Boardwalk Thoughts

My favorite DJ started off his show this morning with "4th of July, Asbury Park (Sandy)." I was going to mention that it's from the original album, but then I realized that's because I have so many bootleg copies of it from various concerts that I don't think of the original as the only one that most people are likely to have. It's a lovely way to start the day.

Last night I played two of the games that one plays right after moving. One is "That Doesn't Go There," which is what one discovers as one moves things around in the space, trying to find the right home for those things. The other is "Where Did I Put That?" You can figure out what that one entails. Eventually the two games cancel each other out--you figure out where everything belongs, and you remember where that is. I have not reached that balance, however.

Headbangers' Ball

That's what's going on in my apartment right now, sort of. I had this portable CD player--a nice one--that I'd purchased about six months before I got the iPod. It's been sitting around, idle, ever since the Pod came along. Brad happened to mention the other day that he needs a CD player for his kitchen at home, so I told him he could have the portable. He'll need to wire it to speakers or something, but I'm sure he can figure that out. He wanted to know how much I wanted in exchange, and I didn't really want anything--I haven't used it in more than two years, and I'm just happy it has a new home. But I could tell he wasn't entirely comfortable with that--he offered lunch (a Philly cheesesteak, from the one place in the city where that menu item bears some resemblance to the cheesesteaks I've known and loved), and I said okay. Later yesterday, though, I said, "I know what I want: lunch, and a mix CD of your favorite music." I know he likes a lot of headbanging stuff, and there's no way I'd ever go buy any of that, but I thought it would be interesting to hear a fan's favorites. He brought it in today, and I have it on now--unfortunately, he neglected to label the tracks, so I have no idea to what I'm listening. ("Let the bodies hit the floor" is the current refrain; it's apparently from a band called Drowning Pool, or so Google tells me.) I think my request completely surprised him, and kind of pleased him as well.

I've kind of stalled with regard to getting things set up around the abode. I got a new phone system, and I'll probably set that up tonight, and I managed to make chicken stock and freeze it, but I haven't wired up the DVD player (I need a Y connector and an RF modulator), I haven't hung any pictures, I haven't found a home for two of the big plants, I haven't found a home for one of the green racks, and I haven't sorted the pile of crap that's on the chair next to the desk. None of these is insurmountable or even difficult; I just haven't gotten around to any of it. I even got out of work early-ish today (and yesterday, for that matter)--I can't tell whether I'm not working hard enough (i.e., finding other things to do) or whether I'm just being efficient. Rather than making all of the croissants myself, we've been running the almond and chocolate ones down the make-up line, which means that it takes about five or six of us about a half hour to make upwards of 350 croissants. I try to be organized about it so it takes minimal amounts of other people's time, and, since we're closed on Tuesday and there won't be any farmers' markets that day, I have fewer to prepare for the next four days. I'm going to work on Sunday, though, mostly because I can't afford a day off and partly because not working on Sunday will make next week's production more problematic, even with the advance stuff I'm getting done this week.

Okay; time to get at least one thing done around here.

The Beast

I have come to believe that one of the biggest problems many people face is facing down the Beast of Unworthiness. It has taken me a long time to recognize the Beast, because my Beast is kind of a lower-case, not-really-much-of-anything version. This thinking has been sparked in part by an article in the NYTimes magazine a few weeks ago that talked about genetic protective factors that come into play--or don't--with people who experienced abuse as children. That is, why is it that some people who experience abuse as children survive just fine, and others don't? The researchers have found genetic as well as environmental factors (what a surprise). In short, some people are more resilient than others--perhaps they had mentors, which would be an environmental factor, and/or perhaps they have some of these genetic protections. I've come to believe that I got extremely lucky in that lottery. That is, I have and had people who support(ed) me, especially when I was a kid; I wouldn't be surprised to discover that I have the genetic protective factors going for me; and, although I've had at least my share of troubles as an adult, I didn't have any of the troubles--sexual or physical abuse, for example, or an addicted parent, for another example--that seem to me to feed the Beast.

