant neuroses. Not that anyone has said anything recently, but my friends would probably appreciate the time off while I consult an outsider's perspective. And besides, when a therapist calls bullshit, you can't discount what they say because you never saw them stumble in drunk one night after having peed herself in the cab because she "couldn't hold it in." Not one of my friends, but I assure you that has happened.

Secondly, a therapist obviously has some insight (drugs) and knowledge (drugs) beyond the life experience of your friends. I kid about the drugs. I just want to touch base with a therapist to make sure that I'm conscious of what's going on around and with me, and work on anything that I might be holding onto. In a way it's like my yoga practice. Some days I work out the tension in my body and I feel incredible, and other days I can barely touch my toes. But after an intense and sweaty session, my skin glows the following day and I feel more stable. I still have a long way to go, but it's nice to create a foundation to build onto.

With all that said, I've started a search for a therapist, and so far it's been terrible. I don't know what my insurance covers, the different types of therapy, who/what I would benefit from--those are just a few of the many questions I've come across. There has to be a better way...

This one's a rambler

My neighborhood on weekend mornings boasts a strong showing of puppies and babies. Sadly, both are likely better dressed and/or accessorized than I. (The weekend uniform is usually a pair of leggings, flip flops, a t-shirt, and hair wrangled into a bun. Julia likes to call me out when I recycle the same shirt on Saturday and Sunday). However, luckily my maternal clock hasn't started ticking yet, and although the babies are cute, I don't maniacally desire one.

The dogs are a different situation.

I think my friends dread when they see a dog or puppy walking towards us because they know that I can no longer pay attention to the topic at hand, and my voice simultaneously increases in volume and pitch. The squeaking are cooing can be a bit much, I agree. I am really sorry; I can't stop it. And I try to avoid pointing out every single dog but again, I can't control it. Muttville.org specializes in older dogs, and I fell in love with Charlie ("Charliiuuuuueeeeee!"). I made up a story for my landlord for why I needed to have this guy come live with me, but no dice.

The time for a puppy will come when I move to Chicago. Judson is my official timekeeper. I told him 2 years, and every time I talk to him he reminds me of the countdown. I think we're down to 22 months now. Eeps.

Dear Future Nora,

If you read this years from now and are not in Chicago, I hope you have a good reason. And I hope that reason is that you are in a remote part of the world, working on a public health project. Europe is also an acceptable alternative. I'm going to go with a Scandinavian country. Or hey, maybe you married Jude Law, after all, and now you're in London. That's fine, too.

Man cannot live by bread alone.

Saturday morning, after feasting on a delicious brunch from our friend Caroline's new food truck, Brunch Box, Meena and I popped her Tartine croissant cherry on our way to see the Picasso exhibit at the De Young. On the way there, I declared that I want the man equivalent of a Tartine croissant. Let's call him Henri. Yes! How amazing: after Henri I always enjoy blissful thought-wandering and daydreaming induced by utter indulgence. Now is when you envision a scene from a black and white movie: a bedroom; in the background doors open on a balcony overlooking le Tour Eiffel; a woman in bed; smoke curling from the cigarette in her hand.

But, as irresistible as he is, Henri is also incredibly flakey, soft in the middle, high maintenance, there is always a long line, and the price just went up. He is pretty much the worst of the worst and the last person I would want to date. In a moment of weakness or if I need a boost, sure, why not. Everyone needs a little tune up to make sure everything is still in working condition. But as much as I'd like to indulge, I've had enough Henri's in my day to know that once in awhile is plenty.

Anyway, this started quite the amusing "if you had to pick a bread to represent your ideal man, what would it be?" conversations:

Meena: Corn dog. Meaty inside with a nice firm tan coating.
Catherine: Maybe a twinkie. Nothing you can live on, full of bad things that are delicious, perfect for the occasional indulgence, best when deep fried to golden, brown, and delicious.
Susannah: Pretzel. Tan, firm, and it's diamond-studded. (I voted neg on that one, because that sounds way too Jersey Shore.)
Lillian: Sourdough. Good foundation for sandwiches, tasty, and looks good.
Natalie: Whole wheat sourdough. B/c I like em browner. Sourdough has a little twang to it, a little bit of edge/something different. It can come in many forms: short and squat, or long and tall. But really, I'm pretty equal opportunity as long as you're hot.

Frances: I think it would be this Chinese bread: Hua Juan. It's in layers and rolled up, hence this multidimensional concept, which I want in a guy. And there are bits of spring onion in it, for some kick. And it's rich--can be oily--but also filling, and very satisfying. There are also different variations that can be a teeny bit sweet, like have a hint of sweetness--that's the one thing I would want more of--but the way it's shaped makes me choose it.

Photo on the right.

As for myself, I've reconsidered. I have to go with a multi-grain bread. A little nutty, always fulfilling, you can dress it up--one day for a fancy sandwich, but it doesn't mind slumming it as a PBJ, and reliable.

The worst article ever.

Doctors: Hot Dogs Are as Bad as Cigarettes