“I’m doomed,” I said to Mom as I was heading out the door. Even though I was lacking the shiny golden armor, I was definitely feeling like C3-PO.

She was plating the kids an early dinner.  She had at least three hours of alone time ahead of her with my three girls, and she was particularly cheerful.

“Go get your toes done and go to what’s-her-name’s house. We’ll see you back here whenever!”

“Okay,” I replied lamely. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to curl up on my sofa and chit chat.

But… my toes looked like shameful. I was overdue for a pedicure by at least three months.  It’s an indulgence I tend avoid—guilty pleasure.  How can you justify an hour away from the kids and home just to have your stupid toe nails painted. What? You can’t paint the damn things yourself? A bottle of polish which easily supplies 10 applications is 3 dollars. One salon pedicure is thirty dollars.

1 selfish mom- 1bottle of nail polish x 1 hr +  $30  + X / time spent away from the children = BAD MOTHER

Anyway, since I never got past algebra II, I disregarded the equation and  headed off to the pedicure.

The women at Nellie’s Nails were very happy to see me.

As I walked through the door six Vietnamese-American ladies ripped off their surgical masks, dropped their drills and exalted “Hey Joo-Lee!”

I guess they missed me.

9 months ago I was in the salon every 3 weeks getting my acrylic nails filled, ripped off, replaced and filled.

Nellie asked, “Joo-lee? Where you been? You want full set? You nails short.”

“Oh. I can’t Nellie. I’m in cooking school. I can’t have them anymore. I guess they breed bacteria.”

She shoved her surgical mask back over her mouth. Her eyes shifted side-to-side and that conversation came to a quick halt.

“Why you here?” She whispered.

“I’m in desperate need of a pedicure. It’s almost embarrassing.”

“Okay, Joo-lee. She help you. Come over here.”

Nellie waved me over as she booted up the “spa chair”.

Spa chair= Ten more bucks.

“Come sit down.”

I felt conflicted. It was four. I had to be at Amber’s at five. The spa chair was going to kill my timing. But, after telling my brain to shut up, I decided that I deserved the spa chair. Joe’s been gone most of this summer… Mom’s watching the kids… Every girl needs good toes… I deserve the spa chair.

I climbed in. There’s nothing less relaxing than sitting in a chair plugged into the wall and plunking your feet into a built in tub of water. Dead Man Walking.

But, I was going to make the most of this. No matter what. I needed to relax. I was going to avoid my usual routine of scrutinizing each swipe of the emory board and brush of the polish and instead indulge myself in true relaxation. I set the spa chair’s massage remote for “lumbar up and down” and grabbed the latest “US Weekly”. I was set on being a true hedonist.

I resisted every urge to check my watch. I shrugged off every impulse to oversee the management of my toes. I plunged myself head first into the new tabloid debate of Brittany Spears vs. Jessica Simpson. Who’s better? Just as I was about to declare Jessica the winner, the pedicurist tapped my leg. “You all done.”

I put down the rag, thanked her and then glanced at my feet. I had eight toes painted a subtle shade of red, and two toes painted the same hue, but adorned with flowers and rhinestones.

Dude!

I looked at my watch.  It’s 4:55.

My brain began yelling at me again, “You need to get to Amber’s. Blow it off. Don’t say anything. You can take it off yourself at home. It’s only a few dollars!”

I sat paralyzed for several minutes.

Nellie came by and tapped my leg. “You dry. It look good. Yes.”

Suddenly, that funny voice that I’m learning to really like, popped out, “Nellie. I didn’t ask for these flowers. I really want them taken off.”

Nellie stared at me in shock. She began saying something in Vietnamese that made all of the manicurists roll their eyes and grumble.

My funny voice tried to be tough, but decided to bail.

I tried to stand firm on my own. The best I could do was a waffling, “Well, it looks beautiful, and I really wasn’t paying attention, so I guess it’s my fault. Why don’t I pay you for it anyway, but can you please take it off and just paint on the polish.”

“You don’t like it? It’s beautiful!”

I was on the verge of breaking.

It was 4:59.

“It’s lovely, but it’s not me. I don’t want it. I want you to take it off. I don’t care if I have to pay, but I need it off!”

“Okay,” she said shrugging her shoulders.

She asked her friend in Vietnamese to make the change, and she did.