The Beast of Unworthiness is ravenous, and it will consume you. The Beast makes you think there's a substitute for the first thing you need and the thing you really need most, which is love and compassion for yourself. The Beast makes you think you can substitute your love for someone, or someone's love for you, for the love you need to experience for yourself. The Beast regards love for oneself as its enemy, and rightly so. Some people learn to love drugs and alcohol, thanks to the Beast. If/when they get sober, if they're not careful, they begin to search for love from someone else, in a succession of relationships that never quite answer the needs that the Beast creates. The Beast also makes you self-centered, because the Beast only cares about the Beast. The Beast is relentless, the Beast always wants more. The only way to kill the Beast is to learn to love yourself, to accept yourself--and thereby be able to love, and accept love from, others. And if you don't do that, the Beast will wreck every relationship you're in. Why? Because the Beast will convince you that no one can, or should, love you, and you will believe the Beast, because that's what you've always done.

I think we all have our moments of self-doubt and/or depression--I've had my share of both. But even my depression, long-lasting (maybe four years?) and tenacious as it was, seemed to me, even at the time, to be circumstantial. I was deeply in debt for a degree I wasn't going to get to use and that had taken me seven years to get; I was unemployed; I was being forced to change careers; my mentor had died; I was broke; I had no partner, and many of my close friends had moved away. Anyone who wasn't depressed in those circumstances wasn't paying attention, was my thought about it. Even then, I didn't attribute my circumstances to total unworthiness on my part: I figured a lot of it was plain old bad luck. A LOT of bad luck, all piled in one place, perhaps, but bad luck nevertheless. On the other hand, in part because of that experience, I have more experience in reinventing myself than just about anyone I know, and I also have a lot of experience in cobbling together an assortment of jobs and resources and friends and whatever, which also stands me in good stead. My point is that the Beast doesn't really live in me, and I can't tell you how lucky that makes me feel. I try to share what I have, as best I can--what else can I do? it's one of those resources that only increases if you give it away.

Speaking of cobbling together resources, my current plan, now that I've moved, is to start accumulating enough work on the side to build a cash reserve--and in the past 24 hours, three different people have offered me the possibility of freelance writing, editing, or proofreading work. I'll have to balance things carefully, of course, and I want SOME time to myself, but I work fast, so it could work out. Cross your fingers for me.

"And in the middle of investigation, I break down"

Think how we learn to use the expressions "Now I know how to go on," "Now I can go on" and others; in what family of language games we learn their use.

We can also imagine the case where nothing at all occurred in B's mind except that he suddenly said "Now I know how to go on"--perhaps with a feeling of relief; and that he did in fact go on working out the series without using the formula. And in this case too we should say--in certain circumstances--that he did know how to go on.
--Ludwig Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations, section 179

Unlike B, however, I have no clue how to go on. Knowing that would mean knowing, first, the situation in which one has found oneself, and, second, at least some of the options for what one would do next, given that situation; it's often helpful to have some idea how one got into the particular situation, as well, as it often gives clues. So things are fragmented in the Goldman household. I do the "next things" that are obvious to me--go to work, unpack boxes, throw away garbage. I make lists of things I have yet to do (get a working goddamned land line, which would enable me to buzz people into my apartment for example, or make a phone call on something other than a cell phone; get parking permits for guests, because parking is restricted on many of the streets in the neighborhood; buy groceries so I can cook something; sort through the Big Wad of Paper; hang pictures). I participate in entertainments and amusements of various sorts with friends (and enjoy them). All of this can occupy a fair amount of time. But then I look at the calendar and I remember what I was doing a year ago: preparing to go out to dinner with Dave, his family, and my family, would be the correct description.

I look around me, and I wonder how the hell I got here. I can identify each step, I can elaborate and enumerate to beat the band, but the steps do not add up in any way that makes sense to me. Dave says--and I know he means--that he would do anything to have me back, but I don't have a clue where "back" would be at this point. Back to what? And, please understand, that is not a criticism of Dave, but, rather, of me.

I wanted to put that picture before him, and his acceptance of the picture consists in his now being inclined to regard a given case differently: that is, to compare it with this rather than that set of pictures.
Philosophical Investigations, section 144

Here's the thing: very little that has happened in the past six months came completely out of the blue. There were precursors, or similar things, or whatever, over the seven and a half years we've known each other. Even some things that seem to have changed in the past month or so have, in some ways, mostly been reinterpreted. The reinterpretation is pretty dramatic, mind you, but it's not a big surprise, if that makes any sense (and I'm being intentionally vague, because a lot of it isn't my information).

