If you’re looking for the Holiday Card Exchange FAQ, it’s here.
I just came back from seventeen days of travel. Three days in Everwood, UT, hanging out with Jake, which was a whirlwind of zombies, cake, tea parties and arguments about whether another friend was hiding a thirteen year old child in her studio apartment (I still think that they were confusing her with Anne Frank). Then four days in San Francisco, close enough to the Bay to be able to verify the time off the Ferry Building clock followed by ten days in the South Bay, camping in a business traveler hotel that basically acts as the dorm for Esteban’s new employer (a super huge Silicon Valley company, you can probably figure it out in three guesses) where I was there long enough to sit through three cycles of the free breakfast and enough to contemplate buying my own real maple syrup so that I didn’t have to ruin their very tasty waffles with that fake plasticy crap.
I’m having a big of a friend withdrawal right now: after so many days surrounded by the people I love the most, in beautiful weather, eating amazing ethnic food that I only get in the Bay area (and pizza with sourdough crust, where have you been all my life?), drinking impossibly gorgeous wines and having people actually get my stupid jokes, to come back to a messy house (no daily maid? WTF?) and daily highs in the 30s and being told that my position is being eliminated (AGAIN) and the job they want to give me is one I don’t want so I have to figure something out in the next six weeks followed by my sister unload a bunch of dysfunction in my lap on my second day back in the office and then oh yeah, Esteban’s truck needs a heart transplant or something equally expensive, I’m certainly feeling the reality of yin and yang.
I’m not saying that I’m depressed, exactly, but I certainly wish I could crack a Tennessee/Hank Williams joke and have someone get it.
Instead, I will focus on things that make me happy. I missed my pets while I was gone and they have been more than appreciative to have us back (plus, is there anything better than a warm pug snoring on your lap? I think not). When I went backstage at the Stars concert at the Fillmore, Amy Millan actually recognized me, which just boggles my mind (or means that she’s afraid I’m stalking her). Also, my photos are in a freaking art gallery, which just keeps boggling my mind. Which is a good thing that my mind is pre-boggled because this next part’s the craziest:
It was nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
You should know that I got the e-mail notification from Blackbird while sitting in a Whole Foods in SoMa and immediately started crying. Mostly what I hope were little pretty tears, but I am almost certain there was at least one hiccup in there. Now, let’s be honest: a lot of people are nominated for the Pushcart. So many in fact that my boyfriends at Barrelhouse actually made a t-shirt about it. But let’s be honest, I constantly think my writing sucks and basically went through the hell of applying to (and getting multiple rejections from) graduate school so that I could feel like I had earned the right to call myself a writer, so it really means a lot to me, even though I seriously doubt that my story will end up in that pretty pretty volume. Just the same. It’s still kind of awesome.
Although, it did occur to me that weeping into my vintage/thrifted embroidered handkerchief in the food court of a Whole Foods in the middle of my raw vegan breakfast makes me some kind of weird person that I’m not really sure I want to know.