When I went to pay, I pulled out forty. It was only thirty. Reluctantly, Nellie removed the charges for the flowers, rhinestones and re-polish.

I walked out feeling empowered. I guess speaking up for yourself works sometimes.

Now I just had to find the right apology for being twenty-five minutes late to Amber’s.

Climbing into the car, I smudged both big toenails.

I’m doomed.

So, after obsessing for an hour, I decided to be truly brave and return the call.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Amber. This is Jules from cooking-”

“Hi.”

I was just return-”

“Chef asked me to call you. She’s concerned. She really wants, well I’m sure she’s already talked to you. But, she’s really, umm, concerned about the menu for the banquet.”

“Huh?”

“Well, I’m sure she’s said it to you a hundred times, but she’s so impressed with your recipes from the hors d’ouevres class. Well, she really wants us to be the driving force on the menu for the banquet.”

“Huh?”

“I was hoping that we could get together and discuss some ideas.”

“Ideas?” (I still was not getting it).

“Yeah. Do you want to come over for a glass of wine and talk. Do you drink wine?” (Stop laughing.)

“Sure. That sounds great. (Those were the words coming out of my mouth, while my brain was yelling at me…’No! No! No!’)

“How about Saturday?”

“Umm okay. When do you want to meet? ”

“How about 5?”

“OK. Do you want to come here? (Brain yelling again, ‘What are you an idiot? Are you going to drug the children? Not to mention your house looks like sh*t. Are you going to clean? Why is it that you don’t clean? You don’t have a job. Dude!’)

“You have little kids. I don’t want you to go crazy. Come here.”

“That would be fine. What can I bring?”

“Nothing. We’ll just hammer out some preliminary ideas.”

“Great. See you then.”

I took down her address. No need for directions. She’s only two blocks away.

I hung up the phone feeling so relieved. It was like taking ski boots off after a long day on the slopes.

I enjoyed the high for two seconds and then immediately began the imperative task of chronic self-doubt.

What did she mean? Chef was praising me? Chef has never praised me to my face like that? Menu? Banquet? Going to her house?

I began to sweat.

I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go to her house. I don’t want to plan a menu. I just want to work at this banquet quietly, behind the scenes, and get this whole thing behind me.

Crap.

I was still on a high from the market tour. But, I think everyone around me, including the kids and Joe were beginning to get annoyed and concerned. Or maybe they were just thinking, “could you just shut up with the  cantaloupe thing?”.

I guess I don’t blame them. There’s little worse than someone rambling on excitedly about things that are not so exciting. I couldn’t argue. But, I still talked about it mercilessly to anyone who would listen.

“Would you like paper or plastic?”

“Well, paper… but did you know a tamarind or tamarindo, as it is known in Latin America, has a surprisingly pleasant sweet and sour taste when bitten into?

The tamarind is native to tropical Africa and grows wild throughout the Sudan. It was introduced into India so long ago, it has often been reported to be indigenous there. It is extensively cultivated in tropical areas of the world. But, sometime during the sixteenth century, it was introduced into America and today is widely grown in Mexico. But, boy is it tasty! ”

“Uh- huh. Do you need help out Mrs. W?”

“Oh no thank you. I can manage.”

No one was spared.

But anyway…

After running four thousand errands the following day with a screaming toddler, I came home to a blinking answering machine.

I remember (slightly) the days before I was married. The blinking light on the answering machine was like cocaine. You dreamed about it all day. If it was not blinking you were completely devastated. If it shined its glorious light when you returned from a very long day,  you enjoyed the most euphoric high as your index finger even approached the play button… It could be him!

But, luckily, ten years have gone by, and as I have grown spiritually and learned to enjoy the most that life has to offer.

The blinking message machine now just means one thing…

“Oh crap. Who do I have to call back now?”

I pressed the button.

“Hi Jules. This is Amber from cooking school. I think we should talk. Please call me back as soon as possible. Okay. Thanks.”

I played it four times.

I carefully examined each word and intonation until I came to the solid conclusion that she absolutely hates me and I was in big trouble.

My trip to the Produce Mart was absolutely better than anything I had ever expected. I began the day shuffling around with the crowd on the loading dock, eyeing all of the produce and making smart ass comments. By the end of our tour, I found myself flanking Mr. Neruya so closely that I think he was ready to call security. I couldn’t help myself, though. He was totally brilliant but the softest talker on the planet. I should know. I’m a serial mumbler. I could have put my ear next to his vocal cords, though, and been lucky enough to only walk away with every third word.

