Fractures

Taman Vanscoy's You Forgot to Leave Me

Fellow Sagitarians might enjoy today's iGoogle horrorscope [sic]:

"Although you might be stressed from a variety of relationship situations, they are showing you a path back to your own issues. It could appear that someone is trying to push you around or maybe you are playing the role of the tough guy. Either way, go the extra mile to define your boundaries -- and then stick to them."

Do relationships ever lead anywhere except back to our own "issues"? I mean, once the heroin-aspect of a new best friend or lover has waned. Still, I've been thinking about this boundary-thing & how it gets messed up so easily. I told the Good Doctor Miller that I have no sense of self in relationships. If someone likes me, I'm likeable. If someone doesn't like me, I'm unlikeable. If one person likes me & another person doesn't like me, I'll side with unlikeable.

Lately these "issues" have made me positively hermitic. No one in my little world to like or dislike me. Which is where food can so easily come in -- it both likes & dislikes me.

I'm about to leave for five days with the Aged P's in lovely suburban Phoenix, 110 degrees & they essentially don't leave home these days. For 48 summers, my parents meant Flathead Lake, the 90-minute drive through farmlands with the Mission Mountains peeping beyond, then the big climb that crests with the Missions above St. Ignatius blue as blue & always There. Past Nine Pipe Resevoir, which the painting I've skeletonized reminds me of & the last shot to the moment the family still plays "I See the Lake!" Ask anyone in my family what is the quintessential moment that says Montana to them & it's that first sight of Flathead in the crotch of the dry hills above Polson.

No more, alas, but my mind & heart turn to Montana this time of year & just as quickly I have to turn them the other way. It's gone for me. No home to return to. The Lake would betray me by being an unreliable destination.

I've also been thinking about self-esteem & how that IS these "boundaries" everyone likes to bandy about on Oprah & Dr. Phil & wherever else we turn to watch people worse off but essentially a lot like us. It comes mostly from the everyday obligations -- I walk my dogs well: check. I eat correctly: check. I write -- especially that: check. I do the dishes & pay bills & take a shower: check. Try to do a good turn: check.

Basics. Good places to lean on in hard times. Next week I'll be unpacking dusty boxes from Montana & furtively throwing out photos & books & whatnot. I want very much to do this without going apeshit with food or frustration with my parents. Self-esteem from esteemable actions.

It's also occuring to me that I'm going to have to challenge myself & soon. I don't know how but I need to do a New Thing, a Hard Thing. Out of the comfort zone. Into the pixilated marshes of uncertainty & the quicksand-shore of the first steps of mastering lessons. What I'd MOST like to do is canoe the Yellowstone River around Pompey's Pillar. I want to push HARD against the prison bars that are not boundaries, push harder than the dating thing or the going to the movies thing.

Something that's mine alone.

Or maybe mine & Daisy's.

Throwuppy

Every other Saturday I figure out what trains are running & I toddle off to the Upper East Side to see my therapist. I call these 45-minute sessions "throwuppy" because that is so often what I feel like doing before, during & after.

I like to talk about my feelings when they're well in the past tense & don't threaten to blow up on me in their freshness.

No, let's take a few steps back in light of today's discussion of Frances's anger about men & their Cheshire Cat behavior.

It takes me a couple of days of something balling up inside of me before I recognize I'm having an emotional reaction. It may then take more days to put a name on it. When it's anger, I'm so freaked out by it -- this volatile, counter-anger-inducing can of kerosine -- that I turn it back on myself.

It's beyond the what-did-I-say syndrome I wrote about yesterday, more along the lines of I'm so fucking mad at myself for caring/getting sucked in/not getting over it.

So now I'm mad at any number of people, always doubled because I'm angery at myself for being angry at X, Y &/or Z.

& that's where I get stuck. I don't, the Good Doctor Miller informed me, let go of my anger, which more & more turns against myself. "You're adopted. You weren't allowed to feel anger because these people took you in."

Yeah -- partly. I began to think about anger in my childhood & saw a very scared little girl whenever there was fighting going on. My parents would argue occasionally & it terrified me -- so much so that my family has a saying I started when I was very young & the discourse around me was displeasing (scolding, arguing, fighting) -- "Don't talk". My father still says it, with his brows all rumpled & each word kind of canon balled in its wholeness of intent, when my mother nags about scrubbing a pan or disagrees with a charity donation he's making or discovers he's appropriated a set of towels for cleaning the garage. It doesn't have an exclamation point. It's not sullen or pouty or pleading. It's a command, but understated, & scrunchy things must occur with the eyes.

If my father was angry all of us kids quaked in fear. As the oldest of three brothers, growing up in the Depression, he was raised by parents with third & fifth-grade educations, still speaking with Polish accents. When my grandfather got work on the railroad out-of-town, he took Grandma with him, leaving my father in charge of his brothers for weeks at a time. Part of being the oldest was that he would get the beating & then was expected to dole it out to the boys -- who could run squealing to Grandma who might then beat Dad for abusing them. Very complicated Old World stuff that came down to the fact that my father could dish out some brutal punishments. These were rare. They were never repeated because they didn't have to be. We were always given fair warning that a piece of behavior had to stop before he raised a hand. But when he did --

Another famous family story. My brother Jim got in trouble for something. Dad took Jim aside a belted him once across his bare butt with his tennis shoe. Jim went snivelling to Dick about how much it hurt only to be met by Dick's laughter. The snivelling now included being laughed at -- until Dick turned around, dropped his pants & showed off the treads of his Converse on his ass.

Or a scene no one else remembers & I will never bring it up because it was so savage, of my father beating Jim up with his American history book. I don't know why. I was seven & scared witless.

