The End of the Drumming Stage

Just a week shy of what would have been my two year anniversary of my very first drum lesson, which subsequently led to my purchasing my own drum kit, forming a couple ill-fated bands, and paying for some very rewarding drum lessons, I sold my drum kit. A week ago a man came to my apartment after finding my drums listed on Craigslist, negotiated with me on the price of what had been one of my most treasured possessions, and then handed me cash and walked out of my apartment with my drum kit while I held the door for him on his way out. It made it a little easier for me that the drums were for his 17 year old son - his very first kit after deciding to take up drumming - but I'll admit that it still stung just the slightest.

When I decided to take up drumming two years ago, I was in a very low place in my life. A few months prior I had left San Francisco and the most important relationship of my life and was now struggling with building my life back in Los Angeles. And is was a struggle. Previously a confident, social person, I now had panic attacks on my way to gatherings which under normal circumstances wouldn't have elicited a second thought from me. I still wasn't sure I had made the right decision in leaving San Francisco, or that relationship, and I was lonely and sad and my life was in limbo.

Drumming became part of my new identity, in my mind. It was novel to be part of something I had previously only watched from the sidelines, it was a great topic to bring up when I was floundering socially, and it felt just SO GOOD to be excited about something new - to have daydream fodder that didn't involve mistakes I had made or catastrophes that could potentially occur. I started playing in a band with two awesome girls, led by one of my closest and most trusted old friends. I was slowly starting to be happy again.

I bought a cheap drum kit off Craigslist from a young guy in the Valley. We packed the nicked and time-warn burgundy kit into my '87 BMW and when I drove off he texted me and asked me out on a date. I declined, but I felt so awesome - I was a "drummer" - I got asked out by dudes who thought girl drummers were cool. I set up my kit in the small rec room below my bedroom in the house I lived, in Silver Lake. I practiced frequently, I took lessons from a great guy I had met serendipitously, I'd lay awake in bed at night and picture myself on stage at my favorite local venues - opening for some friend's band with my all-girl band. I was a drummer. It felt amazing. And I must admit I was pretty damn good, too. Drumming made sense to me, in a way which no other instrument I've tried to master ever had.

Deciding to sell my drums took some time, but by the time I posted them on Craigslist, I was sure. I never played anymore, they were taking up a huge corner of my apartment, and every time I looked at them I felt guilty. After a visit from an awesome Feng Shui expert (which I plan to write about in the near future) who told me that it wasn't healthy to have that sort of thing (an ignored, guilty-inducing thing looming in the corner) and instead had some great ideas about what could be done with that corner, I was ready to sell.

So I did. And I feel okay with it. I kept my drum sticks, though. They're sitting in my roller skates - a decorative piece in my comfortable and eccentric living room. One time, years back when I lived in San Francisco and was still happily in relationship-land, I went for a spin on those roller skates and fell so hard on my tailbone I still wake up in the morning with pain today. My now-ex boyfriend had to come pick me up in his car, as I was in too much pain to get up and walk. I haven't put on those skates since. So there they sit, two relics from my past. Two of the thousands of pieces that make me who I am: a happy, curious, enthusiastic person, who loves to experience life, and is ready for the next stage.

Domestic Tuesdays - A Lovely Weekend

This past weekend I had the pleasure of hosting one of my best girl friends in my humble little apartment, as she was visiting from San Francisco. Becky was my closest friend when I lived in SF, and I was so sad to leave her behind when I moved away, but we've maintained our friendship since and I'm confident we will do such throughout our lives.

Although her visit was leisure in nature, we were determined to spend a better part of the weekend working on the children's book we're making together. It's based on the birthday card she sent me this past June - one I was so fond of and smitten by, I asked if she'd want to collaborate on a book using her beautiful and unique artistic talent.

She and my equally close friend Kathy arrived late Friday night, exhausted from their long drive. Despite their exhaustion, we stayed up late, gossiping and giggling, all of us happy to bask in the loveliness that comes with having close girl friends. We woke up late on Saturday morning and I fixed everyone fresh waffles with maple syrup and blueberries.