It didn’t matter. I got it.

You know how you stand in the grocery produce section trying to look cool? You feel-up the avocado, stare down the shirt of the cantaloupe and even try to make conversation with the tomatoes? It’s all in vain. Because no matter how hard you try, you end up going  home with the worst produce ever.

You can pick the rosiest firmest tomato, and when you slice it, lay it lovingly next to the most expensive fresh mozzarella and the greenest basil you take one bite and still reach for your vinaigrette. You should be able to enjoy it all with a simple shake of sea salt and a grind of peppercorns.

Bummer.

If you ever buy a cucumber again… buy a Persian cucumber. You’ll never turn back the are so firm and flavorful.

When you buy garlic, press on the root. There should be no give.

The webbing on the outside of a cantaloupe should be very raised…and smell it. It should smell like the sweetest melon you’ve ever dreamed of.

These were just three of the myriad things that I learned that cold morning. I was transfixed.

There is nothing more satisfying than learning from an expert. We all spend so much of our lives listening to people BS about everything. The talking heads on the  radio, cable tv, the networks, the internet,and all of the people who listen to the radio, watch cable and the networks, and surf the internet,  have all become experts on everything and nothing.

It has become part of our culture. Everyone has something to say about everything. Give them a mic and they’ll lecture.

How refreshing it was to stand, freezing in the middle of downtown L.A. at dawn, and have this old man show me how to choose a melon. He knew everyone and everything at the Produce Mart, which quickly became a bustling hub with flurries of transactions happening all around us.

His biggest regret?

He was entrenched in the process of trying to regulate the marketing of baby carrots when he was forced into retirement.

That little pouch of “baby carrots” you buy in the market are simply a whittled down regular carrot. A true baby carrot is a varietal all its own. It is a tiny carrot, top and all. The other is a batonnet of a regular carrot; packaged as a baby carrot. You could see his blood boil as he stared at a package of them on the dock.

“I fought hard to have these removed from the marketplace. But, when you leave a job, they don’t follow up. They don’t care,” he said.

I guess the truth may be that no matter how much important work you do in your life, it’s always the work not done that irritates you.

Mom came and spent the night. Joe was in Florida, and I had to leave at 5. Stupidly, I hung up until 11 the night before, sipping wine and telling endless “funny” stories to Mom, who kept courteously laughing and telling me to go to bed.

Finally, I had a great idea: I really should get some sleep. I headed to bed.

5 am came two minutes later. My head hurt. I was exhausted and it was cold and dark outside. But, I managed to get in my car and get to the school parking lot by 5:15 am. There sat  Alice and Home-schooler tapping their feet and fakely smiling.

“Sorry I’m late guys,” I said with my morning voice, which now sadly sounds much like Abe Vigoda.

“Oh. It’s okay,” they lied. I climbed out of my Ford Expedition and climbed into the back seat of Home-schooler’s Ford Expedition. We hopped on the dark, empty freeway and headed to Downtown L.A.

It was clear to me within the first mile that Home-schooler is the worst driver on the planet. Even my 82 year-old grandmother would rank #47 behind her. I immediately began having a panic attack. I quietly began my deep-breathing and positive self-talk exercises that I learned in my 14 different fool-proof fear of flying therapies. Meanwhile, I was clutching my seat belt so tightly that it almost melted in my hand.

Too bad I drank all the wine last night. I should have saved it for the drive.

We narrowly escaped disaster on the 101/134 merge, while Norah stared at the number pad on her cell phone. She was trying call her husband to give him his “morning wake up call”. I felt truly thankful when we pulled into the parking lot at the L.A. Produce Mart. It was in absolutely the lousiest part of the city, and when I got out of the deathmobile and stared at the gun-toting Cholos on the opposite corner, I felt completely safe.

We were the first to get there. We politely chatted with Mr Neruya, a GOD in the produce industry who is about 90 years-old, and was annoyed with Chef for being late. Although he’s done these tours with her for over a decade, he still hasn’t figured out that she’s always late. Hmm.

Everyone slowly trickled in. Amber, Bridget, Lana (another Wed. class person in an SL 500. Nice), Bigfoot, and Cameron. He’s so nice. I was  glad to see him there. I wanted to get to know him better. He really had me laughing in the “at least you’ll learn how to make a good pizza” class.