Jim once complained to Dad that because Dick was bigger & heavier, he always won when they fought. Dad's answer was to get an equalizer. A two-day car trip back from seeing cousins (the last car trip the five of us ever made). I had the chicken pox & was placed in between my brothers who were bickering and badgering each other mercilessly for two days. By the time we pulled into the driveway, Dick's taunts had turned so pointed that they jumped out of the car & Jim began chasing Dick, picking up an equalizer -- the garage broom -- on their way into the house. Dick laughed all the way, his laughter another part of how he taunted us, all the way through the den, the hall, the kitchen, the dinette, two halls & into the bathroom where he slammed & locked the door.

Only to have the broom stick come slamming through the door right up to the broom.

That's what anger was like in our house. Either painful & terrifying (we all worshipped our father), or sadistic (Jim & I tried not to piss Dick off). I became so sensitive to anger, in fact, that in first grade Sister M. Marcillia would send me to the bathroom whenever there was a punishment coming. I'd go & sit on the pot. Nothing. I'd go back to class, the scolding would be going on & I'd pee all over the floor.

The last time Dick hit me, I was, I think, in high school or college. We were arguing over something as we set the table together. He got mad & slammed a dinner plate down on my head. For once, with great coolness, I picked up a fork & stabbed him in the arm so hard it stood up.

So yeah, I have a problem with anger: I have a problem feeling it, admitting it, expressing it, letting it go. "When do you let go?" I asked the GDM. "When it starts to hurt you," she said.

I guess part of that means before I get angry at myself for being angry.

She did not, however, tell me how to let it go.

I've only ever discovered one option & it doesn't work for more than a few hours. No, that's not true. Sleep, drinking, drugs & reading can also push anger aside. For a while.

I think I will make an Anger Box. I'm not sure how I'll work it, but I think I have an Art Project in my future.

Am I Insane?

OK, for starters, I just saw a Starware ad for an incredible deal on airfare from New York JFK Airport to Newark, NJ, starting at only $216.

This can't be more than 30 miles. It's admittedly terrible traffic but then the security lines are terrible as well.

I'm starting to become a complete misanthrope. With two or five dogs in hand, I wish the Breeders would NOT congregate the strollers at street corners or give me dirty looks for doing what I'm doing. I wish someone would ban razor bikes on sidewalks or make a six-foot rule so that the supervisor could halt the little daredevils before they scare dogs.

On the other side of it, I wish humans coming into the dog run would learn to shush the loose dogs away from gate before letting their dog in. I wish they wouldn't bring squeaky toys in. I wish they'd pick up their dog's poop. Trust me, if I can do it with five Labs in the rain, they can pick up Bowser's pile.

I had a little trip to the Black Place yesterday. I was out in the blue cool morning among the geraniums and petunias when it came to me that I had not, in 60 hours, ever considered that my thrumming mantra of what did I do wrong? what can I say to make it better might be a lot simpler.

He's a bastard.

You know that old co-dependent's recovery adage: When a woman says she'll call, she means by the end of the day. When a man says he'll call, he means before he DIES?

This is, apparently, the Number One Dating Peeve of all time.

Unless I'm insane, in the instances I'm thinking of I was as smart, funny & cute as required -- & all those things enough to like myself for a couple of days; in the other I was as smart, subtle & sexy as required. Neither instance would have happened had not the men in question asked me. I didn't do anything wrong. They did.

I let one of them know I felt shitty for three klonopin-heavy nights in a row. It's possible this message could have been simpler as well.

I don't think I get tons of traffic here but I'm quite sure I'm findable -- & possibly found. It's a very strange thing to essentially have no personal life. So to all the cell phone chatting moms, dog owners & nannies who aren't paying attention to the scowling woman behind three big dogs & to the men who might read this: stop pissing me off.

You could razor bike to Newark in two hours, I'll bet.

The D-Word

I love your responses to my list of internet dating rules: thank you & keep contributing. Maybe we can prevent a whole lotta misery out there in Loveland.

It was a nice night, my friends. We had dinner -- I had a chef's salad for everyone who might be worried -- & sat on the Promenade for a bit. I emailed to thank him for dinner, he responded that he had a great time & would call soon. That was -- h'mmm -- 31 hours ago? I am emphatically not waiting for the phone to ring & I pretty much trust that it will & beyond that pretty much trust that it will when it's supposed to.

That could be in two years for all I know.

Ms. Turnblad, among others, have suggested that I have enough going on these days without men: a book, an abstinence, mood swings, 350 lbs of Labrador retriever. You're right, & you're wrong.

One of the reasons my blogging has turned to men of late is that I'm cleaning out leftovers. That accounts for several sentences in recent blogs. I began to think more about those Rules in order to avoid unnecessary hurt in the future. Beyond that, one of the reasons for posting my profile is for the Book. I need to know about some of the Myths of Fat that I've held on to. If in the course of posting I meet someone I'd like to know more & I feel safe in terms of my food & my work doing that, I'd be nuts not to take the chance.

I don't have a lot of real-world friends who are available at night or on weekends. That is to say, they are married or have commitments of which I'm not a part. I also have a boatload of anxiety that keeps me close to home. Case in point: I need new underwear. Target is 15 minutes away by train. Have I gone? No. Why? Because...I'm anxious about being out & being without someone to say "I'm anxious about being out" to. Because it's such a treat that I a) don't think I deserve it, & b) have no encore for. It will cost money.

If a friend called me up & said, "Wanna go to Target?" I'd jump. I'd be with somebody. That somebody has already decided I deserve the treat. The treat would be bigger because I could turn to that somebody & say not only that I was anxious but that I might want to get Spiderman sheets. The experience would be more real.

Let's face it: if you're of a certain age & single, you kinda need to find a boyfriend. I could find a gay friend, of course, but the urge to brunch would the fuel of that friendship.

