Some
times it seems like Susan knows more about what's going
on in my city than I do. She linked
up this action.
I saw it again
at SFist detailed rather clearly here.
Sigh.
Culture
jamming. I love it. Fast food. I hate it. I just have one question. Could
the point have been made without taking a shot
at fat kids? And. When a fat kid gets harassed at school
today will you feel any responsibility?
The
other night I had the television on with the sound muted
because I do that when the commercials are on.
But I looked up and noticed this guy trying to open a
bag of some kind of junk cereal and he was clearly unable.
I wondered where they were going. Was it an ad for a
gym, or a weight loss gimmick? The guy opens the bag
with one big rip and the cereal spills out and falls
all over the floor. It was a commercial for a fast food
place and their breakfast sandwich.
We
have a culture that needs some jamming.
And.
Can the point be made without making fun of fat kids?
Or fat adults? Are there thin and average sized people
who eat fast food?
I
wouldn't even argue with the idea that people are fatter
because of fast food. I'm in full support of people
raising awareness about how bad the food is and how
bad the food is for you. But the truth is that people
of all sizes eat that food. I remember during the presidential
campaign there was a lot of talk about the terrible
eating habits of the candidates.
A typical day of eating for Democratic presidential candidate John
Edwards while on the campaign: Breakfast, a McDonald's "Deluxe Big
Breakfast" platter with two hot cakes, scrambled eggs, sausage and a
biscuit. Lunch, a McDonald's cheeseburger. Later, a McDonald's chicken
sandwich and some cookies. And lots of Diet Cokes — about 10 cans —
throughout the day.
What's
my point? Bodies are complex systems with lots of genetic
and environmental causes in terms of what goes right
or what goes wrong. So rip on the big corporate food
mills. But don't add to the hate that is already heaped
on fat people. Especially the kids.
My
neighbor and I were having a conversation about Mark
Felt and whether or not it mattered that we know
who he was. I'm not sure it matters. But I like that
we are reminded the press doesn't always need to be a
mouth piece for the administration. The public
conversation about Felt was about whether or not what
he did was the right thing to do. Expose criminal activity
in the highest office in the country? Seems like a good
thing to me. I keep waiting for the brave people that
will do it now. Felt is a problematic hero. He had his
own illegal
activity to expose and did not.
In
SF the (now former) PR director for the 49ers did a
twenty minute training tape for the team filled with
sexism, racism and homophobia, which was defended as
something
done for the team and never intended to be seen
by the public. So then it's OK to be racist, sexist
and homophobic as long as no one knows? Criminal activity
is OK if it's the president, or the head of the FBI?
There's
a time and place for everything. We all need a place
to say things out loud that might not be popular. And. Some
things should never be funny.
The
same day all this was news we got the news of hate
crimes in Santa Clara reminding me of a
documentry I watched awhile ago. That joke that
isn't really funny between friends is part of something
larger and it isn't good.
But
we are human, aren't we? We need to make mistakes out
loud. It's part of the process. And if we make our mistakes
in the halls of powere we need people who are willing
to call us into the light of day.
When
you write something in a place that may (or may not)
be read by people, everything you see gets put in the
possible-post box. Like when I'm walking in the neighborhood
and see a television, or a part of a computer left on
the corner. It wouldn't occur to me to leave something
like that on the street. But I often have things I think
someone, somewhere might be able to use and don't know
what to do with them. Things that aren't good enough
for Goodwill.
Like
my dead APC.
Actually, mine is older than the one in the picture.
It's big. Heavy. It's possible that I can get it charged
but I'm not sure. Other wise it's landfill?
There
was this big
conference in SF last week. Lots of buzz but most
people agree that these things aren't much unless they
are followed by action. And, as long as the governor
drives a Hummer and the mayor drives a SUV it's hard
to listen to them talk about global warming. Gore
was here.
And
here am I with a big hunk of junk. The kind that my
neighbors leave on the curb. Really. It happens all
the time around here. I had a friend who used to leave
stuff out because of that hope that someone would need
it and find it. Mine just sits in my back room waiting
for me to figure something out.
I
kept thinking there was a post in all of that. Something
more snappy than this one.
I
watched The
Five Obstructions the other day. I may have enjoyed
more than I might have at another time. I've been working
on a piece of writing with a specific word count
and it's making me crazy. Although I do love the act
of really working on a piece of writing. It might be
my favorite thing to do. Dealing with limitation is
good. And frustrating.
