When Harry Met Sally

Sorry about the not razor-sharp photos. Will try again next week, our last week, even though yesterday seemed like the fat lady was singing on my thirteen-week, one hundred-hour baking/pastry arts class. I am kind of sad it is over.

High- and lowlights of the day included getting accosted on Seventh Avenue by a crazy person at lunch. Some guy purposely walked straight into me, as if I knew him, or something. He kept walking and walking, until he had me backed up against a scaffolding pole, his middle finger in my face. And then he moved on.

Maybe he targeted me for being a bit out-of-sorts, 'cause earlier in class, before we went into the kitchen, Chef gave me a really, really, really hard time for not doing the sugar cookies for the cafe dude across the street from my place. For like a half hour or so. In front of the entire class. That I'd started a ball rolling, so why was I stepping out of the way when I encountered my first pebble? That the dude was my client, so why was I saying no to him? What kind of a businessperson did that make me? That the math could work in my favor. That it didn't matter I didn't think the cookies were so great. I mean, she also told me I had a gift for communicating, and could sell shit to a cow, but that I wasn't dreaming big enough.

But what blew me the most, I think, and something I'm still trying to decipher, was that she suggested I was a person who made stories out of stories (she's right), and I should just (basically) shut up and do the thing. I suddenly flashed onto the first-act cross-country scene in When Harry Met Sally, when Harry asks Sally to tell him the story of her life. She says nothing's happened to her yet, which is why she's going to journalism school in New York City. And he challenges her—so she can write about things that happen to other people?

And by the way, I don't think men and women can just be friends. Shout out to you-know-who-you-are.