This is not to say that I'm not looking for a pal. It's just that pals are in short order.

We kissed goodnight. It was nice. I hope I do hear from him & that we go to the movies or to the beach (not at sunset) or to the Frick. I even hope we sleep together after not too many such dates. I'm lonely in a general sort of way.

Also: I'm not a dog. I hang out with dogs, am filthy with dirt, wood chips & fur from dogs. I smell of & for dogs & I dress for dogs. I love dogs. But I'm a woman. It's fun to dress up.
One of the reasons that we have boyfriends is to show off. Put on our good duds, shave more carefully, flaunt what we are & know. Another reason is that it's an investment. Dating, having a boyfriend, is an investment in the faith that next weekend will happen, that maybe even, if you're inclined & he's inclined, someone to change your Depends will be around.

However, Ms. Turnblad, et al are correct in questioning how right it is for me to be sparring with boyz. I have to handle the activity with supreme care. I talked about my food with my sponsor before hand. I was in touch with long distance friends before & immediately after. I was meeting someone I already liked but have enough wisdom by now to know that he has a life of his own.

I went out after writing two-and-a-quarter pages of chapter four.

Where trouble came was not during the date or for the rest of the night. The date had about 1/7 of a role in the trouble -- a Saturday night of food choice I wish I'd done differently even though they were abstinent.

The most important thing I'm doing now is writing. My abstinence hinges on it (& vice versa), my serenity, my sense of self-worth. & I didn't write yesterday.

I didn't write yesterday because every time I sat down at the computer I was over come by weariness, a sense that any word I chose to put down would weigh a hundred pounds, or that each finger weighed a hundred pounds.

What did I do? I pretended I'd "get around" to it, which sometimes happens. I spent some quality time with Daisy -- played ball, brushed her out, gave her an hour-long belly rub while I watched Margaret Cho's I'm the One I Want, which I wanted to do for this chapter. I played Bejewelled. I didn't think about the night before & I didn't think to myself, Frances: you had a long week with dogs & a late night last night & a two terrible nights' sleep. Take a nap.

So I went to the store & didn't eat what I'd set aside in my mind for dinner because, well, I needed something different....

& I wish I hadn't.

On the other hand, I took a Klonopin & slept in till 8 a.m. I've revised those pages & am ready to eat lunch & then start the next scene. I'm over it & I've learned a new rule:

Dating is tiring. Be sure to plan a nap the next day.

***

In the meantime, I've been tagged by Jen as an interesting blog to read. My job now is to turn you guys on to blogs I like. So here's the deal:

1. If, and only if, you get tagged, write a post with links to 5 blogs that make you think.

2. Link to this post so that people can easily find the exact origin of the meme.

Andrea K.

Miss Michele

Cindy

Helen

Debra

Read on, Macduff!

Friday

I've had a bloody awful week of extremes. While I've had good advice here not to pursue online dating, I have to say I haven't been a mad woman about it & a lot of what I've been going through has been a matter of cleaning up what has been dangling for a long time.

It made me very sad. M., with whom I've had a fine & challenging email/phone -ship with, does not want to meet in the flesh. This made me feel unworthy. I wrote He-who-shall-not-be-named to say that communicating with him was too hard on me, that the 10% of me that still thrills to his words, voice, life breaks up each time I have to endure them. S. disappeared. E. has little time to spare from his parenting & problems.

These are all old -ships I've had to confront.

Then there was the matter of one of my dogs. For almost two years I've taken him out twice a day: he's been half my big dog-income. Without warning, without telling, he's now a once-a-day walk & banned from the dog run, which turns his walk into something of a conundrum in terms of timing. His owner wanted to go to the Hill with us on Monday & mentioned she'd be doing his morning walk from now on. It was slipped into the conversation. However, she wants to co-ordinate the times I take my other dogs down so he can play with his pals. More complication of timing.

I finally made reservations to visit my parents, who are always in a state of ailing now, at the end of the month. The number of times I will see them is now becoming quite finite. This, too, is a well of grief.

I felt horribly fat, likely to go out of control with all the fear that suddenly busted out of me: fear of writing this Fucking Book, fear that it's bad, fear of financial ruin, fear regarding my parents & the pre-loneliness of losing them, loneliness of M & He-who-shall-not-be-named. I'm trying to track these emotional spirals into despair & this week, when it all hit, I actually sent out an email S.O.S. to my posse -- some of Us, my therapist, my sponsor.

That's how important and life-changing blogging has been. Of the six women I contacted to say I was going down fast, four of them are friends through the blog world.

& everyone of them responded, leaving their desks or writing strong, encouraging emails back. That evening, Henry's people contacted me to ask if he could hang out with me during the day because he's in a chewy phase (he'd just spent the weekend with me, so I know: a flip-flop, a Croc, two record albums, a lighter, a cigarette, a novel all bit the dust; he tried to do the same with, oh, EVERYTHING else) but crating him is too heartbreaking. The loss of one dog was patched up by the gain of another.

It amazes me that I got the immediate responses I received. It continues to amaze me that when I truly try to turn over my worries to the almighty ether I call God or Buddy, enough solutions pop up to keep me going.

I stopped menstruating 18 months ago; I don't have TTOM as an excuse. I don't know why these dips in mood occur. That one was scary but it was preceded by a couple of days of waking up with no interest in anything I had to do that day, very gray & without affect. Then: wham!

I told my therapist that I think I have some default settings. When I'm lonely or stressed out & being really clean with food, my brain turns to He-who-shall-not-be-named. Or to my money market account. Or food. It's not that I'm so much in love with Hwsnbn, it's habit.