On
some political talk show somewhere I heard blogger writing being
disparaged. It's all opinion. No guarantee of fact.
In a world where magazines are chastised for not having
the facts only to have what they reported vindicated,
the notion of fact seems hopelessly lost.
I
am part of the chattering mass. Walking through the
neighborhood. Being confused by abandoned electronics,
environmental implications and the need to write and
have that writing be ... ya know...good enough.
We
really live in interesting political times. I tend
to be depressed about it all but yesterday when the
news came about the medical marijuana ruling it was
quickly followed by reassurances
that it was unlikely there would be any big raids.
The
federal government says one thing. The state says another.
Cities say something else. People use a drug and authorities
turn a blind eye. Thankfully. People have wedding ceremonies
and still live in limbo. We're in the middle of something
dynamic. I remember a
time when I was happy that states rights were over
ruled and now I'm happy that we have the hope of being
a state in which the federal government has less power.
Curiouser
and curiouser.
I
do tend to focus on the worst of what's happening but
last night I was watching a film about people from Texas
and Nebraska sending flowers to city hall in my town
and it felt like hope. It won't take much to get me
back into doom and gloom so I'm going to ride in this
hope bubble for as long as I can.
Heh.
Paul
posted the WONDERFUL news about a
victory in the fat revolution on the new and beautiful
BFB. It isn't all good news. It seems the guy who
won the suit had the evil surgery. But it is good news.
Michigan is the only state where weight is protected
from discrimination. SF is one of four cities. (I think
it's four. Possibly more.)
I've
been reading blogs. Because it's either that or look
for a job, or an agent and I don't wanna do either.
Dale
has tagged me with a meme. I'd rather be tagged
because I'm too real and close to the bone to do a meme
but I'm OK with just being a curiosity. (I'm just playin
with ya, don't get shook!)
Total
number of books that I own?
Lots.
But not enough.
(Does
anyone really know the exact number?)
The
Last Book I Bought.
Well
this is a good story. I think.
I
was in the east bay the other day, too close to one
of my favorite book
stores. I am really not doing well financially and
really CAN NOT buy anything that isn't essential for
life. And books do count as essential but I have some
that haven't read and I've been catching up on old magazines
and ...sigh ...I just CAN NOT rationalize the expense.
But
I was SO close. Right across the street. I was almost
in tears. And then I remembered I had a card in my wallet
with a twenty dollar fee books from Diesel. I got it
after numerous indulgences there.
Well.
I just about telaported across the street. It was dangerous
to even walk in because I get so tempted. So I bought
All
Over Creation because it was one of the first things
I saw and it was only fourteen dollars. I also got the
newest Believer
and only went over by three dollars. Which, for me,
was amazing. I don't remember where I heard about her
but I have been wanting to read something from her.
Centering
It's a book I read years ago. I mean YEARS. It was one
of those books that changed the way I saw the world.
although my attempts at pottery were thunky.
White
Collar Written by the other man I wish I could marry.
The first being Agee. And yes. I do know that they are
both dead. So?
Years
ago I bought a box set of yoga tapes. I went looking
for them on the
site and it seems they don't make them anymore.
I didn't like them much. It's hard to do yoga with a
remote in your hand. And then I met Sally
and learned enough to practice on my own. Since Barbara
healed my back I've been practicing pretty much every
day and every day I'm a wee bit stronger.
It's
helpful to have a teacher. I am not now and never have
been a person who lives in my body. I live in my head.
It's one of those abstract things that people in therapy
say but I feel it. Like this morning when I realized
that I was cold and had been for awhile. It was hot
last week and I started wearing these
spaghetti strap shirts. I woke up this morning and
got dressed in the same stuff I was wearing yesterday.
(And the day before that if the truth be told.) I ate breakfast
and yoga and did this and that. I had opened the window
and seen that it was rainy and cold but I just didn't
connect that with what I was wearing. I was sitting
at the computer writing an e-mail and shivering. I do
have a warmer
shirt on now. I just don't pay attention.
I
used to feel bad about that. Being in my head was a
bad thing. But I like my head. Interesting thinking
often happens in there. It's just the way I am.
My
body is more and more demanding. My body will tell me
when I'm not taking care of it. In no uncertain terms.
The days of abuse are over. Now it's all about taking
the time to eat good food and do some kind of exercise.
I like it. But I also begrudge it from time to time.
My
yoga practice is troubled by tendency to be in my head.