Chef finally pulled in 20 minutes late with Loretta the bubbly and kind TA.

I didn’t know what to expect. All I knew was that I was cold, tired and really needed an Egg McMuffin.

“Demo!” Chef shouted. “Here is how we fabricate the lobster.”

She grabbed one of the poor things by the head, raised her chef’s knife into the air and stabbed it right through the “skull”.

“Nooooooo!” The class screamed in horror. (Well, actually it was just me).

“Then you rip off the tail with a twist,” she continued. The knife was still jetting up vertically from the lobster’s head, and I think I was still screaming.

“And now the claws,” she said as she grabbed her lobster shears and snipped off its arms.

“This is the humane way to kill a lobster. It feels no pain,” she said trying to make eye contact with us while we watched it flop around on the counter, tail-less, armless and with a giant knife sticking out of its head.

Suddenly, my appetite was gone. (Except for that brie that someone had brought in. Well, it was just sitting there on the butcher block behind us… and it was good. I didn’t want them to feel bad.)

I was so horrified!!! How could anyone do that to an animal!?! I may never eat again!

“Okay”, she said. “Now it’s your turn. And be quick because we’re short on time.”

I grabbed my biggest knife and stood by as person after person jammed their knives through the lobsters and had at them. It was awful. You have to keep the bands on their claws because they keep snapping at you horribly. The tail, even after being completely separated from the body, will flip so hard it that it almost rips your finger off. YIKES!

There I stood in the stuffy commercial kitchen staring at the one lobster left. Mine. It was not quite so heavenly. I really didn’t think I could do it. Unfortunately, I had already planned to approach Chef that night and ask her for a job in a restaurant. I couldn’t let her see me wimp out now. I knew she was watching me, too.

I clutched my knife and lunged for the poor little lobster. As I grasped it around the head, it jumped from my hand, skidded off the counter and landed on the floor. I was screaming like an a-hole.

Everyone jumped. So much for not looking like a wimp. I stared at Chef. ” We always just throw them in the water and cover the pot. They never seem to struggle,” I implored.

“How do you know? Can you see through steel?” She asked.  “It takes them 15 seconds to die by boiling water,” she added.

“Would you like to be boiled alive for 15 seconds?” She asked.

Well to be truthful. At that moment I did.

I scooped the poor thing from the floor, while blurting out a colorful variety of vulgar expletives, as if I was speaking in tongues. I jammed the knife through the back of its head. I continued swearing like a sailor with Tourette’s Syndrome.

I snipped off the claws as its tail kept snapping at my hand. It stung, but I kept going. I snipped off each leg. Snap. Snap. Snap.

I removed the tail from the now limbless thorax. I cut the thorax in half to remove the tomalley and coral. There was a lot of coral in this poor girl. So much that Chef proclaimed with a gleam in her eye, “Oooh! This one would’ve had a lot of babies!”

I was thoroughly disgusted. I was still muttering foul things as I as I cut the tail into 4 small pieces where the segments join. When I was done, the thought of ever eating lobster again was a distant one. I felt horrible.

But, when cooking was done, in true Jules form, I was one of the first to the table with my fork.

A beautifully presented lobster pasta, Lobster a l’Americaine and lobster bisque were served. They were all delicious. I felt guilty enjoying it so much and embarrassed of my tantrum.

Chef came to my side. She patted me on my back and said, “Jules, you swear like a real cook!”

Third Section: Advanced Preparations II

I was so eager… I actually made it to school early.

Chef had not yet arrived.

It gave us all a chance to talk. The giggling gaggle was around me.

“Jules you should have been here last Monday!” Alice said.

I told them I was in Chico.

“Jules, she went on and on about how your hors d’oeuvres were the best.” Alice said. “She was impressed with your gumption to e-mail that chef for the date thing, and the truffle oil. She kept saying that your stuff was really elegant.”

I was hanging on to every word.

I learned that NGL got a lashing, and across the board she was pretty disappointed in everyone else’s stuff. She liked the home-schoolers pumpernickel/trout concoction. She apparently liked Alice’s mini-Maryland crab cakes which were really good. Chef overall was generally disappointed.

YAY!

I was dying to hear more about how great I am, but it was time to start class. Lobster time!