After breakfast and a leisure round of showering and lazily getting dressed, Becky and I headed to my favorite cafe, where we worked on the book over iced teas, and later over beers and Thai food.

At this point we were both just so thrilled about the progress we had made and the ideas we had come up with together. We had both worked on our parts of the book (writing for me and art for her) in our respective cities, but it was so nice to brainstorm together. We're both really excited about the final outcome, and I'm very confident it's going to be a beautiful, whimsical thing - something I'll be proud to have been a part of for years to come.

After lunch, we headed to my favorite sidewalk cafe to discuss the book further, gossip, and drink and eat the kind of things one is allowed to do when either on vacation or in the presence of someone who is.

Real whip cream is one of my many weaknesses.


The drunk dude sitting next to us happily took our photo when we asked politely, but talked our ears off for what seemed like hours after, so we quickly gathered our things and headed out.

We had plans to see a movie at the Hollywood Forever cemetery that evening (a weekend Summer tradition in Los Angeles), so we hit my favorite market and gathered a few ingredients so Becky could make her famed pasta dish that she was raving about.

Her recipe is indeed a very simple, versatile and yummy one. To torn basil and chopped tomatoes, Becky added a few cloves of diced raw garlic (I might saute the garlic next time, as it tends to be a little strong).

Any kind of cheese and add-ins can be thrown into the bowl. We used an incredibly stinky Brie and pancetta.
Just tear up the cheese, and add the pancetta or whatever you're using (mushrooms, capers and lox, cooked shrimp, etc).
Add salt, pepper, and a good amount of olive oil and mix.
You want to let the mixture sit for a while, so the cheese gets soft and the flavors incorporate.

While that cooked, I started on the asparagus I had picked up at the market. By that time, our plans for the cemetery movie had fallen through, as they always seem to do, and my friend Meghan was on her way over with some cous cous she had made. Yay pot luck!

I chopped the thick ends off the asparagus and laid them out on a baking sheet, followed by sprinkling them with the remaining pancetta, a sliced shallot, and salt and pepper. Next I drizzled the entire mess with olive oil.
After a half an hour in a preheated 350 degree oven, everything smelled yummy and the pancetta and shallots were nice and crispy. Before I served the asparagus, I shaved some Parmesan on top, as if they weren't unhealthy enough already.
By now, the cheese mixture was ready for the next step.
Becky poured hot, just-boiled pasta over the top, so the cheese melted nicely and the basil and tomato wilted just the slightest. It was pretty god damned magical.

I sat down at my little table with two of my very best girl friends, and we talked and laughed and enjoyed ourselves immensely. Later we took a cab to a party where we stood in the corner, three petite girls from different backgrounds and with different histories, and talked passionately about WWII as the dudes at the party eyed us suspiciously - us thwarting their advances by talking about gas chambers and political policy when they would try to hit on us.

It was one of the best weekends I've had in a long time, especially if you count the lovely date I had on Sunday night (which you should). I can't wait to visit Becky in San Francisco so we can finish our book!

Update On My "Before I'm 30" List

So far I'm losing the battle with my "Before I'm 30" list. It's been just short of three months since I turned 29, and I have woefully few ticks on my list of 20 "must do's". Knowing myself as a procrastinator, I have a feeling that May (the month before my birthday) is going to be quite a busy one.

I've yet to make out with anyone on the Haunted Mansion ride at Disneyland, or even go to Disneyland for that matter. I did have a couple nice-yet-probably-masochistic people offer to let me punch them in the face, another one of my goals, but I feel like having permission would take away from the excitement of the experiment. Although if I haven't punched anyone come May, they should really watch their backs. I have plans to volunteer at the book donation non profit my friend manages, but that won't happen for another month or so, and judging by my lack of motivation to go to the gym this month, running a half marathon is very far in my future.

