don't look at it like it's forever

sour times

You know the old saying- when maisnon gives you lemons, you make lemon bars. Actually, my reasons were two-fold. First, D really did, rather inexplicably, bring me a singular lemon last Sunday. I found this charming, because this might be the first time I have ever witnessed D sans an accompanying backstory or anecdote in tow. Of course, I am known to be a space cadet since moving to San Francisco, so it is also possible that D did explain the lemon to me and I simply blocked it out of my memory (in which case, sorry, D!).

The second reason has to do with stretching. I feel certain that there is a lot of baking in my future in the next month or so, and I really need a warm up period. I expect the first several forays to be failures, and, wow, am I really living up to my expectations. The oatmeal cake from last week was mediocre. D made an icky face when she tasted the lemon bars, then asked me if there was cardammom in them. This was funny, since I suspect she thought I was trying to go all desi on lemon bars. In fact, I had tried to make the crust ginger-flavored, because I like the combination of lemon and ginger. Clearly, it had failed to translate.

Luckily, I had also picked up some brownie mix from Trader Joe's, so desserts last night were not a complete fiasco. You know what was a complete fiasco though? Last week's episode of Lost. We both lost the will to snark, so horrible was the episode.

After over a week of phone tag, my cousin K and I finally caught up last night. She advised me against entertaining the offer to switch jobs. She is the best person to attack these sorts of dilemmas, as exemplified by her reasoning: "there is too much risk switching jobs will convince you to stay at this, when you know that, no matter what else happens, you need to quit next year." She was not only right, but also calling me on my bullsh*t with one well-hurtled stone. I keep saying that, regardless of The Goal, I need to stop with the corporate slavery next year. Switching jobs might make work just tolerable enough to get lulled into staying at it for another year. And given my track record, the next thing I know, I'll realize five years have passed by and I still have not made the bold moves I claimed I would.

K is also taking a writing workshop right now, and would likely be horrified if she knew what I am up to over here with my nonsensical ramblings. And that's just how it seems to go. No one knows me completely, but everyone gets a different piece. It does not bother me, but I think at times it bothers my confidantes.

What with the disappearing act some people have staged of late, and the imminent self-inflicted changes to come with life, I have been relating to love songs for all the wrong reasons:

On the morning when I woke up without you for the first time
I felt free, and I felt lonely, and I felt scared.
And I began to talk to myself almost immediately
not being used to being the only person there
- The Mountain Goats

The you is missing, but the experience is otherwise exactly the same. The art of losing isn't hard to master. I have been through it before, which is the comfort of age- knowing that, even if there is impending heartbreak, you will pick yourself up and emerge once again to walk through the rest of your days.