It was right after I got the call from Tanya and tracked her boyfriend down in the warehouse.  "Is your name Roy? Tanya called. She wants you to call her right away--she says it's an emergency," I told the boyfriend. He nodded his head calmly, put a couple more cans of pinto beans on to the shelf, then headed over to the recieving desk to use the phone. Shortly after I returned to the front desk the phone rang again and the man on the other line was asking about cheese.  He was talking too quickly. "Sir, are you calling for yourself or on the behalf of an agency?" I asked. He did not understand my question. He continued, "I once had this cheese that I ate and it was from the food bank. I was wondering if you know if you still have that kind of cheese?"

I was dumbfounded for a second, but continued, "I am sure the food helpline can find an agency that will meet all your dietary needs.  If you like I can transfer you to the food helpline," admittedly trying to pass the cheeseavore on to someone else. "No, no I don't take handouts from anyone. I wanted to know what kind of cheese it was then I can go out and buy it myself." I tried explaining it was impossible to track this cheese down. Besides the fact that he had no idea what type of cheese it was, the agency that served it to him could have gotten it from someplace other than us, and furthermore it might not have even been a product that we bought but it could have been donated to us from a food drive and we don't keep track of the specific items that get donated to us. After explaining all this to him I finally told him the only way I could possbly think of tracking down his cheese was by searching up his referral history and seeing what agencies he had been referred to. Then he could get another referral and once there do a little detective work.

I was a tad embarassed to be talking so extensively and seriously about cheese.  He told me no, he had never asked for help before, it was his niece. He would go over to his niece's house and she would make him a cheese sandwich and they were the best cheese sandwiches made with the best cheese. And he thought that she got the cheese from us. He now wanted to make his own cheese sandwiches but needed to know the brand of that cheese. "Sir, I am sorry but it is impossible," I said. He thanked me for my time and I wished him the best of luck on his cheese quest.

                                                                          * * *

I didn't tell him we can never get back the cheese sandwiches fom our past. I was amazed by the power and faith this man had placed in himself and the food bank. He thought that with one phone call he could find his cheese and for a few minutes there he even had me going, trying to brainstorm how to find it. Now I wonder if Remembrance of Things Past could have been written about a man searching for an unidentified cheese he had once eaten at a soup kitchen as opposed to a madeline cookie, or would that just change the whole sentiment of the story? I don't know cause the thing's too damn long to read.

Okay, so NPR came up with a six-word title for this piece too, but still I like mine more than theirs. If I were really competing I'd try to make each sentence in this blog entry only six words, but since I never know where the period goes anyway it seemed futile. Finance has been particularly quiet these days as the only extrovert in the department has been off on vacation. The long strecthes of silence are really only interupted by machines: shredding, faxing, or ringing. So accordingly, I have been listening to a lot of NPR, Radio Lab and this American Life. NPR had a piece on an online magazine, Smith, that recently asked its readers to write their life story in six words. They then compiled these (along with the submissions of well known authors) together in a book called, Not Quite What I Was Planning. (NPR labeled their piece Six-Word Memoirs: Life Stories Distilled). The original idea came from Ernest Hemingway, who was once asked to write a story in six words and he wrote: "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." Which reminds me of the Craigslist documentary that was made in which they visited a woman who had a garage filled with baby carriages that she was selling.  Well, I liked the idea of writing a story in six words and during the drive to Santa Cruz today my BF and I tried to come up with some. I thought his was the best, "Method Man fell on my rabbi," which apart from the technicality that he is not my BF's rabbi, is a true story, and could even be somebody's memoir. In fact, if given the liberty to add three more words, "A true story" would add just the right sentiment. Mine for summing up my life was, "Still copying my neighbor's answers." (which okay is only 5 I know!!)

In the same vein of things we saw what I thought was the perfect sign on our drive today.  We had just come to the ocean after driving through the windy roads curving around the mountains and as we came upon the oceanfront road, a sign by the side of the road said "Drifting Sand," which I just loved. No "caution" or "slow down", no explanation of any sort, just those two words. We passed in silence, each taking in drifting sand.

(Too bad it's 9.)

On days when I drive my boyfriend to work, in exchange for his free ride, he reads to me my favorite part of the paper, Dear Abby. After he is finished reading each letter out loud we try to come up with What Would Dear Abby Say, or WWDAS for short, before reading Dear Abby's solution. The winner of course is the one who comes closest to Dear Abby's own reply. This past week "In Quarantine in Morro Bay" wrote in describing her boyfriend who doesn't want to see her when she is sick. Although they are both in the entertainment indusrty (which might explain his aversion), she worries what this implied about his commitment to her in the long haul, the "in sickness and in pain" part of the equation.
    "Dump him and move on," I said, flicking on the windshield wipers. Of course I lost, my boyfriend took some middle-of-the-road response, and Dear Abby never sees things as black and white as me.  She likes to answer with caution, taking a more complex view of human relations, which accordingly leads to a more boring and often inconclusive response. Dear Abby said perhaps there were other reasons, and that it would be best if she talked to him directly.
     On Tuesday I came down with the flu. And since then I have been trying to imagine what it would be like to have no one to cook for me, to administer my advils and cold medicine, no one to hold me when I begin shivering, or read to me cause my eyes hurt. No one to stop in during their lunch break to check in on me and bring me lunch.  I look at the mounds of used tissues, the cups of tea and OJ, the bowl of half-eaten soup, that lie at the foot of my bed and know for certain both that I am extremely lucky and that Dear Abby was dead wrong.