Layla the Verbally Abusive TA began the lecture. She prefaced it by sharing that she is actually deathly allergic to shellfish. She keeps an Epi-pen in her purse because she could go into anaphylactic shock just by touching a piece of shellfish.

My wheels began turning…  Nope, too easy.

And then I wondered, why the hell is she here? Are those rubber gloves really going to save her?

I listened intently anyway. I wanted this lecture to move along as quickly as possible so that we could throw those puppies in the boiling water and have a feast!

It sure made me miss our “lobster fests” in Mill Valley. Jonah and Sara would join Joe and me for Maine lobsters that we would order on line from Webvan (I LOVED Webvan). A simple gallon of melted butter and 400 bottles of wine later and we were beaming for weeks.

I can’t forget my vacations on Cape Cod where my mother-in-law would treat the whole family to a lobster feast pulled fresh from the water with steamers (and for some weird reason baked ziti. We’re not even Italian.) We’d sit around the picnic tables and eat every last bite, laughing and joking. Those were such great times.

I will never forget sitting on the beach in Wellfleet watching the kids play at the water’s edge while chomping down on a fresh lobster roll I purchased at the shack a few feet away. Heaven!

Layla began her lecture:

The most prized lobsters in the world is the American Lobster. It  lives off  the  Atlantic coast between North Carolina and Newfoundland. Most are fished from the waters off of New England…blah blah blah. Even Michelin three- stars in Europe buy their lobsters from the lowly American fisherman… blah blah blah.

Finally, in the world of food we have something exclusive. Our wines often sit in the shadow of their French counterparts. Bread? Nope. Coffee? Not so much.Cheese? Are you kidding me?

BUT! Have they tried the Six Dollar Western Bacon Cheeseburger at Carl’s Junior? No? C’est Bon!

They are convinced that Americains suck, but apparently our lobster is amazing. Wicked cool!

Layla continued: The lobster has a large flexible tail, two claws and four pairs of legs.  The meat from the claws, tail and legs is eaten.  The roe is the unfertilized eggs of the female. Lobster eggs were once considered a delicacy, like caviar. The roe is also called “coral” because of its bright red color. The tomalley or lobster paste is the soft, green substance found in the body cavity of lobsters, that functions as both the liver and the pancreas. It is also eaten.

The lobster is classified by weight: the chick is the smallest at 1 lb. Although many consider the chick to be sweetest, the optimum size to serve is the jumbo which is between 2-3 lbs.– any larger and the meat becomes somewhat tough.

You can tell a girl from a boy by the swimmerets. They are pairs of tiny fuzzy legs under the tail. The first pair of swimmerets on a male lobster are hard, whereas on a female lobster, they are soft and feathery.

Blah, blah, blah.

Layla finally stopped talking.

Just then Chef blew in as if on queue.

Oh crap!  Not another lecture. But, no, she was too preoccupied and told us to begin killing the lobsters.

Layla dumped eight lobsters on the counter. Their claws were bound with rubber bands, but they were flipping and squirming and trying to get away. Oh poor things. I wanted to put them in the boiling water as quickly as possible to end their horrific anticipation.

But, suddenly I noticed that there were no lobster pots simmering anywhere in the kitchen. Just two glass bowls, a 9″ Chef’s knife and 8 lobsters were presented.

I quickly became concerned.

The third section came quick.

It seems like just yesterday that I was lying on the sofa in my patented “approach-avoidance-malaise” begging Joe to call and not call the school to sign me up for this course.

But, alas…

I was slowly stirring on Monday morning getting ready to say goodbye to my sister, Jeff and Grace, who had been visiting for a long weekend, when the answering machine went off bringing me back to reality. “This is Roxanne from the Culinary Institute. I just wanted to remind you that your final tuition installment is due when you arrive to class tonight”.

My first thought was, “Oh. I’m actually paying THEM for this?”

Then I woke up.

Okay. I have to remember to bring my “you’re-not-getting-new-windows-before-Lucy-graduates-from-college” credit card to school tonight.

I turned on my side to Joe, “What’s your schedule today?” I asked in my early morning voice.

“I have to pack. Then I am going to Boca Raton for eight days.”

“Oh. Right. Don’t go.”

“I have to.”

” I know.”

We both got up and began the morning routine: Coffee. Diaper. Cheerios. Juice. Mark and Brian Radio Show. Showers. Teeth. Hair (Uh!). Clothes.