I don't hold the poses long enough. So I pulled out
the old videos. And now they are helpful. I am
reminded of subtle differences in the pose and when
to breathe and there are some poses I forgot.
Hours
at the pool are limited and structured so I can
only get in twice a week for about forty five minutes.
Yesterday they were closed because of a problem with
the filtering system. I was so sad. The yoga/swim combo
really pulls me into my body. And I like it there.
My
first reaction to Dale's
post was wanting the rest of the story. He wrote
it so well. I went back today to see if there is was
more and read through the comments. It was Rana's comment
that brought up a more personal reaction.
I am SO feeling this post right now. I'm not _exactly_ a child of
privilege, but I do feel like a child when it comes to earning a
living, like I'm always waiting for some lucky something to happen yet
also knowing that I can't depend on that. I too doubt my ability to
make a living; what a strange thing, now that I think about it. Putting
it like that makes it seem like anything not earning money is not
really living. What a dangerous thought.
Rana's
been dealing with unemployment
as well and her doubt about her ability to do so, as
with Dale's feelings about the same thing brought up
a storm in my already cloudy mind.
I
got some money when I was twenty as a result of having
been hit by truck. Not a lot but it got me to California
and then to Colorado and I do seem to be happier in
the west than I ever was in the east. My first jobs
were in restaurants and, except for some time working
in a camper trailer factory (aka hell) that's been the
way I've made a living in the world. Oh, I read tarot
cards and babysat and sold small amount of illegal substances
and watched people breath but the only was I ever really
was able to keep the bills paid was to cook. And I liked
it for the most part.
Now
my knees are shot and I can't do the hours on my feet
that I did all my life. There's a character in Love
who cooks while sitting on a stool. I was in Chef
Paul's kitchen in the NYC restaurant and saw him
in his electric chair. He's very cute. I might be able
to do that in my own place but it's unlikely anyone
would hire me to work like that. And, it would be frustrating
for me.
But
before I did all the work I had all those fears about
being able to work. Somehow I became convinced that
I wasn't someone who knew how to work. My life at the
stove gave me a wonky esteem. I knew that I could work
as hard and as long as anyone. The harder the work,
the longer the hours, the better I felt about myself.
It seems like a bad platform on which to build esteem.
And it has proven to be.
The
big push to get the BA and the MFA was my attempt to
be someone who could make a living with my brain and
not my brawn. But I never unseated that voice in my
own head. The one that believed I was lucky to have
anyone hire me, ever. Right now I feel erased in the
world of the employed.
I
know people who drag themselves to jobs that they don't
love might think I'm lucky right now. I don't feel lucky.
I feel erased.
Some
time ago a friend of mine said she didn't want to be
my friend anymore because it was just too much of a
drag to deal with what was going on (or not going on)
in my life. I'm paraphrasing but that was the jist.
It shocked me because she's a pretty smart woman and
I didn't expect it from her. I was hurt. And mad. And
it changed how much I talked about my life to anyone.
Or how much I wrote about it. It confirmed something
I've always feared. As long as I'm happy and productive
I will get love and support.
Intellectually
I don't buy into that but emotionally I get stuck in
it. I remember when I was twenty and people would ask
me what I did. I was recovering from having been hit
by a truck. It wasn't very interesting. I wanted to
be a singer and eventually I did have a band. But I
never really made any money. I got paid. Then I paid
the band. Recently I heard from a
man who played guitar in my band for awhile. Brought
it all back.
So
I did these things. I cooked. I sang. I did them. I
ought to be able to figure out how to do the next thing.
And in the meantime I ought not feel so worthless.
This
is why I love the personal web. Because two people who
I've never met had the courage to write about their
lives. Now I am thinking about my own and trying to
be open. If the only thing I can do is tell the truth
about how it feels then maybe that's enough. For now.
I'm
not sure why I decided to watch Into
The West. It didn't seem like something I'd be interested
in. I was sort of half watching and I got sucked in.
The story begins with parallel tales of a young Indian
boy who tries to understand the prophesy of an elder
and young man in Virginia who longs for adventure. Because
it is a made for TV drama these two meet up by the end
of the first episode.
The
show opens with a map of the country in which Indian
territory is more than half of the country and Mexico
reaches way up and covers California. Every once in
awhile I have a conversation with someone about immigration
in this state in which Mexicans are the people sneaking
in and I always feel the need to say something about
how this was Mexico not that long ago. On the web site
there's a flash map that you can look through and see
how the country changed, specifically in terms of the
Indian nations.