Given the precursors, then, I increasingly feel that I should have acted differently--years ago. Those of you who remember Dave's post from a few months ago might be saying, "But, but, but, what about that stuff he did and said!" And, yes, you're right, but every relationship has two people in it. I'm neither stupid, nor naive, nor willfully ignorant.

I suppose if I could come up with some kind of useful analogy it would help--something about straws and camels' backs, or about ropes breaking would seem obvious, but they do not feel right to me. It's more like seeing the same situation through different pairs of glasses, each of which filters the scene in a different way. All (or most of) the information is there, no matter which glasses you wear, but your view of the information really differs dramatically. Not a good one, I suppose, but the best I can do now.

In any case, all the analogies in the world don't help me sort through this for more than a few minutes at a time. I think I have some clarity about this or that thing, this or that aspect (just to continue the Wittgensteinian theme, for those of you who've read him), but I cannot get all of the pieces to fit together. It's like trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle, except the pieces in front of you are from more than one puzzle, and you don't have a complete version of any of the puzzles. There--there's your analogy for the night. Meanwhile, I've committed myself to hooking up electronica, and/or sorting papers, because sitting here having a pity party will not help.

Random Notes

My forearm has turned an interesting shade of purplish-brown, but the pain is actually more in the joints (wrist, shoulder, a little in the hand), probably from the wrenching.

I did not go to yoga tonight (as readers of the last post already know), and I sorely/surely need to do that one of these damn days. It's not entirely clear yet whether I'll be able to carve out a space for yoga in the living room, but I think I will. (There's more room in the bedroom, but also carpeting, which doesn't mix well with yoga mats.)

I actually have an even better lake view from my bed than I did in the last apartment! It's not head-on, given that the bed can't be opposite the window, given the closets that are there, but it's really pretty amazing.

The apartment only has one ceiling fan, in the dining area, and there is practically no cross-ventilation, so more fans are going to be required. I may be able to make do with the one other fan I have.

Casualties of the move so far: one crystal glass and one really beautiful dish from an old friend. Two of the three movers were kind of dicks--they were determined that the move was going to last as long as possible/estimated, and it took them longer to unload the truck than it did to load it, which is ridiculous.

My hallway looks like a Home for Abandoned and Neglected Boxes. A friend with a house has offered to take them all away and store the ones that are reusable (which is nearly all of them). Most of the boxes came from someone who works at the aquarium and are hence labeled "Instant Ocean," i.e., they once held salt. This means they're sturdy and a really useful size for about 85% of the things that need packing. The source of the boxes also had a bunch of bigger boxes, many of which had been used at least once or twice before she used them. It worked out well; I didn't buy a single box. Several rolls of packing tape, but no boxes.

This apartment has so much closet space that (a) I can stash a bunch of boxes that once lived under my bed, plus a bunch of boxes with which I'm not ready to deal, plus some other stuff, and (b) I can put all of my clothes out (rather than only the summer or the winter ones), and--get this--there's still room left over. I've never lived anywhere that had this much closet space. It's kind of surprising, actually, because the building was built in 1927 (the previous place was built in 1931, but was a hotel; it's not clear whether this had a life as a hotel, but I wouldn't be surprised), and old buildings (and houses) are notorious for the lack of closet space. People didn't have as much shit, plain and simple.

Okay; I've had pizza, cookies, ice cream (Fossil Fuel), and wine, so it's time for bed.

Boxes, Boxes Everywhere, and They're Mostly Empty

Can I get a woo-hoo!

Because I'm nearly almost done with the unpacking. I have a big pile of papers through which to sort (and I mean BIG fucking pile), I have about six boxes of books that will remain packed until I figure out where to put the other bookcase and how to configure the rest of the furniture, I have not hung any pictures, I have not wired the electronica (except the television), and I have not done things like hang a hook on the bathroom door or hang the iron and ironing board, but it looks better than it did even a few hours ago, and, consequently, I feel better as well. To celebrate, I'm going to have the last slice of leftover pizza and crack open the bottle of wine in the fridge--then I'll probably make my iced tea for tomorrow and go to bed, so it's not like dancing in the streets will occur or anything. Now if I could only get a land line so my cell phone bill isn't astronomical.

And speaking of astronomical, happy solstice, everyone.

