� me in e-mail to Vanessa first thing this morning

Whee it�s a fun day here in Gastro-assisto-land, isn�t it? Oh yes it is.

We�ll get to that part. First of all, let me just throw this in. Over the weekend, while I was culling the first round of books to be sold or given to prisoners (there is a drop box outside the Socialist bookstore in the Market), my eyes scanned the memoir shelf and lit on "All Over But the Shoutin�" and my brain thought Hell yes that shit is all over, so I plucked it and put it in the box. A few minutes later, feeling self-critical, I wondered whether the book was really as bad as I remembered it or perhaps I was just being smug on account of the link my diaried Bragg rag got me from a certain big-time blogger on the right coast (envy me worship me), so I picked it up and flipped through some pages and scanned again, and here�s where I touched down:

An editor had asked me, sneering a little, who taught me to write.

I told Kovach that.

"The next time someone asks you that," he said, "tell �em it was God."

Yes, it was really as bad as I remembered it. That bad and worse. If Twice Sold Tales won�t buy the book back, I apologize in advance to the prison library it will eventually be stinking up. I could go on and on, I could compose a freakin term paper on how-is-Rick-Bragg-heinous-let-me-count-the-ways, but I don�t have much time to type today and I must conserve my energy. First box of books by the front door, dresser now residing with our favorite denizen of the Bayview Apartments, several months� worth of paperwork gone through and discarded, bags of maybe-can-sell-them clothes in the trunk, bags of Goodwill clothes in basement, gray Liz Claiborne slippers and the blue Aerosoles with zippers now living in Rebecca�s closet instead of mine, friendly postcard in the mail to � sit down � my father: how ya like me now? Julian and Rebecca showed up on Sunday afternoon while I was putting all my recently purchased cds into the vinyl sleeves (my storage mode of choice) and organizing those of them that had gotten scattered around house and car, and he said something like, Wow, you�re really on your way out of here, you�re really doing this already, aren�t you? I got panicky and I said Oh no no, unless I�m religious about the cds every time I buy one then I have to do this every few months and address the backlog, what you see me doing here is just maintenance. Which was true and not true at the same time, and I mean that in the way that has no overlap with the thing called a lie, because, yes, I tend to let stacks of cds pile up for a while and then sit down with the accumulated stack of them and impose order, but also in a way that you can�t tell from the sight of me doing these things (so that�s why I said no no to Julian), I feel like I�m putting things in order for keeps, and not just cds. It feels like on account of those plans I�ve made, there�s a sense of purpose hanging over everything I do, draped like a canopy, and also as if I�m working towards a deadline that�s also going to be like the last day of school and then my life as summertime. Not that I�m being na�ve or credulous, please understand � I know there are and will be practical issues. Here is my official policy statement on practical issues: I will deal with them as they arise.

I am tentatively happy; I am tentatively as happy as a clam. I�m feeling tough and confident and on emotional ground that is so so solid and a little bit in love with myself because how is it possible not to when Steve makes me feel more like the foxiest cleverest most charming female in Seattle every damn day I know him, and � this is switching gears, sorry � in a few months� time I�ll be living in a place where I don�t pay out the nose in rent + electricity + DSL, and my whole self is beginning to imagine what it might feel like to be able to breathe easier. I�m having that beginning-to-become, car-and-driver sense of things, this time with enough gas in my tank to get somewhere rather than just gunning the motor, and over the weekend I got an idea: if I don�t have a new job lined up by late August when Steve and I are going on vacation, I should quit Gastro, go to Greece, and start temping again upon my return. My living expenses are going to go so far down that I could maintain something like a standard of living on temp money, I reasoned, and despite all the unknowns I do know for sure that I�m going to be in a much more stable and congenial situation than I have been since moving into the Beacon Hill house. I get no vacation time at Gastro until at least the first of September and probably not even then since I�d have to get it approved and they don�t look kindly on people who want to take time off right away � "right away" meaning by which time I�ll have been here almost a year � so chances are I�d have to take it as unpaid leave. I can�t pinpoint exactly what part of this equals the final indignity, but the same way my whole self can say yesyesyes like that, wanting something, it can also do the opposite, and it�s time for me to draw a line in the sand against the cowardly sellout spineless version of myself that is writing to you from Gastro USA. Fuck you and your unpaid leave, I�ll take my own goddamn unpaid leave, and then I�ll come back and, however long it takes, I�ll find a job where I never have to eat shit again. I could go calculator-brainially into the financial rationalization of such a hypothetical action � but holy cats does it feel electric even to type those words � but all I need to say is this: I can afford to do it. I deserve it. I would be able to come back from Greece a supercharged factory of competence, determination, and no fucking fear, and my self-esteem would not suffer if the temping lasted several months before I found something good, because I would have drawn the line and not crossed it, I would be self-accountable. I would be, to myself, an ethical rock star.