Day 1 of having a blog.
Much harder than previously anticipated.
So much pressure to fill empty space with wit, insight and humor.
Questions of self-doubt, aplenty.
Further questions on grammar, spelling and punctuation.

"Are you here for the social anxiety class?" the woman at the front desk asked me. Or did she ask me simply, "Are you here for the anxiety class?" Even at the time I remember fretting if I had answered yes to the right question. The woman in front of me in line, I had noticed, was also being sent to the class on anxiety, so I followed her.  We entered a large room, where we were to write down our contact info. and fill out the self adhesive, "hello my name is.." stickie.  My mind frezzes as I all of a sudden forget my email address and medical record number. I write down one thing, then scratch it out and write over it. There must be at least twenty people in the class. I had remarked to my boyfriend how i thought an hour and a half seemed like a long time for group therapy, but now with all these people in the class, I don't see how we'll ever get through in time. The woman conducting the class's name is different than the name of the woman I had recieved the letter from and whom I had called to enroll in her class. But although I had doubts when I first sat down if this was the right class for me, I had heard people entering the room after me, asking, "is this the room for social anxiety?" "Yes, yes come in." See, I said to myself, nothing to worry about, you are in the right place. Must be that the other Dr. got sick and couldn't make it, or maybe she was just the cordinator for the class and not the teacher, surely there were lots of explanations for the sudden switch of teachers, and me being in the wrong room wasn't one of them.  I was after all the same person who had in college sat down to what I beleived was an english lit. class, and though the class kept filling up with more and more students who were taking out their calculators, I was convinced that soon it would be them and not me leaving when the professor would arrive in due time and start his lecture on Edgar Allen Poe's "The Gold Bug."  I came up with a million reazons why in a lit. class all the students would be taking out their calculators, even fealing a little silly not bringing my calculator to my modern short stories seminar, until of course the professor finally came out and started teaching math. A roomful of calculators isn't going to tell me I'm in the wrong place, had been my takeaway at the time. I beleive I'm in the right until absolutly proven otherwise. But back inside the class on anxiety I was starting to get worried.
    We had to go around say our name and why we were here. The couple of people before me said the wanted to cure their anxiety. But I didn't have anxiety. I wasn't a nail biting hair pulling anxious person. I was there because i didn't care for large gatherings, didn't like meeting people, mingling, making chit chat, or schmoozing. I was an introvert in an extrovert world. I wasn't even sure I needed help for social anxiety but I thought it couldn't hurt. As more and more people went it became clear that not everyone was there because they didn't like going to parties. Then the class had to brainstorm symptoms of anxiety, like dizzy spells, shaking, sweating, heart pounding or hyper activity. I kept questioning each symptom, do I have that? Everyone got a copy of, "Managing your anxiety." Inside were worksheets for recording each day your lowest and highest level of anxiety. I kept debating inside my head, whether I had or didn't have anxiety. Surely up until this point i never thought I had anxiety, but the lady at the referal desk refered me to here, maybe she knows someithng i don't know. Maybe I do have anxiety. Maybe that is the source of all my problems and I just didn't know it until now.  Our teacher kept asking us not to miss any classes, "the day you really don't want to be here, is the day you need it the most." Well I really didn't want to be there right then, so perhaps, by her logic, I was in the right classroom.
    The class was suppose to end at 8:30. My boyfriend was picking me up from the class. At 8:30 our teacher assigned us a class activity to do with a partner. I kept checking my watch. Uh-oh, he's going to be pissed, I thought. At 8:45 our teacher began a guided meditation. With the lights out and eyes shut we were guided through releasing tension from our bodies starting with our toes working the way up to our head. Get to the point woman, I felt like screaming, relax our neck and heads and let's be on with it! I could barely keep my eyes closed, I kept checking the clock. I remembered distincly that the letter said the class was to get out at 8:30pm. She was just being iresponsible of the time. How could she detain a bunch of already anxious people half an hour late. She ended by saying she hoped that some of us felt slightly less tense than when we had first walked into the room, and she then dismissed us. I dashed out the rooom and ran to the parking lot, a ball of angry nerves and energy. "How was group therapy?" my BF asked. "They kept you guys late, huh?" He said totally calm and relaxed. I envied him for his laize faire attitude, if it was me, he'd never hear the end of it. I was in the wrong class. I had my doubts but it wasn't till she kept us there till 9pm that I was definitly sure. The next day I got a call from the Dr. who I was suppose to be meeting with. I had called her the night before, relaying the mistake that I thought had taken place. She said only 3 people made it to group therapy, she thought the rest of the participants had all by mistake wound up in the class on anxiety with me. The group therapy was for people with social phobia so of course none of us would have said anything when sent to the wrong room. At least I don't have to worry about whether I have anxiety anymore I said, and hung up the phone.