But! I did get my cheek swabbed to get tested to see if I qualify as a bone marrow donor. You can find out where you can go to get your cheek swabbed here. I won't know if I'm a match for a few months, if not a few years, but I'm glad I got that out of the way. Everyone who finds out I want to donate marrow exclaim how painful it is, but honestly, I really want to do it...it feels necessary to me and I can deal with the pain, in order to help someone.

On a more self-centered note, I had a triumphant Sunday afternoon when I met some girl friends for brunch. I'm determined to train myself to enjoy Bloody Mary's before I'm 30, ya see, and I decided that it was high time it happened. We went to Birds in Hollywood and I ordered a Bloody Maria, fully expecting to HATE it and make my friends finish it for me (which they assured me they'd be happy to do). But I actually loved it! Well...not "loved", but really, really liked. I know it's a weird goal to want to force ones self to enjoy an alcoholic beverage, especially when there are so many others to choose from, but when I set my mind to do something, there's not much stopping me.

Right before the first, tentative sip.

Success! I even finished it...well, almost.

What Happiness Is

The sun is barely beginning to set as I head out the door. The sound of the traffic on the Hollywood freeway that's adjacent to my apartment building fills the air and calms me until I forget its there and ignore it altogether - the thoughts that fill my head winning the fight over my attention, as they so often do. I'm on foot this evening, my destination being the market one block right and two blocks left from my building, and I walk with a spring in my step, too happy to muster any kind of derogatory remark at the man who whistles crudely at me as I pass his open car window.

The neighborhood market, where I've become a regular and recognized face since moving into the area almost ten months ago, just adds to the overwhelming feeling of happiness I have about my apartment. The apartment itself, the building, the neighborhood, the stray cats outside my window, this market - it's as though, unbeknownst-to-me, I'm the star of a sitcom in which the set was built specifically to extract the highest level of pleasure out of me. It works.

The market, an aging knock-off of what was once a more respectable grocery chain, is slightly run down and it's more than unlikely you'll be able to find the name brands you've become so familiar with in the pristine Super Markets in better neighborhoods. But what it lacks in up-to-date fixtures and corporate brand names, it more than makes up for in the isles upon isles of cultural oddities in flavors and varieties which my suburban-raised mind delights in.

The produce section never fails to excite me, and I often find my basket spilling over with an abundance of fruits and vegetables that would make my mother, with her constant "eat healthy" nag, beam. Huge cartons filled with blueberries and the most delicious cherries I've ever tasted. My very first homemade tomatillo sauce was a direct result of a purchase from this store. I have wild plans to someday put to good use those nopales and prickly pears that I eye on my way to the more familiar fruits and veggies, but for now I stick with yams and bananas and giant apples and whatever is on sale that week. The prices, as I'm sure I don't even need to tell you, are beyond reasonable.

Making my way home - the sun now getting closer to setting and a chill starting to spread - I grasp my grocery bags in my hands and lug it all home. No doubt I've forgotten I was walking while in the store, and am grunting under the weight of impulse buys such as bottles of Mexican Coca Cola and yummy Polish beers. The baguette, which is a regular purchase as it's one of the yummiest store-bought of it's kind I've ever tasted, is still warm and I clutch it in the crook of my elbow, both because it's the only available place to carry anything, and because it keeps me warm.

I'm a sentimental bastard, so I wallow in the knowledge that this small act - my bi weekly solo trips to the market for groceries - is one of the memories I will treasure once I am older, perhaps no longer single and instead share these trips with someone who carries those bags of impulse buys in one hand, and my warm hand in his free hand, perhaps with a job that demands more of my time and energy. I bask and breaststroke through the happiness of this feeling - this amazing feeling of independence coupled with an excitement of what my future will hold, and I head to my cozy little apartment, with its warm lighting and darling Siamese cat, and I'm happy. Purely, truly happy.