1-2-3 Contact

We have internets! And cable TV, presumably, though that's still untested. I also have four MILLION boxes of shit (yes, I know, that's what moving entails), but they are largely sorted into their proper rooms, about 85% of the kitchen is in place, and I'm rummaging around trying to find room for everything else. Although it LOOKS like I have a lot of room, and, relative to many of the teensy Easy-Bake Oven size kitchens I saw, I DO have a lot of room, but I like to cook and bake, as we all know, and I have the tools to do it, so finding places for everything, plus the food, is really a challenge.

Meanwhile, the phone guy has shown up . . . and there's a Problem (some kind of short on my line). We'll see if he can solve it without it costing me a bunch more money.

Update: Of COURSE it's going to cost a bunch of money--minimum $150. What a pain in the ass.

also also wik: Except the building people said they'd take care of it, seeing as how the problem is somewhere between the box and my apartment, so maybe it won't cost $150 after all.

In other news, I'm nowhere near done unpacking, but I've made significant progress and I'm just going to keep hacking away at it for as late as I can stand it.

Lucky

In addition to that being the name of the dog we had when I was a kid, I'm feeling lucky right now, even though my arm is in pretty severe pain. I was stupid--I had my arm in the bowl of the 40-quart mixer, scooping streusel out, before the paddle had completely stopped, and I wasn't paying attention, and the paddle crushed my arm between it and the bowl. I had lowered the bowl about halfway, so it smushed (and really badly bruised) my arm, but didn't break it. I got through work, but it hurts--and I'm still feeling lucky. (Okay, REALLY lucky would have been not getting my arm smushed at all, but, given a smushing, one that doesn't break anything is really preferable.) Yesterday I whacked myself in the temple with a full sheet pan and crushed my index finger between a wheel and a heavy rack, and the skin on my heels is cracking and sore (thanks to Krazy Glue for Skin, I can seal up the cracks, more or less), so I've kind of taken a beating the last couple of days. I have some last-minute things to do, but they're just not going to get done tonight, I can tell. J is coming over tomorrow when she gets up, and other volunteers are coming over a little later ("later" given how early J usually gets up, anyway; she's the only person, other than my mother, whom I can call at 6:15 am and not worry about waking), and I'm going to enlist them to move the electronica, the plants, and a couple of boxes I don't want the movers to move. I'll probably clean here, as best I'm able, while waiting for the movers, and I have to get the crap out of the freezers and refrigerator.

Mostly, I'm tired. Yes, there's pain of various sorts, but that makes me tired, too. I have no idea whether I'll actually get back my internet connection by Monday--the cable people (and the phone people) are theoretically coming in the morning, but who knows how that will work out--so this may be the last dispatch for a few days. And I'm going to have to start paying for that shit, to the tune of nearly $100/month (it's free in this building).

Blah, blah, blah; yes, of course there's all kinds of psychological bullshit going on, but I think it's better if it stays in my head, where I can ignore it properly.

Cookies and Wine

I'd intended to have popcorn and wine, but never got around to making the popcorn (there's a little left I wanted to get rid of, and I haven't packed the popcorn maker yet--though I realized on the way home I didn't have anything sufficiently large into which to pop the corn). And I packed all the glasses, so I'm drinking the wine from a Pyrex measuring cup. Classy joint I got here, I know. I did call a moratorium on moving-related crap tonight; I'll finish up tomorrow and Saturday night and Sunday morning.

Meanwhile, I'm winning over my coworkers. For Artie (the Whistler), I put the little ends of the cinnamon-raisin croissants to be baked; they can't be sold because they're too small, and they can't be reused, because of the raisins and cinnamon, so I just have them baked anyway and either the store staff can use them as samples or someone scarfs them down. I discovered that Artie likes them, so I try to bake one each night for him and hope the night guys don't grab it. Phil helped me with the chocolate croissants again today--and when he went to put some sun-dried-tomato-garlic-rosemary-whatever rolls to cool, he came back with one for me, because usually when he takes them out of the oven he knows I snag a couple. Johnnie came into the main part of the bakery (from the cake room, where he mostly works these days) and yelled "Goooooaaaaaaalllll!" today, mostly to entertain me; when Brad's not around, he comes in and calls out for "the professor," which is what he calls Brad when he's not around, and he does it even more, now that he knows it cracks me up. I've also been asking Artie and Phil about the scores for the World Cup games to which they're listening, which means I'm learning the names of countries in Spanish.