There's
more than one story about why people came from Europe
to this country and there's more than one reason why
some of them pushed west. Some of the stories are about
need. Some are about desire. I just don't understand
how people get the deeply rooted sense of entitlement
about the land they stand upon. Is it because of the
struggle they go through to get there?
I
had some distant relative who came to SF years ago but
for the most part I was the one in my family who moved
west and stayed. And, really, I often wish I lived in
Europe. It's people like me who wander around and never
quite feel at home.
Today
the senate apologizes for failing
to outlaw lynching. Apologies are good. And a trial
in Mississippi
begins. I don't know. I'm not sure how we make up
for all we've done in our individual lives or in our
national identities. But. Yeah. Apologies are good.
Also today the G8 did some debt cancelation. We must
be in some zone of good will.
I've
been increasingly interested in history. Always trying
to understand how we got where we are. A mini series
isn't the place to get your history. But there are stories
of individual lives wound together in subtle ways. Something
about that always draws me in.
I
had a great big post written about a thread that's gotten
some blog buzz lately. But I deleted it. I think Dru
summed it up with her new phrase: It's
not about the pie fight, stupid.
I
listened to the news conference about the anti lynching
apology legislation on CPSAN yesterday. The grandson
of Ida B. Wells was there. A 91 year old
man who had survived a lynching attempt was there. It
was moving and it is a good thing. I kept thinking about
James
Byrd.
My
deleted post was too rambling. As I am wont to be. Too
many things woven together.
One
of the things I loved about blogging, or maybe I should
say hoped for from blogging, was the potential for conversation.
But it's hard to negotiate. I've left comments, checked
back to see if there was a response, given up, gone
back a day later and the conversation has morphed. I
had the same problem with message boards.
My
mind is all over the place today. I'm having trouble
focusing. But here's a conversation I'd like to have.
Is a photo of a naked person always exploitation? Are
pictures of naked women always sexist? When are they
not? If you see a photo and feel attraction does that
mean you are objectifying? Are there some photos of
people that are not at all attractive? Is is it possible
to view an image as art and not have a response about
the humanity of the person? And what does it mean about
the viewer? These
photos (via BFB)
have me thinking. And I would like to have a conversation
about them. Conversations often happen in the blog world.
I'm wondering if this one will get any traction.
For
about twenty minutes last night we were being told there
was a tsunami
warning. I live on the bay side of the city. I just
wondered how full the bay would get and if I'd be able
to dive into it from my back step.
Exploitation
is one of those words. You can exploit something for
good. In some ways a photo of anything is an exploitation
of it. A photo is a frame around something. A setting
apart. It can be just an observation but it's unlikely
that there isn't some intent in the act of taking a
photo. A photo of someone is a portrait and even in
those Sears family photos there is something being communicated.
One of my friends and favorite photographers took a
series of photos of naked people all sitting on the same chair.
It was a mediation on diversity.
Are
pictures of naked women always sexist?
No.
When are they
not?
When
they aren't taken with intent of creating an ideal of
beauty specifically for the male gaze. Men are
oppressed by that as well.
If you see a photo and feel attraction does that
mean you are objectifying?
Maybe.
Sometimes. I think you can objectify people who you
love. We all do it. We do it to kids. Sometimes a person
is only what they mean to you. It's good to know that
because then you can snap out of it. We objectify ourselves
every time we look into the mirror and measure who we
are against an ideal.
Are there some photos of
people that are not at all attractive?
This
was oblique and lacking syntax. I think there are photos
that aim to make people look unattractive and there
is some bad photography.
Is is it possible
to view an image as art and not have a response about
the humanity of the person?
I
don't see how. I guess when you are numbed by cookie
cutter imagery it is. If I'm in line at the grocery store and
I see a rack of magazines with women on the cover they
do all look the same to me. And it is hard to remember
that they are human. That's a problem.
And what does it mean about
the viewer?
What
does what mean about the viewer? Oh. Yeah.
I
always go back the same
book about photography. Maybe I should read something
else.
Every time I look at a photo of anything
I try to stay awake. Because looking at photos of horror
can have the same effect that looking at the magazines
on the rack. The man with a hood on his head and outstretched
arms, electrodes attached to his hands has no name.
He is an icon. But he does have a name and a family
and a life that has to go on and see his photo in magazines.
Remember the falling
man?
Richard
Drew has never done that. Although he has preserved the jacket
patterned with Kennedy's blood, he has never not taken a picture, never
averted his eye. He works for the Associated Press. He is a journalist.