Aside - I just wanted to thank all of you who have ever commented here or emailed me. It means more to me than I could ever tell you. Now tell me, what makes you truly happy?

Wednesday Faff

I hate to have such a faffy post smack in the middle of the week (as opposed to Friday's, where they belong), but these photos were just too good not to post. Consider this a peek into my daily life, as what is being documented below is a very regular occurrence in Casa de The State That I Am In.

This is the scene: I get home from work, happy to be in the comfort of my tiny apartment after spending the day in my office. I strip off my business casual and throw on some sort of loungey outfit, usually consisting of a cotton house-dress or a t-shirt and undies when I'm feeling especially lazy. Hungry, I grab a snack (Gorgonzola crackers from Trader Joe's, in this instance) and settle into my living room with a good book.

Elvis (aka The Cat Who Will Eat Anything), knows something is up as soon as he hears the rustle of the bag of cracker. When his best "I'm adorable and therefore you should feed me" look doesn't work, he moves onto the next tactic in his arsenal of "I can get you to do anything I want".

This usually involves his loud, guttural Siamese meow that is not unlike the cry of a baby. Watch this video if you are unfamiliar with this noise.

It only gets louder if you ignore it.

Next there's usually some grabbing involved with his strong, excessively clawed paw, at which point I just hand over whatever it is I'm eating as to avoid being mauled.

A few tentative sniffs.

Some weird, heavy breathing on whatever it is he's being offered,

followed by him grazing the offering along his teeth.

Still unsure.

Getting close to a decision.

At last! Your offering pleases Kitty.

He repays my snack generosity by letting me take out my loneliness on him, so it's a win-win situation.

Domestic Tuesdays - Everything Tastes Best When Wrapped In Pork Products

As many of you are aware of, Sunday night was the season premier of Mad Men. My LOST Pot Luck group decided a Mad Men Pot Luck would be just the thing to feed our fix for both great programming watched with equally interested parties, and eating delicious foods that are in no way waistline friendly but you're at a pot luck so you HAVE to break you diet as it would be rude not to.

How bad was the season premiere, btw? I was really disappointed by it, but luckily everyone made the most amazing little dishes and we chatted and gossiped for an hour or two before watching the show, so the night wasn't a total failure. I had initially wanted to make these pie lollipops that the Internet is going apeshit for, but by the time Sunday rolled around, I just didn't have the energy. Luckily I happened upon a stand at the Fairfax flea market that had baskets of plump, ripe figs for a very fair price.

Figs are one of my all time favorite fruits and initially I wanted to greedily hoard them all for myself. I had bought two baskets though, so I decided to be generous and share my stash with my pot luck friends (only one basket though - the other one I've kept for myself and have been happily snacking on them all week).

So with prosciutto-wrapped plans dancing in my mind, my friend Hari came over so we could prepare our pot luck dishes together. Being the classy ladies that we are (that's a joke, in case you're new to this blog), we picked up a couple beers and a big bag of unhealthy chips to indulge in while we cooked. Much gossip and giggling was had, and also a little cooking for good measure.

Prosciutto, goat cheese, a dozen figs, honey, and balsamic vinegar - that's all this recipe calls for. It's really more "preparing" than cooking, too, so if you're not the best cook but want to impress, this is the perfect dish.

I swear I'm not trying to look sexy here. This is actually my "I'm about to blink" face. I look so much like my mom here that it frightens me.

Spoon about half a tablespoon of goat cheese onto each sliced-in-half fig. The figs should be slightly soft. If they're not, they need a day or two to ripen (which can be helped along by storing them in a paper bag, as you can do with any unripe fruit).

Please ignore that finger-shaped swipe on the goat cheese covered spoon. Yes, the finger in question went directly into my mouth after being swiped. What can I say? I cannot help myself around cheese of any kind.

Prosciutto always seems like such a luxury item to me, but it's actually quite affordable when you buy it in small quantities at the deli counter. For a dozen figs I used a little over 1/4 pound of prosciutto, which cost me under three bucks. Ask the deli attendant to slice it very thin.