It's strange, though, that I turn to such negative parts of my life. It's much harder to turn toward, say, editing photographs or watching a movie or picking up the telephone. Partly this is because I always feel I should be writing now & to open up Adobe is Avoidance. Whereas thoughts, my assumption is, are just thoughts.

But they take up as much time & do much more damage than watching The Sound of Music for the 62nd time.

I pulled out of that pit, one way & another. I finished some reading for the next chapter, I didn't eat over my feelings, I handed them over to friends who continued to monitor me for a day or two.

That being said, the men who contributed to my breakdown were there long before I started nosing around the dating sites. I began nosing around as research for the book: I want to know if my long-held assumption about not being able to get a boyfriend at This Weight is true.

As always, when one starts nosing around, one must establish some rules. Inevitably, the rules are different from the last foray into the quest. Here my new ones:

1. I will not pursue correspondance with a man who comes on too strong -- "Hi, baby. You're so beautiful. I want to give all my love to you."

2. I will not pursue correspondance with a man who speaks only in CyberSpeak -- "how r you 2nite?"

3. I will not pursue correspondance with a man who prefers IM to the telephone & who asks way many questions about me but doesn't answer mine about him. Or demands that I hook up my camera to the computer so he can see me that instant -- again, just to drive the point home, without doing so himself.

4. I will not pursue correspondance with a man who needs to take English as a second language: "First only ladies with photos will i respond to. Hello ladies: like to communicate with ladies from 28 years to 54. Briefly i am fully employed in the financial field. Some of my social interest include bike riding, walking , talking to ladies, swimming, weight lifting, watching various shows/movies, listening to soft rock & roll. I will only flirt with people who have photo's. I have to see what you look like. Thank you for your attention."

5. I will not pursue correspondance with a man who works in maintenance & has a high school education.

6. I will not pursue correspondance with a man who wants a soul mate, best friend, or "special someone to walk on the beach at sunset".

7. I will not pursue correspondance with a man under the age of 40.

You probably think I'm making this stuff up, some of it. But I'm not. I've heard from them all. I've had some owies from S, who mysterously disappeared, & Mc, who wanted me to hook up my camera for live shots.

I have a date tonight with a nice man I've spoken with, flirted with, who loves Gershwin & Rogers & Hammerstein & Cole Porter & can talk intelligently about Birth of a Nation.

Any ideas what color my brides' maids should wear?

Refining Abstinence

My food plan is strict. Weighed & measured meals, no sugar, no flour. When I'm abiding by it, I'm a happier person, by & large. I am, however, much less likely to go out in the world, to participate, to be with such friends as I have.

My sponsor & I are talking about whether, on advance-notice occasions, I can eat "civillian" food. She's afraid I'm playing with fire & so am I. I also know that to be abstinent at a party at which I have no idea when dinner is being served, or what the dinner is, is not only hard but makes me shitty company, even if I keep a smile plastered to my face & it's the company of my own resentful, high horse thoughts.

I went to a Memeorial Day barbecue that started at 4. Dinner was served around 7.30. I ate tortilla chips & a small amount of ice cream & had 3 glasses of wine. When my sponsor & I discussed it, I conceded that, yes, I could have skipped the wine & dessert without turning into someone I didn't want to be with, let alone risk unleashing on friends.

That's what I want, these days: to have the space to be honest, to talk about what I can do differently & better next time, & to have the space & honesty to talk about it ahead of time & afterwards to keep a check on the exceptions to the rule.

The victory of Memorial Day for me was that, despite having money with me when Daisy & I walked home, I did not go to the deli. I had to turn around & go take care of two Italian greyhounds & I did not go to the deli. I did not come home & make a big bowl of yogurt or eat rice cakes & peanut butter. I went to bed. I haven't touched illegal stuff since Monday.

I want my abstinence to be one of aspiration. I aspire to stick to it vigorously. I aspire to get thin. I aspire to some other things that have less to do with food than with my life.

The pain of ending my..."friendship" with Jeff lingers. I got a political cartoon in email yesterday & couldn't forward it to him. There are moments I turn around in astonishment at myself that I gave up an important person in my life. I don't like being the occasion of what I know causes him a certain amount of pain as well. But it was the right thing to do for me. I'm not going to be free until the original feelings I had for him die completely.

I also emailed the man I've talked/emailed a lot to & said that, after consideration, I am worth meeting & he now has to consider that. Having said all that, I'm not sure I want to now.

I aspire to having a free, clean heart.

I aspire to having a free, clean brain. Fewer computer games is a start.

I aspire to feeling less overwhelming anxiety. Making some friends is a start, & practicing friendship is the next step.

I aspire to be creative. I've fallen in love with photography & the idea of topsy-turvy art. I have a book to write & a couple of novels in me if only I can stop being afraid of my own shadow.

I aspire to be better, & right now better is freer, more confident, clean & honest relations.

But I think, as well, that this morning I will commit to you that I'll eat three weighed, measured abstinent meals.

It's Friday. I find that my mood sinks toward the The Dark Place by the end of the week. I think it's partly because I'm tired but that it's also the way I feel in the evening when I want to eat to smother the feelings of failure that I didn't do enough -- or anything -- during the day & it's too late & I'm too weary to do much as the sun is sinking. So I'm fighting today to keep my head, to safeguard whatever good I did for myself earlier in the week -- the freedom I invested in, the self-regard I granted myself, the honesty I opened up with my sponsor.

I just wish I'd done more writing, lost 80 pounds, cleaned my apartment & won the Nobel Prize for Self-Indulgent Memoirs.

Baggage

Last week I was in the Bad Place. I was finishing the chapter & experiencing a lot of the pain my friends went through. I was eating. I spoke to a man & he hazarded meeting in early June & I haven't heard from him since.

I was tired.

I was scared of my book.