It is not up to him to reject the images that fill his frame, because
one never knows when history is made until one makes it. It is not even
up to him to distinguish if a body is alive or dead, because the camera
makes no such distinctions, and he is in the business of shooting
bodies, as all photographers are, unless they are Ansel Adams. Indeed,
he was shooting bodies on the morning of September 11, 2001.
What
must it take to never avert your eyes?
These
photos (via BFB)
have always troubled me. I've met the photographer.
She is active in the fat political community. She testified
at the board
of supervisors meeting when I did. I think she has
good intentions. I also think she is making a name for
herself and money with the photos and that's OK. People
should make money with their art. But. Ya know.
Exploitation is exploitation.
Photo
of a woman in her kitchen. Nothing too intense about
that is there? I guess the focus on women of size feels
like it's trying to say something but I'm not sure what.
I feel the same way about these.
Is it about the clothes?
Or not?
I'm glad these pictures are out there but I'm always
a little confused by them. If something is couched as
art it takes on a distance. I've seen very real and
very cruel reactions to photos
that weren't taken with the intent of being fat positive,
or negative.
There
is that whole eye of the beholder thing. And there is
the training of the eye. My sense was that my desire
for a conversation about it was gonna fall flat because
people who love me (or even just like me a lot) might
not want to tell the truth about how they felt about
the photos. Maybe my questions weren't stimulating or
clear. But those photos stir up a storm of thought for
me every time I look at them and I always want to talk
about it.
I've
been tying to turn off all the noise for some time every
day. Or at least listen to music instead of news and
public policy. Especially when I do yoga. But yesterday
I had to listen to the Downing
Street hearing. But it did not disturb me. It made
me almost giddy.
The
information was disturbing but not new to me. I was
giddy thinking that it might be the first event in an
impeachment process. I understand that it would take
awhile but I am just hoping it happens.
I
listened to it again on CPSAN
and then the
announcement of the call for a plan to withdraw
from Iraq. And can I just say that my
choice for president was part of that. It felt like
yesterday was a beginning.
I've
been having trouble getting the After
Downing Street site to load. Which is a drag. It's
almost pointless to write to my representative.
She's on the bus for some stuff. I did write though.
And I wrote to Ms
Boxer. If there is anything
I can do to push for impeachment I'm gonna do it.
And I'm going to believe in the possibility until there
is no reason left to believe.
My
speakers have been messed up for awhile now. Sometimes
they work and sometimes they don't . Sometimes movement
of the desk gets them to come on. For example, I have
a desk drawer that sticks. I opened it one day with
the usual tug and the speakers came on. Other times
they just seem to come slowly back and they work for
day or sometime two and then they're gone.
While
I was on Abdul-Walid's blog I read some other posts
and put part of one
on the side because it says something Renee and I talked
about once. There is that writing that makes you shiver.
Words that you don't know, or never remember to use.
Sentences that are so perfect you have to stop and hold
them.
It
was only a few months ago that I read Nabokov. Kristina
sent me a lovely
book full after I read Reading
Lolita. I always thought the subject matter in Lolita
would be too hard to bear and it was difficult. But
the writing carried me through. I'm actually quite fond
of Library
of America books. I got a good amount of Nabokov.
Enough to fall in love.
But
in comments someone writes that they refuse to read
something that is badly written, which makes me a little
sad. I often read bad writing. Sometimes if it's too
bad I can't get through it but lots of times the writing
is in service to something other than the craft. Sometimes
I am interested in what the book is about.
I
picked up The Schopenhauer
Cure because I had enjoyed When Nietzsche Wept years
ago. The writing gets the job done but it doesn't make
you shiver. It does make you feel as if you've just
had a wonderful conversation about psychotherapy, philosophy
and group dynamic. The kind of conversation I so love.
Right now I'm reading All
Over Creation. The writing is really good. Maybe
not in the shiver category, but close. And it's a conversation
on politics, food and family. Full of complexity.
Maybe
my favorite sentence in the Abdul Walid post is: Is a surge of irritation what you feel when you encounter a needless adjective?
I'm
not really in argument with anything from the post.
I'm, no doubt, less carnal than many in how I perceive
the world. I can be happy with ideas swirling, ungrounded,
never concluding. But I appreciate a good body rush
now and again.
I've
been working on something that I think will be published.
We'll see. I haven't really worked on writing for awhile.