While I wrapped, Hari casually grated cheese for her macaroni and cheese, which she claimed to be the greatest thing ever, and we got all girly about her previous night's exciting meeting with none other than Mad Men's Jon Hamm (whom I've also met, and can vouch for the fact that's he's one of the nicest dudes ever).

While my mac and cheese is a time consuming endeavour (it's a take on this one by Ina Garten) complete with a roux, thinly slicing tomatoes (something I SUCK at), and preparing a bread crumb topping, Hari basically threw Gouda and Cheddar cheeses, milk, a tub of sour cream, and some butter into cooked pasta and ended up with what I swear was one of the best macaroni and cheese I've EVER eaten.

Look at that smug face.

Everyone kinda rocked this pot luck. It's so fun to see what my friends will come up with. Somehow we all ended up incorporating cheese into our dishes, which is by no means a bad thing. There was also a killer lemonade/raspberry puree/tequila drink which knocked my socks off.

Someone even went with the 1960's theme of Mad Men and made a yummy jello mold! I only stuck to the theme with my dress, which was this awesome vintage Hawaiian number that I picked up fro nine bucks the day before, but I sadly didn't get a good photo of it. Trust me when I say that it was a killer dress.

This is my good friend Ed, who always makes the healthiest, most delicious dishes at pot luck. Hey Ladies, he's funny, sweet, and single!

Once I got to the party, I drizzled the wrapped figs lightly in honey, and then popped them in the oven for about 12 minutes, followed by a light drizzle of balsamic vinegar before setting them out alongside some toothpicks.

They were a total hit...gone within 20 minutes! You can be sure I'll be making these fuckers again!

Figs Stuffed With Goat Cheese and Wrapped in Prosciutto

1 dozen figs, sliced in half lengthwise

small package of goat cheese

about 1/4 a pound thinly sliced prosciutto, sliced into small strips

tablespoon of honey

two tablespoons of balsamic vinegar

Spoon a small amount of goat cheese onto the cut-side of each fig, and then lightly wrap each fig in a couple thin strips of prosciutto. Place the figs on a baking sheet, cut-side up, and drizzle with honey. Bake at 400 degrees for 10-15 minutes (keep an eye on em), plate and drizzle with balsamic vinegar. Serve hot.

The Best Day of My Life, Part II

Read Part I, here.

When we last left our heroine, she was skipping happily away from the auditorium where she had just heard her very favorite author speak, met him, and had handed him a letter detailing her adoration of his books. It was the best day of her life, she already knew that. It was a day that would live on in her mind as a pivotal moment in her adolescence - the story of that day would be shared conspiratorially over drinks in dark bars and with potential suitors throughout her life - this she was sure of. It hit her that she needed to commemorate the day somehow, needed to acquire a token that would forever remind her of the day she met her hero...but what token would ever suffice?


When the thought hit her, she was sure. From the UCLA campus where the book fair was being held, she headed east towards Melrose Ave. She had spent many hours of her life languidly walking the strip with her sister, searching through racks of mothball scented clothes at thrift shops, perusing the punk section at the record stores, and once even getting her nose pierced in a shady-looking jewelry store by a dude who made her promise that she was 18 (she lied, she had been 15 at the time).


It was in this vain that she found the most respectable looking shop that advertised tattoo and piercing services. The lone shop keeper took some persuading, but eventually believed her insistence that she was indeed 18 years old, despite her lack of identification (she was lying, she was 16 at the time). He took her to a back room and she watched as he pulled latex gloves over his sweating hands, followed by a second pair, much to her relief. They chatted as the tools were cleaned and laid out, and she told him the story of whom she had just met, and why this act was an important one to her.


And then it was time, and she was nervous, but she hid it well until the small needle pierced her nipple, and she closed her eyes tight and gnashed her teeth as he slid the ring through. It was the most pain she had ever felt in her young life...transcendental pain that encompassed the entirety of her small-framed body. She sat in the chair for a while, until the spots in front of her eyes cleared and she no longer felt woozy, and then she paid the man and left.