And Brad made a corny joke first thing this morning, and when I didn't respond, he said, "Not today?" And I said, "Not today," and he left it at that. (A couple of weeks ago he made some dumb joke after I had a particular trying night with Dave, and I just said to Brad, "I'm really sorry, but I am just not in the mood for that today. It's nothing to do with you, but just don't." And he saw I was serious and let me be, which I completely appreciated.) Mostly I've tried to win them over by (a) getting my work done without keeping them from getting their work done, and (b) lending a hand if I'm standing around between tasks--helping Phil with some bread dough, putting parchment on sheet pans or sprinkles on cookies for Artie, helping Johnnie with something. And I nearly always ask Brad if he needs anything else before I leave--he usually doesn't, but sometimes he does, and it goes a long way toward keeping him happy. I figured out recently that he's actually in his early or mid-twenties, so I suspect he's still trying to figure out the authority thing, which is made more difficult by Jefe's lack of support.

None of this will advance me in any appreciable way, but it helps me figure out how to get along in a new environment, and it makes the working environment that much more pleasant. It's also interesting to try to do this across a language barrier--it means the usual conversations aren't an option. I still need to learn Spanish, though.

Leaking

Today, dear readers, is not a Good Day. It was going fine at work (GOOOOOOOAAAAAAALLLLLLLLL!), and then I came home. I fired off an email, and then . . . I fell apart. i've been doing that periodically for about four hours now, and I'm really fucking tired of it. I pack some shit, and then I find, oh, how about the baseball salt and pepper shakers that Dave saw once while killing time waiting for a repair and got for me because he knows I love baseball? (They came with a barbecue fork and something, with handles shaped like bats; I packed those on Sunday.) Or how about the napkin holder he made in Boy Scouts, of his eight-year-old (or so) hands? Or how about the emptiness of the cabinets in the kitchen? Or how about the boxes piled in the rooms we once shared, the boxes we've packed separately, making sure our stuff isn't intermingled any more? I'm just really, really sad; my face keeps leaking all over the damned place. I realized that yoga wasn't really an option tonight--there's a limit to what I'm willing to display. (I realize that I'm putting it out here for you guys, but that is so not the same thing.) I'm sad for Dave, too, because I know he's aching every bit as much as I am.

In less depressing/ed commentary, I found one of my pedometers while I was packing desk shit (my smoking cessation friend gave me a couple), and I threw it in my pocket today to see what would happen. By the time I got home from work, I'd logged over 12,000 steps, and I probably added a bunch more packing boxes.

I keep thinking I'm nearly done packing--and I am, really, all things considered--and then I see a little pile of something I haven't dealt with yet. I'd hoped to have it all done tonight, every last bit, but I think that's not going to happen. I think I'm going to make some dinner (finish the last of the broccoli) and have a glass of wine and go to bed. The crap will still be here tomorrow.

Not the strangest thing I've ever eaten,

but close. A week or so ago I put the tortillas in the freezer, because one of them was moldy and I thought I could save the rest of them. Lo and behold, they were ALL moldy, which meant I had to concoct something else to eat the black beans with. So: black beans (the Moosewood recipe with sweet potatos in it), some mango-passion fruit something from pastry school (a base for a souffle, maybe?), a little ginger ale mix, and, voila, a weird pasta sauce. I had a little chunk of ricotta salata to crumble over it, and there you go: dinner. I managed to get rid of or nearly get rid of three things, so, hey, I get an extra cookie for that one.

It occurs to me that I should clarify something from my last post: the friend who has joined the chorus at least part way is someone who knows me extremely well, who wants me to be happy, and who is worried about me (because she knows about the shit I've gone through as well as the shit that's coming down now). I WANT her to give me her honest opinion, and I know she will, and that's worth more to me than anything else. And, really, I think it's smart to continue considering all of my options as well as all of the aspects of my reality that are apparent or relevant at any given time. She also agrees that I can't make any of these decisions yet: I have to move, and unpack, for two things.

Work has been grueling lately. I don't say this to complain--I think it's educational, as a matter of fact. One of the things I'm figuring out is that Jefe would rather pay overtime than do the organizational things necessary to apportion work differently or have it done differently. I think part of it is that he doesn't like conflict, so, for example, he's unwilling to back up Brad and get Whistler to clean up after himself better. Another annoyance factor has been the World Cup, of all things. It's on the radio, constantly and loudly, and in Spanish; this morning we were treated to more of the Spanish music that sounds like someone's strangling a cat (it's probably the Hispanic version of Easy Listening or something). I am getting me a radio for my corner of the bakery (or, rather, the corner I use most often).

