[Subject line from "Rent"]

I know that there exists a mean between relentless belittlement ("You got an A-? Why wasn't it an A?") and fostering a monster of entitlement ("I totally deserve an A! I've never gotten anything lower than an A before!"). I daresay most of my friends are proof of that, both as offspring and as parents.

I likewise recognize that there exists some happy middle ground between self-sabotaging frugality ("You can't ever depend on anyone else to take care of you") and irresponsible short-sightedness ("Things will always work out, la la la la la").

Reason 9089213 that I write: to give my subconscious' balking at patent truths somewhere to go. Stupid nightmares.

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On a brighter note, our favorite bakery is now regularly offering bread -- a welcome and entertaining development. It is welcome in large part because I'd all but given up on storebought bread: the cheaper brands list too many ingredients that come out of a lab instead of soil, sea, and sky, and looking at the pricier brands tended to trigger in me a kind of "oh my fucking God my dead parents will never forgive me for even thinking of wasting money like this" paralysis that was easiest to deal with by simply purchasing rice or potatoes instead.

Yeah, I know we're talking just three- or four-dollar increments here. We're talking about what I call "the butterfly and the bicycle" belief system, where you grow up believing that every single thing you do and say can affect the rest of your life and the fate of the world. (My nickname comes from the old cascade-of-consequences stories of how a butterfly (not) getting squashed by a speeding bicycle subsequently leads (or not) to loves lost and won, fortunes earned or squandered, etc.)

Benefits to being raised with this belief system can include:

Being "detail-oriented" to a degree that regularly boggles the minds of ordinary mortals (tongue firmly in cheek here. Mostly). Because it's second nature. Because details matter.

Freedom from fretting over the point or worth of doing something small/minor/menial, because it all adds up.

The downsides, of course, can include a propensity to treat molehills like mountains, to feel constantly like you've never done enough prep, and to stand in a grocery store wasting $25 worth of billable time because your mind has stalled over spending an additional dollar on orange juice.

So anyway. The lovely thing about Sweet 16th adding bread to their routine offerings is that the product is awesome and the money supports a couple we've come to adore. The BYM's more of a regular than I am (being both more sociable and less waistline-whittling-challenged), so it's become his job to purchase it. Which has led to his discovering that I don't actually care for sourdough or rye, which has led to conversations such as:

BYM: Wait, what? That can't be right. You eat everything.

Me: That's not true. I hate frog legs, water chestnuts, and celery.

(Maybe you just had to be here. There's something about the way he looks at me in consternation/disbelief - which admittedly happens at least six times a day -- that makes me giggle.)

Anyway, onward! Over the past week, I have managed to toss out an overcoat (falling apart), a bathrobe (likewise), a bottle of nail polish (outdated, unhealthy formula, per maribella008), two tubes of lipstick (aging, unflattering), a tube of lotion from a Tel Aviv hotel (ooky consistency), the remainder of last summer's pig roast (ditto), and assorted journals and papers. And I'm about to haul a stack of books and CDs to McKay's. The mill of decluttering grinds exceedingly slow -- and with a grating noise that at times resembles a wail -- but it does grind on.