Sunday is the laziest, also known as "Why Sunday is my FAVORITE."

 

Most Sundays, I walk the few blocks up to the farmer's market in my neighborhood. As someone who eats primarily vegetarian (please ignore the delicious Cuban sandwich I had for lunch yesterday), I can buy a week's worth of delicious things for not as much money as I would at our shiny new QFC and I can also ogle cute babies and dogs and smell pretty flowers and maybe talk to some people I don't know.

I'm feeling exceptionally run-down and exhausted lately due to me losing at the game of health roulette, so walking up there and wandering around was not sounding incredibly exciting. To be honest, I spent Friday night and most of Saturday in bed and I am *still* exhausted. This is where Face comes in. Face is short for Adamface, who is a rather handsome (if tragically hip) fellow that accosted me at a sushi restaurant one night a couple of months back. We became fast friends and we have a deal that says that he can come over any time he wants and hang out for as long as he wants, so long as he doesn't remove any clothing or try to stick his tongue in my mouth. In exchange, I will make him delicious dinner and breakfast and cookies and all manner of snacky things and we will watch movies and go swimming and be platonic boyfriend-girlfriend. It's silly and lovely and sort of droll at times and I am glad to have Face around. We tease each other an awful lot, but it's out of a sort of love that is like "Well, you're very pretty and funny and smart and maybe in another life I would let you put your mouth on mine, but if you try that in this one, I will hit you with a stick, so stop joking about that because NO."

SO, Face wanted to do brunch today and I wanted to stay in bed alllllllll day long, but I relented and told him to bring champagne and he had a deal. We'd planned on noonish, but that changed when this sunshine we're being subjected to woke me up at 7:45am. I texted Face and told him to get his hipster tail over here because we were having breakfast instead.

Like a true gentleman, he was here in 20 minutes in his automobile and informed me that since it was so early and the farmer's market was not open for another two hours, we were going elsewhere to procure eggs. I was thinking we'd be stopping at the grocery, but no. Face's friend from work has chickens. Chickens lay eggs. Face has an open invitation to come and get eggs any time. Given that chickens don't sleep in, Face's friend was awake, cheerful and already expecting us. He fed us coffee and sent us home with six perfectly lovely eggs from his very friendly chickens and said that I should come back with Face some time and play with those birds. Do chickens actually play? I hope so. I am envisioning teaching them to fetch and rewarding them with little bits of grain and making them my feathery minions.

Anyway, after such a lovely start to the morning, we vetoed mimosas and made deliciously strong coffee (I am told this is my specialty) to go with breakfast. After a friend left last night, I sliced some of the Italian round leftover from Friday night's dinner (gnocchi! DELICIOUS GNOCCHI!) and set the bread to soak in the fridge overnight with a few eggs and some heavy cream and vanilla and cinnamon. French toast was necessary. While we drank coffee and read the news from the Sunday paper, I made the french toast and chopped onions for scrambled eggs. Face sliced an apple and attempted to make whipped cream, which was partially successful, but mostly a delicious half-whipped failure. Queue more coffee and a bit of hand-wringing on his part.

"Birdie, you really need to get a mixer."

"Why? I have that sort-of-mixer thing you're using now."

"This is a glorified Snoopy sno-cone maker that happens to have an inadequate whipping paddle."

"And you arm is tired?"

"And my arm is tired. And this is gloopy. "

"It's heavy cream. It doesn't matter what the consistency is because it is a cardinal diet sin, thus making it delicious in all incarnations."

"Good point. Let's eat."

During The Eating Time, I was mercilessly judged for not having syrup in the house. Despite the fact that I never really use syrup (and that it is one more thing for me to clumsily somehow spill all over my cabinets), apparently this is also a food sin. Are people really so passionate about that stuff? It's so odd to me. I am not particularly fond of maple-y things, so it never occurred to me to purchase some. Instead, I use honey. I can get behind some honey, friends. So much more delicious than syrup (TRUTH) and it gives little tiny bees a purpose in life and it tastes like Heaven without being too much and it is far prettier than any of that syrup business could ever hope to be. Face wasn't terribly enthused until he tasted it on the french toast with some of his half-whipped cream. He was almost convinced. Then he accidentally dragged his eggs through a drizzle of it and proclaimed that extra sharp white cheddar and honey were meant to live together for all of eternity in delicious harmony. I have made him a believer. SCORE!

Face is now at home in a food coma, which he thanked me effusively for and I am contemplating laying out in this sunshine for a little bit with a book in order to cast out this paleness that is enveloping me. After that, I am going to call my sister Kristine, who gave birth to the most lovely little niece anyone could ever, EVER wish for.

Reese Ann Elliott was born on Thursday, weighing in at 10lbs 6.8oz. Clearly, big brother Luke is a-okay with her. Me? I can't wait to snuggle that little darling. So precious!

Baby steps

Where to begin, internet? Life has been crazy and topsy turvy and all sorts of backtracking lately. I haven't cooked at home for myself in a few months aside from tossing some pasta with some basil and a few tablespoons of cream and I haven't really had any desire to. That makes me so sad and I am trying to push past that and get back to the norm. 

It takes baby steps to get there, I think. 

This is a bagel. Ordinary, plain, boring, cheap, uninspired and ultimately pathetic. Add some tuna, celery, sea salt, and half of a pickle made my by dear friend Mardi and it is suddenly something perched smack in the middle of "something to put in your stomach so you don't starve to death" and "comfort food."

