6:46 p.m. - Written 2005-11-13
Hot Sausage & Mustard.

Last night, Honorary Aunt Janet swooped down upon my little burg, and she (& her Alex) took my Alex & I to dinner at a wonderful fusion restaurant with unusual entrees and strange, luxurious desserts; the kind whose absurd, concentrated fairy-tale pulchritude compell a girl to take tiny bites and make it last forever. I felt special enough last night to last me for weeks.

Today, she showed up at 1pm and said "Have you eaten?"

"Not yet," I said. Janet is a late riser and I hadn't wanted my eating plans to clash with hers, so I'd waited.

Well, I wanted to take you shopping today, and stock up," she said. "Then we can eat. Let's shop hungry!"

"Stock up?"

"Well," she said, "the first thing I thought of when I got laid off 20 years ago was: 'I'd better stock up on toilet paper.' "

I laughed.

"You are not going to believe this," I said, "but I just ran out of toilet paper...and was terrified you were going to ask to come up and use the loo and find the emergency box of kleenex. I kept putting off buying t.p. 'cause I have a 'Try Cottonelle free' coupon that expires Monday."

She laughed and then I laughed, and she drove us to Costco, where she made me pick out extra large sizes of everything.

At first, I protested.

"I still have 11 hours of work a week, guaranteed," I said.

"Want granola bars?"

"I don't know. ...I will be collecting unemployment. I have some savings, collected for just this sort of thing. I am an expert at living cheaply, and I've never been hungry. Ever!"

She would hear none of it, and kept waving groceries at me while I guiltily piloted the cart.

"Want laundry detergent?"
"I can't see the prices on this kind."

It was "All-Free" vs. a generic (also minus dyes and perfumes) & I was tempted to go for the generic, but didn't want to be stuck with gallons of an Unprecedented Something that might give me a rash.

"Get what you want."
"I'm not used to being spoiled."
"Just get it."

And so on, up and down the aisles.

I came away with enough pasta spirals, shells, and bowties for...a year? Tomato and alfredo sauces, bottles of cranberry juice, grapefruit juice, pomegranate juice, cran-raspberry, cans of refried beans and diced tomatoes, 9 lbs of Quaker oats, shelled walnuts, dried blueberries, peanuts and cashews, a ridiculous carton of eggs, Easy Mac, an immense tub of creamy natural peanut butter, 10 lbs of organic brown basmati rice...toothbrushes, glide floss, a massive bottle of chewable vitamins, 750 ibuprofen tablets, multipacks of DayQuil & Nyquil, contact lense solution, kitchen bags, 20 bars of Dove, 2 gallons of detergent, and a double pack of Neosporin for my hands, which are always getting scratched or cut or snapped at by wild animals; I don't know how I do it.

And toilet paper. 36 rolls of toilet paper.

I was scared to look directly into the shopping cart. In the end, I was appalled when I overheard the total.

We broke for an excellent pizza--our first meal of the day--at 4 o' clock. We chit-chatted non-stop, and I managed to express to her why I don't want to give up teaching lessons--a lightweight job that sounds quite silly on the surface even to my own ears, although what I give is significant, and what I get feels profound.

I can't forget the sound of a ballet dancer crowing for joy after discovering she was not "too thin to float", or the frightened accountant who went from being a certain drowning risk to a highly competent lap swimmer, or the adorable 5-year-olds who hopped up and down like puppies last week because it was 3 minutes to lesson time and they just couldn't wait to get into the water. I can't forget the earnest little fourth-grader who said "I love you, teacher!"

"What?" I'd said, surprised.

She'd blushed, and amended, "I mean, I like you, teacher!"

And there's a woman whom I've just convinced to crawlstroke across the deep end in a float belt, and we're going to get her to the point where she doesn't need that crutch--or I'm a monkey's uncle. And a guy who's been trying for 6 months to roll far enough to breathe. God, he's so close.

And I think I approach teaching from a psychological angle that no one else at my pool quite duplicates. I'm useful, dammit.

I want to keep 4 hours a week.

But I'm afraid that a certain job I've seriously looked at--with an 80-minute commute each way--will take me away from my regular students; from this pursuit I find gratifying and helpful and worthwhile, and reduce me to shilling emptily for an entity with an interesting but frivolous purpose.

I don't need to save the world, but I hate to give up the one thing I do that's rewarding and exciting and of service.

It was in talking to Janet that I managed to articulate something that was-- 'til then--inseparably entertwined like goddamned morning glories with fear--with the sneaking knowledge that I am also afraid to give up the last vestige of familiarity for the unknown.

And it's true. I am afraid.

But it was helpful to realize that there was something greater than that--that I do not want to lose.

Maybe I will apply for that job. Maybe I wont. However, if I refuse reasonable work I could lose my unemployment benefits, so I must apply only for that which I can imagine doing.

If I do apply, and it goes as far as an interview, I will frame my request just so: that I am active in my community, and I am hopeful that this job would be compatible with a guaranteed exit by 5pm--if just once a week, every Wednesday--in order to maintain my ties.

If I put it as such, whoever grants me that can come away feeling benevolent for something that might've been fine in the first place.

As the sun set, Janet took me to a local market for refrigerator foods and produce--organic bananas, red grapes, satsumas, natural vegetarian-fed beef and pork, ahi tuna, string cheese, local cheddar & monterey jack cheeses, organic milk and yogurt, frozen veggie wings, and sparkling pear cider.

"I can't eat all this meat before it goes bad," I said. "I'm already worried about the fruit."

"Freeze the meat."

"Really?"

A dim memory of childhood...my mother waiting until meat was on sale; scooping out enough out of one container to make burgers, rolling the rest as little foil bon-bons to freeze right next to the brick of chocolate chip mint ice cream I'd wheedled for.

"I guess people really do freeze meat," I said stupidly.

I am accustomed to buying 5 ounces of natural beef every few months and stir-frying it that night to get rid of the evidence, and that's been the extent of my Crazy Beef Days since childhood.

The store clerk was completely disoriented to see me coming through the line with so many things. She's used to seeing me with a purchase a quarter of that size, in part because I'm always on foot.

When we got back to my building it was dark and cold and Janet was about to run late for a concert, but the elevator was working (so I didn't have to imagine I was living in a romantic 4th floor walk-up in Paris) and my silly three-dollar old-lady-cart made a useful series of appearances. Thus aided, the two of us got the loot up to the flat in 3 trips.

I am not sure that my cupboards can conceal the oats.

"I am overwhelmed," I said, standing in my kingdom of food.

"I would do it for my son," she said. "And you are also mine." She paused, then more playfully echoed "You're mine!" It was all I could do not to cry.

She hugged me and left.

My kitchen is positively choked with love. Food, too.

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