It felt great. Rewriting is my favorite part of writing
and I rewrote the piece about fifty times. It is hard
for me to stop picking at writing once I start.
I
think that shiver-when-you-read-it writing comes from
some place in a person who loves language and thinks
about how to say something. Some place hard to charecterize.
I don't think you can get
to it by work. I think it just comes. If I'm reading
and writing and not paralyzed with fear about money
and life I sometimes say something good.
Heh.
David
used to say, "You're on the page." Best
compliment ever.
I
have this overwhelming and profound loneliness today.
It's probably because it's Father's Day. That's my guess.
It's my complex history with the idea of father, having
never actually had one. Well, of course I had one. A
charmer. A cad. A boy who lost his own father too young
and was raised by three adoring women who gave him everything
and required nothing. He never learned how to be a father.
Or a husband. So he was my object of desire and may
always be. I met him when I was eleven. Or twelve. I
can't remember exactly. If you added together all the
time that I spent with him it wouldn't add up to a year.
When he died I couldn't imagine I had any grief left
in me. It seems like I do.
If the woman married when she was thin, had kids, became obese, and
then had the surgery, the marriage almost always got a lot better,” he
explains. (An estimated 75 percent of all bariatric patients are
female.) “But if the woman married someone while she was obese and then
became pretty . . . well, then she found a job. Got her colors done.
Felt better about herself. And almost every one of those marriages
ended in divorce.”
What
is that about?
I'm
just deep in it today. All of my fear. It'll pass.
The
problem with having a birthday right in the middle of
the year is that I do a critical assessment of my
life every six months. On the first of the year and
then today. I'm trying not to go there today.
Willa
found this fun birthday
calculator. I was born on a Saturday, which I knew.
And I'm an 8.
Which I knew. I think I'm really bad at being an eight.
My birth stone is an Alexandrite. It also listed pearl,
opal and moonstone. I remember reading pearl before.
I like Alexandrite better. My birth tree is a fig tree, which
I did not know and love.
I
usually make a special birthday page but I'm not feeling
it today. It feels like Monday.
When
I wrote the
post yesterday I meant to add that I know I am loved.
I am always deeply grateful for the people who love
me. I never doubt that. Well almost never. Only when
I'm in a complete zone. The loneliness I feel has been
with me for as long as I can remember. It just is what
it is.
So
I don't know what I'm going to do today. I'm going make
some eggs. I'm going to do some yoga. And. Then. We'll
see.
I
wrote my post, ate my eggs, took a shower, got dressed,
did some not particularly focused yoga, talked with
Kristina on the phone and then had no idea what
to do next.
When
in doubt, read.
I
was close to the end of the
book. It is one of those books that you want to
finish because you want to know what happens but you
don't want to finish because you don't want to stop
reading it. I was at a place in which the father is
on his death bed and his daughter is trying to connect
after having been estranged for most of her adult life.
Last
year when my aunt called to say that the doctors thought
Dad would be gone before the morning I wanted to go
and be there. I'm not sure why. It wasn't like there
was anything I could have seen, or heard from him and
there wasn't anything I could say to him. Despite his
absence when I was growing up, once I met him I always
called on father's day and holidays. We had about as
good of a relationship as we were gonna have. I didn't
have the money to go and no one was offering to buy
me a ticket. I sat here and wept for the next five days
until they called to say he was gone. As I was reading
the book I started to cry again.
And
then the buzzer buzzed. It was Renee! Renee with some
roses and a big smile. I knew she was back from school
but I hadn't heard from her. She took me to
lunch and then we came home there was a huge bouquet
of amazing flowers from Adrienne waiting at the door.
Renee made us coffee and we talked. Just as she
was leaving the phone rang. It was Deb. She wanted to
bring me something.
Deb
caramelizes macadamia nuts and then rolls them in cocoa
powder. They are SO good. She brought me a bag full
and some bosenberry jam. She had picked the berries
and made the jam. We talked for awhile and made a plan
to go to dinner on a day when she hadn't been working.
The
phone kept ringing. I talked to so many of the people
I love. I'll be going to dinner with Adrienne tonight
and brunch with K3 on Sunday. Jeane is coming for a
visit in July and so is Jane. Alexandra is taking me
out for a martini next week. I got lots of great e-cards
and thank you for all the comments. (I sent everyone
a thank you who left a comment. I have this fear that
people don't get the e-mail I send.)
My
friends are the balm for every wound.
And
then I finished the book. It has a wonderful ending.