Eight days ago, my relationship ended on a busy downtown street just as rush hour was ending. With every single part of myself, I was certain that I would not make it to the crosswalk at the corner to go home and would instead die of heartbreak right there where I stood. It took me a good three minutes to walk that 150 feet. It took everything in me not to throw up on the bus on the way home. I then bought wine in an effort to drink myself further into the less-than-no-self-worth category and walked the two blocks to my apartment. I poured a glass of wine, sat down on my couch and didn't move from there until the next morning, spending all night staring straight ahead. I drank the rest of the wine for breakfast and then contemplated taking a shower before thinking better of it and drinking another bottle of wine while working on a painting. I went out with some friends that night and they got me righteously intoxicated and, thinking I was hungry, I ate some chicken strips. At this point, I hadn't eaten anything more than a few crackers here and there (nor managed more than an hour or two of sleep per night) in the five days previous. I came home and painted some more and sometime around 6am, I threw up. 

 

I figured it was because I had the gall to eat some convenience store chicken strips in a dirty Seattle taxicab while wearing a shirt that says VEGETARIAN across the bosom.  When I went to dinner the next night with my former roommate and one of my best ladies, I realized I'd assumed wrong. That shining moment of truth hit me right as I was throwing up chow mein (I am terribly sorry for that visual). Food has not been my friend. That night, a neighbor that I went to high school with sent me an email and told me to come over and tell him all the reasons why men are terrible. I trudged over in my pajamas and slippers and tear stains and plunked down on his couch and I couldn't think of one reason why men are horrible; it was just the opposite. I think he was a little taken aback at my proclamation of love for menfolk and then we looked at baseball cards until 1am. That was a baby step.

Breakup aside, I got some rather terrible news about someone dear this week. Because my employers are wonderful, kind, sweet people who cry when I cry, I was at home the first three days of this week, which is good. I received a call that someone I love very much stopped breathing and was able to go and say goodbye to him before he passed away. Not long after I left his bedside, he stopped breathing again, but it was final this time. All over again, I felt hollow and empty and angry and despondent, but I had dinner plans with a friend that I've not been able to get to know as well as I wanted. I dreaded it, but I went out anyway and when the waiter came around, I ordered food. Then I ate it. I didn't throw up at the sight of it and I managed to chew and swallow it. Granted, I didn't keep it down after I got home, but it was a start. 

Back to this bagel. After dinner with the former roommate, he accompanied me to the grocery store. I'd say he was being a pal, but I was wearing a dress and strappy little shoes and I think he probably felt like a heel leaving me to walk home in those monstrosities (PRETTY monstrosities!), so he talked as I shopped. Realizing that I had absolutely no food at home, I grabbed some bagels and some juice and some half and half for my coffee (the one thing that is always welcome in this tummy!). On top of that, I bought pasta and paper towels and treats for my dog and cat. On the way to the checkstand, I grabbed three cans of tuna. Ex roomie asked incredulously, "Wait...you're going to eat that?" "Yes I AM," I replied. "Okay. You just go ahead and call me when you want me to come and get those from you," he said. I rolled my eyes and rang up my own groceries and went home.

With both losses this past week hitting me in the same sore part of my heart, I left all of my groceries (except the half and half - coffee is IMPORTANT!) on the kitchen floor next to the dress and strappy shoes I took off as soon as I walked in the door. Existing and living are two very different planes, you see. 

Between then and now, there've been the loveliest nights of sleep ever. There've been cocktails. There've been friends rallying to my side to tell me they love me and ask if I need anything. There have been oddly serendipitous introductions and equally delightful run-ins with people I have not seen in a very long time. Each of these things I look at as a baby step. Every single tear I cried? The same.  I am hardly existing. No, no. I am thriving. A friend of mine named Lauren refers to herself as a phoenix, as she's come out on top of things that would likely shatter a lot of people permanently. Now I know how that feels. When have I smiled this brightly and taken every single second as an opportunity like I am? Not in a great number of years. 

This morning, I woke up and took a long bath and worked some more on a painting and then I walked into the kitchen. I picked my dress and shoes up off the floor and before I knew it, I'd chopped some celery and pickle and shredded some sad lettuce and I was preparing to sit down and eat these things inside of a bagel. Let it be known that the former roommate mocked my tuna-buying rampage because I hate tuna. The only time tuna sounds good to me is if I am neeeding something to shove me from "I HATE THE WORLD" into "Hello, sunshine!" It has always been this way, and I suppose there's some correlation between that and the homelife I had with my grandmother when I was little but the bottom line is that I really, really hate tuna. Always. Forever. 

Suddenly, nothing sounded more delicious. When I realized what I'd done while on autopilot there, I put the stupid bagel down and only then did I cry. I haven't cried in three days now, which five days ago seemed like an impossible goal, and now I was crying over a bagel (not a very chewy one, at that. hmph) in my kitchen and reaching for my camera so that I could take a picture of this stupid thing that will be forever burned into my memory as "the second I realized I was okay."

So there's your update. Girl gets dumped. Girl wants to die. Girl doesn't die, but someone else does. Girl makes a sandwich and cries with joy.

I'll have you know that as I typed this up, I ate every bit of that silly bagel and it shows no signs of leaving any time soon. Nothing has ever tasted better in my entire life and while I am repulsed that I put fish parts in my mouth, I think I will eat the same thing for dinner tonight. Two meals in one day! That 25lbs I lost over the last 10 days may find me again, but that's ok. I am smiling so enormously that I could cry all over again, but I won't because I am not simply existing any more and that feels so, so splendid.