In those two hours, Melinda and Jeff had run five miles, showered, dressed, eaten, packed, checked their e-mail, returned phone calls, played with the kids outside, played with the kids inside, cleaned the guest room, watched the Today Show, gassed up the car, grabbed coffee and returned to load the car. God! They looked great. They were ready to go. They even had snacks packed. That must be what it’s like to have one kid. (As my friend Dave O’ Brien, father of three girls, once said: having one child is not parenting. It’s a hobby.)

Joe and I waved groggily, almost Eeyore-like, as they pulled away.  Jeff yelled from the driver’s side window, “What’s your class tonight?”

‘Umm. I don’t know.”

“Lobster!” my sister yelled from the passenger side. “I saw the syllabus on the bulletin board!”

“It is?” I perked.

I rubbed my hands together as they drove away. I turned to Joe and said clapping, “This is going to be a great day.”

We headed back into the house and back to the grind.

Laundry, laundry, laundry. Dishes, dishes, dishes.

Joe’s packing. The girls and I told him how much we’ll miss him, and then he was gone (I was already trying to precisely remember his last words so that I could tell everyone at his funeral how poignant they were). Meanwhile, I donned the insipid grin and told the kids not to cry because Daddy will call us tonight.

Mom arrived just in time to listen to me bitch about how tired I am. Then I left. I was exhausted. The whole hors d’oeuvres debacle, then traveling without Joe, house guests for the weekend, and then he’s gone for eight days, it’s a lot for me.  However, when I walked out the door leaving Mom with my over-tired kids, I forgot it all.

I was starting to get excited. Lobster!

It’s my favorite food on the planet.

Dungeness Crab is the second… and very fresh Atlantic sea scallops are the third.

Of course all of that ranks up there with beef, butter, salt, sugar, Coffee Heath Bar Crunch ice cream, In-n-Out Burgers and Coca-cola.

Lobster meant that it was my birthday. When I was a kid, I couldn’t wait all year. Whether it was at Gladstone’s, The Bellevue (now gone) in Santa Monica, or even “Benihana Delight”, every year somehow  my mother and grandmother scraped together enough cash to give me my birthday lobster. And I loved every last bite.

Even in these days of Kobe Beef, Abalone, Beluga, Sevruga and Osetra… nothing beats a lobster for me. It will always be my decadent treat.

There is nothing like a Maine lobster. It really is the ONLY lobster. I have been lucky enough to eat them in Maine and Cape Cod and get a true sense of the convergence of sweet, brackish, chewy and tender. It’s amazing. Once you have it you may never want to bother ordering anything else again.

I love lobster.

More tomorrow from a much more awake…

Jules

Apparently, persons close to me were concerned that I was depressed. I guess when you call yourself a failure people get concerned. (Jot that down for future reference).

I explained that self-deprecating humor is an ironic device that writers use in prose to make the audience feel engaged and somewhat more comfortable, while easing the tension from the drama built by the subject matter itself. That was lost on the person concerned… and I think I have an appointment with “Dr. You’re-not-a-failure-give-me-a-hug” next week…

Actually things are moving along.

So, the culmination of this fantasy/nightmare class is the graduation banquet. We are to cook and serve the most elegant of tasting menus to our guests.

I can’t vouch for the food or the wine, but, it’s my graduation. So, since you’ve been forced to go along on the ride of this long-winded journal… it’s the least I could do to invite you.

So, the invites will arrive in the next few days. It’s $85 a plate, and although the net proceeds go to charity, I think it’s an exorbitant amount.

Please don’t feel compelled to come.  I know you all support me in everything I do. Whether it’s changing a diaper, changing a tire or changing my life, I am “truly blessed” to have such a great support system.

The best thing about being surrounded by people who tell you that “you’re not living up to your true potential” is that you can make them a sandwich, and they’ll tell you that you’re a ‘genius’. Nice.

Just a perk I guess of being a professional failure.

So, blah blah blah. The invites are out.

I hope you all come, and I hope no one comes.

I’m shy and nervous and stressed.

It could go either way.

Meanwhile. I’m just proud that for the first time in ten years…  (Hannah’s shoving her lollipop in my face, “Look Mommy. Purple. It’s purple. See the purple. Thank you mom, mom it purple. Yay.)

I’ve done something for me. As small as it is, it’s huge.