Tessalation

I am sitting directly in front of my air conditioning unit (since it is about 90 degrees at 8:00 at night), waiting for Dave to get home from work. Where art thou, my blue collar man? I would complain about the heat, but I just talked to my old boss and he told me it’s been snowing in Salt Lake. So I will shut up and be grateful.

I had a job interview today. It was a second interview. The first one on Tuesday went spectacular. This one was… okay. I don’t know why, but I just sort of stumbled over my words a bit, and didn’t really feel comfortable or focused. Maybe because the interviewer had shifty eyes. Or maybe because I was thinking about who got voted off of “Dancing with the Stars” and how it was so unfair.

Life in Georgia has been lovely so far. It really is gorgeous here. So freaking GREEN. And the trees are TALL. It’s beautiful. And on days when I don’t have job interviews, I pretty much do, well, nothing. I hang out with the Syd. And the DVR. I have felt somewhat restless and lonely, but not as much as I expected.

I miss people. Sometimes it’s enough to make me really really sad. Not that people out here aren’t great - because they are - but new friends never can take the place of old friends. So I guess I’m going to have to make a real effort in two areas. One: in being the type of person who both returns phone calls and listens to messages. Two: in not developing a southern drawl. (it is so prevalent here that I find myself already making an effort to speak normally.)

Not having a job, or place to live, or any semblance of a social life does make me feel kind of stressed. But sitting outside in the backyard (a.k.a. forest) while the leaves rustle and the wind blows gently across my face, it’s impossible to feel anything but peace.

My mom came to visit me last weekend.

The reason she came because she is afflicted with Maternas-Ursas Pschodysfunctis, AKA “Mama Bear Syndrome,” a delusional disease that causes mothers to think they can protect you from all bad things with the ferocity of their motherly affection. My mother has always had it, but ever since I moved out of the house at age 17, the condition grew worse. Think your Mom might have it? Click here for a list of Symptoms.

So naturally, when I tell my mom that I am feeling depressed and stressed out, she books a flight. Assuming, of course, that her visit will lessen my stress. OH SILLY WOMAN.

She means well and is a very sweet, sensitive person, but after 3 arguments and at least 4 crying spells I felt like we were on the verge of estrangement. So I suggested we make a pie.

As far as mothers go, there are two things I can give mine credit for.

First: Instead of constantly lecturing me about the dangers of teenage life, she chose a more subtle method. She’d leave poignant newspaper clippings on my desk. When I learned to drive it was: “Man Posing as Undercover Policeman Abducts Teen from Car.” When I started listening to techno music it was “Young Girl dies from Ecstasy Overdose.” I found this method somewhat humorous.

Second: She has pretty good taste in movies. Some of her recommendations that I’ve loved have been The Fifth Element, Chocolat, Lost in Translation, and most recently, Waitress. This is what inspired my pie-baking.

And as the therapeutic process of baking neared its finish, and the scent of homemade cinnamon apple pie filled the kitchen, she asked what I would like to name this pie creation. I thought about it for a second and then answered. She smiled a little half-heartedly.

Sorry Mom. I know you wanted to make “I’m-moving-home-and-will-be-your-little-girl-forever-Pie.” But I’ve lost the recipe.

As the air gets colder, my life gets slower. It’s not like I’m less active - in fact my job has been busier than ever - it’s more like I feel everything slower. Like a thick muggy haze has settled over my brain with the departure of the sunlight. It’s weird because I do love rainy days, and yet the continual succession of them makes me sluggish and dull at heart. I hear some people call this seasonal depression.

Having grown up in a place that pretty much had one season all year -something around a late-spring/early summer- I only began to to experience this feeling when I moved to Utah. And for some reason, mostly in the past few years. (I guess in my early college days I was too busy double-booking my social calendar and eating everything in sight.) But now that I’m somewhat grown up, less distracted, and more self-aware, I’m much more…. affected I guess.
So in times of bad weather, no company, and a lack of cultural stimulation, I really start to feel melancholy. I feel like there’s a weight pressing down all of my consciousness into a compact, impenetrable block of misery . Some people (ie. the happy shiny people - thank God I’m not friends with them) don’t have the faintest clue what I’m talking about. But I think many others have experienced this phenomenon. And we can all agree that it causes one all-encompassing sentiment: THIS BLOWS. So in order to refrain from spontaneous exclamations of “woe is me” and “I hate everything!”….. I indulge myself in moments of escape. Just little moments, you know.

I start to read two books simultaneously. I take long, hot showers. I become addicted to night-time television. *Bless you ABC.com!!* I do anything I can to feel like I’m somewhere else. Well, anything I can that isn’t too expensive. Or uncomfortable. Or mentally taxing. Or that requires any sort of effort whatsoever.

This must be unhealthy.

Also Unhealthy: The authentic Belgian waffle covered in peaches and real whipped cream that I’ve eaten EVERY SATURDAY for breakfast at the Farmer’s Market, from this little waffle stand in the middle of the park. Oh Pierre, what you do with a waffle iron is magic. Adult Onset Diabetes here I come!

But the Farmer’s Market itself is one of my little escapes. Homemade delicacies like hazelnut goat cheese and mint salsa, ridiculously inexpensive organic fruits and vegetables, the best authentic Mexican taco stand in the state, gorgeous textiles, artwork, and pottery…. the list goes on. Before I moved to Salt Lake I was unaware this barren wasteland was capable of growing actual produce. But it turns out there are loads of local farmers and artists. They get together every week, transforming Pioneer park (the garbage-strewn loitering zone of homeless, stray cats, and drug dealers) into a bustling, colorful display of…. wait, what’s that word? I’ve been here too long, I can’t remember the term… it’s been lost in the monotony….. oh, um… it’s…. oh yeah, CULTURE. IN UTAH. It’s truly amazing what that park can offer: Friday night - ounce of crack. Saturday morning - pound of tomatoes. All organic.

Being there makes me feel like I’m somewhere else…. it even smells like liberals. mmmm. I forget that it’s going to get dark and frozen very soon. I enjoy going by myself; the peace in solitude, browsing at my leisure. I love to be alone with my thoughts. It’s a feeling of freedom and comfort… and I feel very alive. And for a few hours every weekend, I can enjoy the wind on my face, the crunching leaves under my feet, the scent of carne asada in the air, and the feeling of sweet waffle in my belly…….. and this, I think, is happiness.