Later that day, when she had driven home and was hanging out with her best friend, she ripped the strap of her dress while pulling it down to show her new jewelry. Her friend was shocked at her new accoutrement, but giggled with her about it once the surprise wore off, and had to admit that it looked pretty damn cute.


It's been over ten years since that day, and there's just a small scar where the piercing used to be, really it's only noticeable to her. But when she sees it, when she thinks about it, she feels a sense of pride at the bold teenager she once was. She's glad she still has some of that fire left in her, but also relieved that her adult self is better at controlling her impulses.

Conked Out

I text my therapist everyday after work. It's just a line or two, usually sometime between 5:30 and 7:30, to let her know what I'm doing with myself. Yesterday's text read "tidying my apartment, then getting ready for a stand-up comedy show" and the day before read "took a much needed nap, but feel kinda shitty about it". I feel weird and overbearing texting her every weekday afternoon, but she insists on it and even reminds me after our weekly sessions to keep it up. She tells me she's trying to create a new pattern for me, you see, and that by having someone there who's interested in what it is I do after work, and more to the point, what it is I'm not doing [taking naps], I'll change this pattern that started sometime in my childhood.

The first time I realized why it is I'm so addicted to taking a nap, or more so, why taking a nap in the late afternoon is such a habit for me - albeit one that causes me frustration and depression - was about two months after I had starting my sessions with my therapist. It was a Thursday around 5:30. I was meant to be in her office in a couple hours for our weekly appointment, and as I laid down on my bed for "just a quick nap" as the sun began its dimming and the traffic on the Hollywood freeway outside my apartment thickened, it hit me that perhaps there was a correlation between my admitted loathing of the early evening, and the fact that I become overwhelmingly exhausted during that time of day.

I've taken naps for as long as I can remember. I'm not talking about quick "power naps" on my lunch break or a snooze in front of the t.v. after dinner...oh no. Two hours in a deep, far away sleep is my drug of choice, a thin crystal line of drool more than likely escaping from my agape mouth. I sleep better during those naps than I've ever slept at night. I dream vivid, lucid dreams and wake up in a fog, usually laying in bed for ten minutes or so after I finally wake up in order to process my surroundings.

I've always hated this about myself, to be honest. It makes me feel lazy and unproductive, and I can think of a million things I'd rather be doing with my time. I make a pact with myself every morning, knowing full well that my inability to fall asleep at night is directly related to my precious naps, that from now-on it'll be different. But I get home from work, strip out of my confining office clothes and into a cotton house dress and start to futz around the house with the best intentions, and then my bed just beckons me - my feather pillow and dark bedroom like a siren's song - and before I know it, I wake up two hours later (usually on the dot, strangely).

Anyway, when it hit me that I also, unrelatedly I thought, really hate the later afternoon/early evening that day, I shared this revaluation with my therapist. She stared at me for a beat, just long enough to make me feel like a dummy for never putting two and two together, then asked me what my later afternoons/early evenings were like when I was growing up. "Uhhhh, lonely?" I responded. "So what do you do to not have to deal with that loneliness?" she asked me bemusedly. "I'd take a nap?" I asked rhetorically. Duh.

A latch-key kid, I'd arrive home after school to an empty house due to my siblings being away at one of their regular after-school activities, or we'd just all be doing our own thing, or sometimes we wouldn't be talking to each other due to trivial sibling rivalries. I'd shut myself in my bedroom with a book, my faithful cat obsessively grooming herself at my feet with a vacant look in her eyes, and I'd curl into a fetal position and just conk out. I'd wake up as my mom would finally be arriving at home, and the house would become bustling, full of the energy of my family living our lives. It's been over ten years since I moved from my family home, but the compulsion to nap still persists.