Feh

I'm inching ever closer--so close that my typing is echoing slightly in this room. Today I arranged for local phone, cable, and internet services, and changed the address on my long-distance and cell services. I packed more boxes. I picked up the keys to the new place. I did a couple of loads of laundry, and then packed nearly every bit of clothing except my chef clothes, some underwear, a pair of jeans, and a couple of t-shirts. Right now, I'm running the dishwasher, and then I'm going to pack all the rest of the dishes except a cereal bowl and spoon; this isn't just to get the dishes packed, it's also so the kitchen will be empty and therefore cleanable. We have to take down a few more things from the walls, remove some anchors, and do some spackling, too, but I don't think that'll be too much of a problem. All of this means I didn't really get a day off this weekend, and I won't next weekend, either. Originally I was bummed that the 4th is on a Tuesday, because the bakery is closed, which means I have an unpaid holiday, and I can't really afford that. Now, though, three days off in a row sounds like heaven. Of course, there's every possibility I'll need to work on the 3rd, so we'll see.

One of my friends is joining the chorus (led by my mother) urging me to Get A Different Job, specifically, one that enables me to support myself and has benefits attached to it, even if it has nothing at all to do with baking or pastry. (Of course, that's made more complicated by the fact that the whole impetus for the career change was that I couldn't find a different job--I couldn't even get an interview for two jobs for which I was perfect, and it's worth pointing out that they probably paid significantly less than the job I had, so it's not as if I was holding out for some fab big-money job.) On top of that, Dave wants to know what my long term plans are, not least because he wants to know how long he has to help support me. Some days I think things will be okay--that I'll pick up enough money on the side, that Dave will willingly give me at least some of what I gave him over the past seven and a half years, that I'll figure out what the next step is and I'll be able to afford to take it and it'll be the right thing. Some days I listen to the chorus and think I should find A Different Job, and then I remember how little success I had trying to find one of those (i.e., none at all), and then I start to panic a little. None of this is helped by the realities of my current job, which include long hours, physically taxing work, low pay, and neither paid vacation nor benefits. It's really not good when Plan A is "win the lottery."

I tried to write more about three times, but I keep erasing it. Suffice it to say that Dave and I had some terrible, wrenching conversations today, which were pretty much the definition of Not Fun for both of us. I wish, with all my heart, that he were (or becomes) able to be happy with himself.

Because They Won't Pack Themselves

Am I done packing yet? Of course not. But! It's getting close. Tomorrow I'm going to do laundry and pack some more and spend time on the phone figuring out phone, internet, and cable services; if there's time, I'm also going to stop and get the keys to the new place. I really need to get done, or nearly done, tomorrow, because at least two days this week I'm not going to get home until later (I'm watering a friend's garden). I really don't want to have to come home from a 9-plus-hour-day shlepping croissant dough and then pack more shit. One of the advantages of my current job (and, believe me, I've been looking for them lately) is that I don't need to wear office clothes to work (i.e., I can pack nearly all my clothes) and I can more or less feed myself at work with day-old stuff (i.e., I can pack most of the food and dishes and such). Thanks to That Brazen Tart, I got a lot done today: she came by and kept me company (and brought some chocolate caramels with lime zest and fleur de sel, which I am not sharing with anyone), which meant I couldn't pack a couple of boxes and then slack, and then pack a few more, then slack some more--basically, I just kept at it, albeit wandering aimlessly occasionally. As a result, the kitchen is nearly done. I even kept up the momentum for a few boxes' worth after she left, but hunger finally forced me to quit.

I went to a yoga class this morning, for the first time in two weeks, in part because my hamstrings were throbbing in pain when I woke up this morning. I must, must, must do more yoga; I can also feel pain in my wrists and hands on a regular basis. Here's the best news, though: On Thursday after work I went to the YMCA that's a block from the bakery and asked whether there were any handball players around. A staff member took me to the courts (a rather labyrinthine route) and there were a couple of guys there--they offered to teach me to play until I explained I already KNEW how to play, I just needed a new place. There are people there on Tuesday and Thursday, they said, and I should just come on by. I'm very excited--handball is on the list of things to do after I move, for sure. I've been missing it terribly lately.