I went through that familiar litany that men can induce so well: what did I say? Is the way I look? What didn't I say? Is he testing me? Should I call him & straighten whatever it is out?

Whatever. I woke up on Saturday morning after an ice cream adventure & thought to myself, "What did I do to deserve the way I treat myself???"

Sometimes the voices in our heads are Good. The What-Did-I-Say voice is Bad. That waking thought was Good.

I took a great intake of air & let it out slowly. What did I do? I've harmed relatively few people. I've been nice to a great many more. I've been nice to people I shouldn't be nice to.

OK, I have to back up a bit because there's another man I've been in touch with for a long time now. We speak on the phone & send emails back & forth. He admires my twist of phrase & imagination. I think he's pretty cool. I told him that I have some ambivalence about meeting but did he think we ought to. He reported that he's ambivalent as well but supposes that sometime...

My ambivalence has names for it. I don't like the way I look right now. I don't want to complicate trying to look better with a lot of guy baggage. I have a book that's overdue.

He probably doesn't have names for his. They're most likely along the lines of I like it like this; I don't really want/have time to get involved; what if I don't like her & the illusion is spoilt -- or -- what if I do like her & have to show up for that feeling?

Essentially, he doesn't want to meet me. Remember: I was in the Black Place. I guess I must not be worth meeting, I thought sadly. The more reasonable part of me said that's poppycock. Between the two of us, we decided to table the ruling but to leave the question open. Am I worth meeting?

Worth. Deserve. There's a theme devleping here.

AA calls it "stinkin' thinkin'," a phrase I really hate but this deserving thing is a classic example.

Friday night: I'm in bed. I get a call for an emergency dog walk. I hadn't had enough cash to go get something dangerous but now I do, & I'm out. Don't I deserve something for a hard day's dogs, the difficulty of writing, my general anxiety? Don't I deserve a treat?

Saturday: I get up angry with myself & blurt that question out. But it's reversed, in the same terms: What did I do to deserve to treat myself so badly? "Deserve" is no long a reward but a negative action; "treat" is no longer a noun but a verb -- "act, behave, regard, handle," among other meanings. Ice cream & cookies are how I act or how I regard myself.

& that's both nonsense & wrong. If I regard myself as ice cream where is my sense of humor or my obsession with deadheading petunias? If I act as ice cream, why do I care who the president of the US is or how some reader will react to this blog? Ice cream leads to more ice cream; it has no conscious but if it did, it would regard itself only as ice cream.

Whereas a human being can regard herself as "Divine Empress of the World," as I told Mellie this morning when she came running to meet me at the door with a Planet Dog ball of the earth in her mouth. A human being can regard herself as a writer.

A human being can regard herself as worth meeting. As deserving to be, at least, thanked for the email I sent containing information he'd asked for as a favor to a friend.

A human being deserves not be in pain when she has a simple headache or a complicated history with someone.

& so yesterday I wrote to the other half of that complicated history & said it's too painful to talk or communicate or even think about. The other half was as gracious as I -- we both expressed our faith in the other & our good wishes. & I'm lumpy-throated today but I know it will be better tomorrow if I don't do something stupid like delude myself into deserving a treat that will give me one more painful feeling to wake up with tomorrow.

I don't "deserve" that either.

I suppose my next email ought to be why I haven't responded to email gambits from an ambivalent man.

Who knows who or what comes next?

Heart of hearts

What a strange expression -- "in my heart of hearts". I'm doing a lot of if-only's & I'd-be-happy-if's these days, a branch of frustration that comes from the plodding my book has come to, the pain the book is about, & fear-fear-fear.

In my heart of hearts I wish I was working on my poor neglected novel.

Frustration is such an appetizer. Even civilian friends recount with some shame that when work is hardest their default setting is "a little something would be good right now".

This morning I sat in my kitchen in the chair that just fits between the cupboard & the oven (I have to move it to use the oven), drinking coffee & having a smoke while Daisy lolled in my pillows. I've been talking to instead of begging God lately. I may rename him Buddy as a consequence of this because I've sort of been making him into a best friend -- the buddy a heterosexual man can be 1% of the time or a gay man can be about 75% of the time.

I was thinking about the boyz who are or aren't distantly in my life right now. I could reel any one of them in closer. Buddy sighed. I sighed back. I don't need to think about that today. Their distance is their business & if I let the distances each has go there will be more room for a Better One if the time is right, or more room for one of them to make his own decision about me.

Glad we cleared that up. Did Buddy think I could be abstinent today? Uh-huh -- as long as I don't snatch that commitment back. What about the book? I have a problem with the chapter I'm working on, or maybe a couple of problems. The content is solid but how does it pertain to relapse per se & what is the plotline of it in regards to the book as a whole? What am I writing today?

Buddy & I came up with two thoughts as regards all of that. OK, I said. Good job. Glad we had this little talk. Time to take the dog for a walk.

& I promptly forgot those two essential thoughts.

Now if Buddy is my best friend as well as having who's-been-naughty/who's-been-nice memory, don't you think he'd remind me of what we were talking about?

Because it's put a damper on my day, those missing insights or ideas. One of those boyz called. & I'm starving.

Flabby Prose

In response to both Beulah & Cindy, yes, writing is work. I hit the wall again as soon as I bragged here about it -- Wednesday I was so tired I couldn't think straight & while yesterday was better, I couldn't decide if the next thing I was saying belonged in the middle of the chapter or up front.

I consoled myself by saying at least I wrote, or began to, the salient bit in question, which is really the thesis of the chapter.

Most of us can't, for a variety of reasons, write seven days a week. Especially when we're physically tired & challenged to obligations set in stone. I've been spending five or six hours a day with dogs this week: why wouldn't I be brain-dead by the middle of it? So another rule to add is be fair to yourself & your energy reserves. Decide what days you can show up & really give it your best shot.