That is how I was feeling this weekend. I sort of let myself sit with it, marinating in it, not telling anyone about my idea, and this morning I was ready for the real world and I called my sister and asked her what she thought. Her reaction was not what I�d hoped for. She didn�t say anything for a long time and then she sighed, sounding pained, and asked, "Do I have to give you an answer about this today?" She later sent mail with the subject header "After further reflection: I�d do it," but by then I was spooked and already on my hopeful Take Two, to Vanessa, some of which you read at the top of this page. And Vanessa says right on and we are going to meet up for drinks this evening and discuss the matter further, she is going to tell me I am not a flake, and now get this: the funny part is that while I was going back and forth with my sister and Vanessa, channeling my new mojo, there was another e-mail from Mrs. Roboto that for some reason was taking a long time to get to me, I knew it was coming but not what it was, and when it showed up it contained a job listing for a sweet position that no brag would fit me like, you know, a G-L-ove, a kidskin one with a cashmere liner. And I said I wasn�t going to talk about this sort of thing in the diary, but we all know I am very foolish like that, and I don�t know if I should be thinking of Mrs. R�s communiqu� as merely a good omen and confirmation that such jobs are indeed out there or a real, let-it-be-me possibility that could equal not even having to take unpaid leave and then temp the temp of the just. Secret Heart is singing fight songs, anthems, I can feel it, but I can�t pick up the words. I have downloaded the application packet and before and after my confab with Vanessa I will spend the evening and whatever portion of the night the task requires filling it out and writing the letter that will make grown HR executives weep with joy and gladness, and I will write it from the solid-grounded position of the fearless rock star cowboy in white because whatever I tell them, it will only be true. Cross your fingers for me as you see fit.

More good omens:

1. Sunday afternoon when Vanessa and Popeye came by for the dresser, I was listening to an old mix cd I made, and as they carried it out my oldest theme song was playing. Catharine, you know what it is. (Oh, and Catharine is Catharine.)
2. Today I�m wearing the skirt I was wearing in August of 1999 on the day that my life started to get bad, to take the swampwards slide I must admit I don�t think it�s recovered from and had sometimes feared never would. There was a stain on the pocket that over the weekend I finally scrubbed out. It fits me better now.
3. While I was writing the I-am-tentatively-happy paragraph, Steve sent e-mail that had in it this: I am lucky to have you.
4. In the USPS mail today I got a package from my mom, Betsy Blair�s "The Memory of All That." How totally unexpected and how totally cool.
5. My Nets are in the playoffs. If the Nets can do it, why couldn�t I?

OK OK. You get the picture, I think. I think I hope. If I didn�t have to get back to the glorious world of hepatitis, I�d type more, and I�ll try to check in again tomorrow and let you know how I�m rocking and whether I�ve full-on committed to the Fuck Gastro program. I�m serious about that finger-crossing, people. Show me some love.

Rowr.

(Could you tell that this stuff was percolating? I hope so. Because it has been.)

Can the source of Edith P.�s "Mr. Man" meme be Ms. Me? I�d be so thrilled!