So that's where the weekday afternoon texts come into play. I forget some days, or purposely forget other days when I don't want to admit that the lure of the bed was too strong for me. But honestly, it is nice to have someone who is so enthusiastic in my getting past the triggers that cause my depression, even though I'm paying her to do so. She responds to my texts immediately and positively. I know this will all change soon, though, as my naps are seasonal in a way. I don't like waking up from them when it's dark out, so during the winter I never feel the need for them. It's not exactly Seasonal Affective Disorder, but it isn't far from it.

The Story Behind the Scenes from My Lunch Break

You wake up bleary eyed and wish for nothing more than a few more precious hours of sleep. You wash up halfheartedly, throw on the most respectable looking clothes you can muster the energy to pull from your closet and, as an afterthought, drape your string of expensive pearls around your neck in order to give the appearance of respectability. The pearls belonged to your ex boyfriend's mother before she died and they're one of your most treasured possessions, but you can't ever stop fiddling with them when you wear them.



You bid farewell to your cat and wonder what he does during the hours when you're at work, home alone. You wish you could find out by being there with him all day. You'd lay on the couch with him tucked into the crook of your arm and watch old foreign movies, snacking on dried fruit covered with chili powder and cereal directly from the box. But instead the day greets you by almost blinding you with its brightness, and you curse whatever misfortune that's lead you to this life of day-to-day drudgery.

You've gotten into the habit of applying your make-up in the car on the 101 freeway, despite your better judgement. By the time you pass the Vermont exit, your concealer is dotted below your eyes - a vain attempt to cover the dark circles that you inherited from your grandmother. Once you've passed the Alvarado off-ramp your face has been lightly dusted with powder, and your obvious tiredness begins to camouflage. A quick swirl of blush over your cheeks, your eyelashes curled at the stop light off your exit that never fails to be red, and a swipe of mascara once you've parked your car in the garage completes the transformation. You are no longer the girl you were when you left your apartment twenty minutes earlier.

You're now the girl whose desk everyone passes on their way to their larger offices, who you give a polite "morning!" to, although some ignore you altogether. You're the girl who transfers their calls, faxes their important memos, and diligently prepares their mailings to assure a prompt turn-around. You're not a writer to them - they don't care about the various projects you're working on, and frankly, you wouldn't want them to know about them even if they did care...your projects are the "real you" and you like to keep that guarded. They don't know about the wonderful, talented friends you hold so very dear, or the fun you have with those friends whenever you're not behind that desk, thirty-something floors up in an expensive high rise building downtown.

Just when you think you can't take it anymore, can't take the polite and sometimes not-so-polite requests from these people you work with, hours after you first, and even your second cup of black coffee, it's lunchtime, and you're left to your own devices for an entire hour. You're a girl who likes routine, who takes comfort in secret places like you once did in the hallway closet under the stairs in the home you grew up in - a spot you used to spend hours reading in as a child, where you escaped when your life started to become unreliable and your youth treacherous.

So you go to one of your few spots, walking distance from your office, but miles away in terms of settings. During the summer you bask in the heat and delight in the small beads of sweat that form under your respectable business wear - like rebellious children sneaking onto forbidden turf - enjoying the alternative to the constant air conditioning of your office. During the winter there are less people around, but it's cold so you retreat to one of your favorite hiding places in the beautiful public library. You feel a sense of kinship with this stunning old structure. You feel a sense of greedy ownership of the place, even though you know it's wrong.

Once settled in, with whatever homemade (or purchased, on rare occasions) lunch you have with you, you indulge in one of your most treasured activities. It's something you love with a force so strong it overwhelms you sometimes. You can't imagine how in the world there are people who don't get any pleasure from this, because without it, you'd surely wither into something like an old fallen leaf and be blown away. It's one of the strongest forces in your life, one of the things that compels you forward: your friends, your family, writing, your precious Siamese cat who's been with you throughout the past few difficult years...and reading. Your oldest comfort, your most treasured possession: losing yourself in a book.