I'm guessing my schedule ought to be Saturday - Tuesday, with catch-as-catch-can the other three days.

`Cause if I have the energy to blog, I have the energy to write.

On the other hand, if you're not dependent on making a living from your writing, it can be fun. You can do all kinds of wacky exercises to get the creative blood flowing until you're ready for the bigger projects.

Which leads me to the topic of "flabby" prose.

I suppose streamlined prose is elegant, spare & precise. Hemingway's stories, say. But when I say flabby prose I mean careless or untaught. Grammar matters. So does spelling & so does accuracy. Each time one makes a reader wince at "there's so many things I want to do," the less likely the reader is going to look forward to continuing to read.

I learned most of my grammar from taking Italian, & later from teaching composition. I always said of my students that if I could get them all to know the difference between "it's" & "its," I'd be happy.

What you don't see in this post is the stuff I took out after it helped me write it. There was an "actually" I deleted, & a "just," among others. There are words that MUST be saved for the last minute: actually, just, simply, then, well...

So here are two more grammar tips from this post:

"There are so many things I want to do."

It's = it is. No exceptions. If you're tired & making the mistake, substitute "it is". If it makes sense, use the apostrophe. [I suppose Cousin It is the one exception, but let's not split hairs.]

But I'm not blogging to condescend -- the blogs I read are either not flabby or too true & funny & gutsy to care. But Cindy asked & Beulah mentioned the labor, so I thought I'd respond.

When it's good...

it's very, very good.

Today, my sweet friends, is good.

The writing had come easily. Tomorrow I will have to begin to interpret & pontificate in this chapter but I am done for today.

It's warm here, perhaps the warmest day yet -- but there's a strong breeze, an ocean breeze from the south. My allergies are having a fine old time because the pollen is a inch deep in places, but the trees are in full leaf and last night, as Daisy, Henry & I walked up from Fulton Landing in the transparent dusk, I looked down Cranberry Street into the tunnel of oaks & it was full dark. The wysteria is in bloom; the too-few bearded iris are fattening up. The next wave will be roses and fireflies but for now the scent of something -- petunias, maybe? -- lingers in the chalky end-of-day.

I have time to say these things because I wrote five pages -- count `em: OK, four-and-a-quarter -- today. Walking Daisy home from our last dog drop-off's of the day, I thought to myself, "I'm always going on about food, eating, weight loss, weight gain, binging, struggling, yadda yadda yadda but I do, in fact, know a lot about something else: writing.

So I'm going to share some tips. If they're useful, good. If you only want profundity, go visit:

http://www.ourladyofweightloss.typepad.com/

http://www.skinnydailypost.com/

http://dearethel.blogspot.com/search?updated-min=2007-01-01T00%3A00%3A00-08%3A00&updated-max=2008-01-01T00%3A00%3A00-08%3A00&max-results=4

http://altopower.wordpress.com/

http://thefatgirlcamp.blogspot.com/

http://www.dietgirl.org/

http://readhead.wordpress.com/

http://weighingondebrasmind.blogspot.com/

http://thegrumpychairdieter.blogspot.com/

among others.

OK. Here are some secrets.

1. Nothing is as important as writing. Not laundry, not dusting, not taking out summer clothes. The only thing more important than writing, for Us, is having the right food at Our beck & call.

2. Never leave your work finished. That is, break it off at the point that you could push it through to its next phase. It makes going to work the next day much easier.

3. Get yourself a library of reference books or materials. Among the reference books above my desk are The Oxford Companion to English Literature, French, German & Italian dictionaries & grammar books, The Language of Flowers, The Concise Columbia Encyclopedia, Edith Hamilton's Mythology, A Dictionary of Superstitions, Stories from the Opera, An Exaltation 0f Larks. Beneath my desk are two dictionaries, The Oxford Dictionary of World Religions, and Bartlett's Book of Anecdotes.

There are others books as well.

Remember that the internet is your friend. Use your Favorites folder to create other references. Here are some extraordinarily useful basics:

http://www.hometownlocator.com/

http://www.halfhill.com/inflation.html

http://www.frontiernet.net/~cdm/aget40.html

http://findarticles.com/

http://www.google.com/alerts/create?hl=en

http://www.pantheon.org/

http://www.urbandictionary.com/

http://www.imdb.com/

http://www.smarttechwriting.com/

http://www.lyricsfreak.com/

http://www.innerbody.com/htm/body.html

http://www.mapquest.com/

Why am I filling up this posting with lists? Beyond the fact that I probably don't have bunches to say, I'm giving you my favorite resources because writing that lacks specificity & accuracy of details is Bad Writing. So is flabby grammar.

Enough references can also be a reassuring way to dawdle your way into writing. That is, when you sit down without an idea for a story or a poem, the right weird website or book can be a great starting off point. Ergo:

4. Be specific & be accurate. Learn the difference betweeen effect and affect, its & it's.

5. You're only allowed to reread what you've written so far for 5 minutes unless you're hideously blocked.

6. Have enough junk around to make sure being blocked is neurotic or fear-based rather than Having Nothing to Say.

7. Most thoughts or phrases or observations worth remembering will stay with you. You don't have to have a pad of paper or, God help us, a tape recorder with you all the time.

8. Turn off your email & IM when you're writing. Screen phone calls down to not answering them.

9. Remember to pee & drink water. (This is on a really good day.)

10. When you finish, get up & get the hell away from the computer or typewriter or notebook. Get out of the room. Do something mindless & physical -- walk, wash dishes, take a shower. You'll need to re-enter the world before you talk to or see anyone, go to the gym or operate heavy machinery.