The chef who got me the job at the bakery came in on Saturday to drop off some pate de fruit for Jefe and to pick up some gibassier (a delicious little treat that's flavored with ground fennel and orange water and candied oranges--it totally rocks). Going to talk to him about my plans is also one of the next orders of business when the move is complete.

I realized today that this move feels so difficult because the last time I moved, it was only within this building. It was a pain for other reasons: Basically, I was switching apartments with someone who wanted a one-bedroom (we live in a two-bedroom), plus Dave was moving in with stuff from his mother's (where he'd been living) and from a storage locker (where his belongings were living after he and his wife split up). In addition, we agreed to leave the one-bedroom early so they could paint it and also redo the kitchen in our new place; as a result, we shared a teeny, hot, awful studio in the building for two weeks. We had a bunch of my stuff stashed in the new place, though, in one of the bedrooms, which really helped reduce the pain a little, but the studio was hellish. Nevertheless, I was only moving up four floors, and I was able to do some of that before the move date. I moved into this building in 1997, I think, so it's really been nine years since I moved in a major way.

The whole thing still feels surreal at times, not to mention sad. But, just as the croissants won't make themselves, the boxes won't pack themselves. I keep in mind Horrible Moves I Have Witnessed Or About Which I Have Heard, and I do not want to join those ranks, so I grab another box and some tape and have at it. Yes, it's true, this is not how I expected to spend the weeks leading up to my first anniversary, but that's the way it goes. The boxes still won't pack themselves, and I know that if I don't pack well, the unpacking will suck even more than it usually does (the boxes also will not unpack themselves). One thing that I think will work out reasonably well is that the new place has a layout that is strikingly similar to the apartments in which I've lived in this building--the dimensions of the rooms are almost exactly what the dimensions of this apartment are (though the new place only has one bedroom, it's larger than the bedroom I now occupy). This place is built-in glass-fronted cabinets next to the dining room window, which is where my dishes went; the new place doesn't have those, and has somewhat less counter and cabinet space, so that might be a challenge. On the other hand, the new place has a lot of closet space--two in the bedroom, one in the living room, one in the entry-way, and what is essentially a large built-in dresser (shelves and a lot of drawers). There's carpet in the bedroom, without which I could do, but the rest of the place is hardwood floors, so I'm hoping to carve out a little space in the living room for yoga--if I really can get my act together, I may even be able to use the half hour I'll save on commuting to do some yoga a couple of mornings a week. Don't hold your breath on that one, but you never know.

Vroom Vroom

I spent yesterday watching cars go very fast and turning left--a friend took me to a Champ Car race yesterday, and it was quite cool. The green side of me is appalled, but I really liked it and would happily go again. On the way home, we stopped and picked up boxes (including bubble wrap!) from my yoga friend, which I proceeded to fill today. Despite the piles of filled boxes, I still have a ton of stuff to pack. Unfortunately, I'm once again out of empty boxes, though I'm hoping to get some from work tomorrow (the dishwasher has been saving them for me).

Use it or move It: Those are my choices these days with regard to food, so I'm trying to eat stuff. On the days when I make dinner, pasta is easy, as I could eat it every day and be happy. I'm getting through some of the frozen odds and ends on the days when I don't feel like dealing with pasta. Breakfast cereal isn't a problem, except there are bags and boxes that I got for the Kid (and his father). I hacked up a butternut squash the other night, and also managed to finish off a couple of onions and the Swiss chard that was about to go bad in the vegetable drawer. Still, it's more difficult than you might think, given the changes in eating habits.

The building manager called today and said they had to turn over 20 apartments at the end of the month, so if I could move out early, well, it turns out they'll rebate on the rent after all. I signed the new lease and handed over the security deposit, plus checked out the new place again. If I could get the boxes and fill them, I could move next week instead of the week after, but I don't think that's really possible, plus Craw still has a bunch of stuff here that isn't packed yet. At the new end, I have to do all of the change of address stuff and I have to line up the phones, internet, and cable. I really can't manage everything in the next week. This turns out to be another one of the down sides of hourly-wage jobs: if you take off, you don't get paid. Plus, with schedules as tight as the ones at our place, taking off can really disrupt the whole production. I'm increasingly becoming reminded of the downsides of these jobs, and that isn't helping my mood any, but I'm not going to bitch about it here/now.