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

Things that make me cry

Don't judge me. I've been up since 2:30 am because I fell asleep at 9 pm. I passed out after a long training run for my upcoming race. Physical activity is such a terrible idea.

I've been a big cry baby lately. But sometimes you just need to feel some feelings and let it out.

1. Whenever PBS shows Les Miserables. One Day More. Bring Him Home. Every time.

2. When Mufasa dies. Movie and/or musical. Scar, you are a terrible brother.

3. Cheesy reality tv: including, but not limited to, Extreme Home Makeover episodes, the Biggest Loser, Oprah moments.
4. Danny and Annie
5. Dear Zachary. I've already written about this one. I ugly cried a lot.

27

My birthday soon approaches. I will be 27. I just Googled 27, and this is what came up: 27 Club. Not really the vibe I was going for, but that's ok.

For my birthday this year, I'm crossing off one of the items on the Life List: half marathon before 27. I took it as a sign when I found out that the SF Marathon this year fell on July 31. Shit. This means I have to do it now. Much to my surprise and disbelief, I've enjoyed my training thus far. "Training" consists of crawling up these San Franciscan hills and braving the "summer" winds and cold weather. On the flip side, when you didn't even realize you just ran five miles because you were too busy admiring the views of the Golden Gate Bridge and spectacular vistas, it ain't so bad. And I got a kick-ass fanny pack to hold stuff while I run, so that's pretty awesome. Really, my main goal for this race is that I finish without having tripped on anything or peed myself.

Another year passes and I'm content. I've gained some life lessons learned from a few steps backwards, and I'm thankful. I hope that every few years I have a few steps backwards. And some uphills, and wind.

Dr. LaMorte

I actually had a Professor LaMorte at BU. He's awesome--he just won the Metcalf Award! I have no idea if the recommendation that I wrote last year was a part of the 2011 committee's selection process. But if it was, I'm happy that I contributed my very tiny part to recognize this teacher and mentor. In the 0.02% chance that you'll see this, Dr. LaMorte, hope you're having a great summer sailing and relaxing, and congratulations!

The other Dr. Death: Kevorkian. I'm sure you've read the articles about his recent death. I think it's unfortunate that his advocacy of euthanasia was portrayed in the media as so grotesque. Granted, his attention-seeking antics were obnoxious. However, we euthanize animals to prevent suffering, so why is there such a strong reaction against allowing a person to end their own life?

I believe that the decision to choose the how and when of one's death should be included in the Patient's Bill of Rights. The protection that it outlines now: the right to privacy, prevention of abusive insurance practices--sure, fine. To me it's still fairly useless and un-enforced, and as a result healthcare practices and services have a long way to go. I'm frustrated with the lack of welfare and social protection that I feel a government should enact and enforce on behalf of its population.

What is this preoccupation with preventing death? Is life really worth extending a few years through over-dependence on prescription drugs? Or kept alive in a hospice bed by a machine that breathes for you? As the baby boomer generation approaches old age en masse, we are going to have significant social and economic challenges in the healthcare industry. I don't bring that point up as a reason or justification for radical policies. But I do think there are questions and issues that should be discussed preemptively.

Kevorkian was a pragmatic thinker; his ideas on death should not be labeled as morbid or depraved, but as compassionate and progressive.