11. When you finish a project -- a story, poem, chapter -- put it away until you absolutely have to pull it out or, if possible, for three months. Don't show it to anyone during that time.

12. If you're not acting out scenes with your hands, you're not writing Life.

13. Set a time limit rather than a page quota for yourself. I promise that 15 minutes will soon expand to a couple of hours.

14. When involved in a project that is ongoing, advise your friends & extended family that you're going to be out of touch for a while.

15. Truly, if you follow these rules it will be really hard to fail.

Basta

Thank you, one & all, for your clap-if-you-believe-in-fairies responses. Tinkerbell is much brighter today.

But it's time to turn our thoughts away from name-calling & psychoanalyzing, which is what I want to avoid.

The weather has been too perfect here to stew. Let's celebrate wysteria & iris & each other instead.

Response to "Paz"

I opened my email this morning to find that someone had posted a response to last week's blog about my difficulties with weekend nights. It reads:

Get over yourself, Frances.Get over your rampant narcissism.Get over self-pity. Get over self-centeredness. Get over the load of anger and resentment you are carrying (and) feeding. Get over diets, expectations and secret grandiosity display, get over whining, get over your wounds and your boss, get over your pounds, get over the fatty in you that you mercilessly mock in others. GET OVER ALL OF IT and GET A LIFE, for Heaven's sake.You are SO boring.

Posted by Paz at 5:33 AM

My first reactions to this post continue to include hurt & mystification: why would someone write something so hurtful? Certainly there are blogs I haven't read a second time because I'm annoyed by them. Why not simply stop reading mine?

Then I remembered that I had received emails from a "Paz," which, although the name cannot be an unusual one in all of Blogland, might reveal something about the post-er who has set him/herself up Emotional Judge of me. I found messages that are interesting in light of the above, suggestions of a number of websites for various therapies & personality types.

I believe "Paz" has my good in mind, that s/he believes I would be better off if I stopped studying myself. That's the evidence I conclude by tying the two writers into one.

On the other hand...

I've spent my life cringing under the labels ascribed to me &, yes, half a century of obesity has crushed a great part of spirit & confidence. I ascribed some pretty awful labels to myself because of my obesity. Lazy. Out-of-control. Ugly. Unloveable. Taking up too much space...

Do I hate fat people? No. I fear them. I reserve hate for myself.

Am I over my ex-boss? No. She ascribed some of those same labels to me &, as ingrained as they already were, I find I have to battle them for too many minutes out of my waking & nonwaking days.

& now I have labels of narcissism, self-pity, & -- oh, too many to retype here when I need to get on with my life.

So let's leave it at I'm fucking sick & tired of having labels stuck on me with pins, OK?

In the spirit of being sick & tired of this, & of my propensity to believe them, I'm going to stand up for myself. I don't do this very often, so bear with me & please know that I don't walk around my world in a state of superiority for what I'm about to say. In point of fact, I try as hard as I can to disown what I'm about to say.

I wrote a book. Many copies have been sold. Three years after publication, I continue to get emails thanking me for writing it, for "outing" the experiences I detailed in a way that made many people feel less like freaks. There are people who have ventured further into weight loss & recovery because of my book.

I began a blog & confessed in it that I've gained weight, how I gained it, what I'm doing or trying to do about it, what my failures are, what my triggers are. A lot of people have responded & formed a community online in which they detail their experiences of fat, thin, food, eating, weight loss, weight gain, relapse & their hearts to each other. Some of those people have found consolation in the fact that I fucked up. Some have even found courage because I fucked up & am willing to try again & talk openly about it.

I am an open woman. I don't hide behind the anonymity of the internet. My email address is on my website, as are pictures of me as I am. When I know what I feel (which isn't consistent or even frequent), I will tell you. When I have money to loan or books to give away, I do. If I know you a little, or know someone who knows you, I have an extra futon. I'm a people-pleaser & that's both a good & a bad thing.

I'm smart. I have talent. I have the diseases of compulsive overeating & chronic depression. I have used my intelligence & talent to examine my diseases & dis-eases. Part of my talent is that a lot of people find me easy to talk to, a safe & understanding listener to women's issues around the body & food. They have found me encouraging not only of undertaking the journey, but of finding the story of it & telling it.

As open as I am in my writing, very few people know what my daily life is like -- I don't have time for it & it's not as important as saying that Saturday nights are hard for me. But in my daily life, I walk down the streets of my neighborhood & dogs jump at my right pocket, I chat casually with a half dozen people whose names I don't know, I photograph what's going on & some of those photos get used by others in public ways. I have an eye for the odd & the detail. I have affection for the dogs who have labeled me "easy mark" & "generous" & "playful". A number of humans like my jokes, like my laughter at their jokes, like that I love their dogs, like that I ask how they're doing or tell them their frock is pretty. Business owners & clerks like me because I thank them for good work.

I am, in short, aware.

So here are the labels I'm putting on myself today in stung reaction to those Paz has made me a donkey with.

Honest. Brave. Analytical. Smart. Willing to try, & try again. Funny. Open-handed & open-hearted. Talented. Observant. Pictorial. Affectionate. Generous. Curious. Supportive. Learning. Insightful. Appreciative.

Inspiring.

& Paz --

forgiving.

Saturday Night Fever

Do people get married, in part, so that they don't have to fret out the weekends quite so alone? Is that why they go on to have children?

I'm sure I've written about the challenges of weekend nights before but I have to take another swing at it, I'm afraid.

I am writing a book. It is a painful book. I have "finished" plumbing my story of the triggers of relapse & it sent me into relapse. It's time to start the new chapter, the focus of which will not be me.

For once.

The problem is, I don't wanna. I don't want to live any more in this pain of food, eating, weight, belly flab, self-esteem & lack thereof. I don't care if it's my pain or yours, I want out.

But I can't go out until I make more solid progress on the book. In fact, when offered ballet tickets for Friday evening, I had to turn them down because a) the three people I'd have liked to see it with were unavailable, & b) I couldn't think of anyone else I wanted to make conversation with during the intermission.

I went to my 12-step meeting yesterday after some weeks' absence, an absence I'm not proud of & which helped trip me up in reliving parts of my life. The only excuse I can offer for my snottiness at the meeting is that I had a lot to ponder from the reading & the guest speaker's story. Other than that, there is no excuse for why I sat in my chair during the break, brushing off the one or two people who approached me. I told myself I didn't want to be disturbed by people I frankly don't like very much. Some of the truth is that the people I like were talking to other people -- & I was afraid to approach them & too snotty to try. A couple of people are in that Room because of my book, & that gives me pause as well. Everybody knows me as much as I know myself, or more because they have the objectivity to interpret what I can only report &/or feel.

I left the meeting full of shame & was met by a glorious day. I took my camera, Daisy & her currycomb out & ran into acquaintances from the dog world on our way to the Promenade. They had just returned from buying cocoa mulch & plants for their garden & chatted about their low-key birthday plans of only two dinners. That tete-a-tete broke up & Daisy permitted me to feathers a bird's nest with her shedding coat a bit before we went home & had lunch.

At which time it was time to write.

Only I couldn't. I couldn't. I couldn'tcouldn'tcouldn't. So I crawled into bed & finished an ancient NYer & napped the afternoon away. At 6.30 I took Daisy out for some fetch & then it was time to think about winding up the day.

The day?

What day?

I had zip for shit to say of having accomplished anything, & my attitude had, unwittingly, turned to envy & snottiness & envy & then hiding in sleep & a magazine & the book I'm reading. Hiding = food. I ate too much of the wrong stuff for dinner & got to wake up yet more ashamed this morning.

I'm coming here this cool windy morning that reminds me of Montana simply to prove to myself that I can string some sentences together. I'm laying it out here that I've GOT to get a life & for whatever reason, I don't have the energy to do so right now. When I finish this post, in not very many minutes, I'm going to have some coffee & a cigarette, then put on The Doors for the sake of "Break on Through," which is what I must do today if I'm going to get to tomorrow morning with any self-respect.

On Saturday nights, I just don't like myself at all.

Saturday Night Heifer by Rob Scotten, available at http://images.google.com/imgres?imgurl=http://www.poster.net/scotten-rob/scotten-rob-saturday-night-heifer-2108207.jpg&imgrefurl=http://www.postershop.co.uk/Scotten-Rob/Scotten-Rob-Saturday-Night-Heifer-2108207.html&h=361&w=450&sz=21&hl=en&start=55&tbnid=Y8izvQnyYlm43M:&tbnh=102&tbnw=127&prev=/images%3Fq%3Dsaturday%2Bnight%26start%3D40%26ndsp%3D20%26svnum%3D10%26hl%3Den%26sa%3DN

One of Us Asks about Addiction...

I recently received this email and thought it too big a question to not take a swing at in a more formal setting:

Do you think addictions and their associated behaviors are ever cured? Or when we do things like quit drugs, alcohol, sex, junk food (what ever our particular vehicle is) we are not really "quitting" them, but merely keeping them in check? Do you ever truly rid yourself of an addictive behavior? Do you ever get over being an addict? Or are we destined to forever walk around on eggshells (no pun intended) regarding certain foods knowing, but denying, that we are one Twinkie away from the next food OD? I guess my question is...Does it ever end?

I'd realy like to know what you think...

OK, I'm willing to give this a shot, with the caveat that I can only speak from my experience and some research.

There are two kinds of addictions, first of all. The kind where you "put the plug in the jug," as they say in AA. Most of them fall into this category -- gambling, drugs, booze, sex, smoking, shoplifting, thrill-seeking. (I'm referring to a website directory of different 12-step groups that I recommend readers refer to when they want to know which I attend: http://www.minnesotarecovery.info/OtherRecoveryGroups.htm)

The other kinds are those in which one has to handle the very substance of the addiction every day. I immediately think of Debtors Annonymous (you HAVE to spend money) and the many food addiction groups. That website would provide a couple more -- depression, emotions, manic-depression, obsessive compulsive disorder, all of which are arguably biological in origin and not easily cured -- as well as workaholics ( you HAVE to make money) and possibly codependency (you have to have relationships and even brand new ones post-recovery can display symptoms you didn't suspect lurked within a new friend or lover).

None of these addictions is easy to overcome but I've heard in the Rooms from people with dual addictions that food is the hardest because you have to eat. Moreover, the food groups define abstinence in different ways that boil down to not eating "compulsively".

I've chomped many a weighed and measured, abstinent salad with the frenzy I can eat cookies.

Further, I responded to an AFG post today that these days when I binge, I do it consciously, seeking the barbituate effect, the loophole out of my reality that's better than any drug I've got on hand. It takes a lot of refined carbohydrates and sugar to do that but my choices are as deliberate as brain surgery.

Is that "compulsive"? (Microsoft Bookshelf defines compulsion as "an irresistible impulse to act, regardless of the rationality of the motivation".) It's hard to resist my desire to shut down but it's equally hard to resist my desire to eat the squeaky clean salad when I'm hungry. And lately it feels as though I force myself to go get that shit. I don't necessarily crave it.

But once started, I don't stop until my food is gone, or it's very hard to and I'm very resentful about it. I have done scary things for food, not criminal but tinged with the feeling that I am one. My heart races and I look nervously around the store to see if I know anyone from the Rooms there. My cheeks burn with embarrassment as I put the packages on the counter. I walk home hoping I don't run into anyone.

Most of the addictions (I don't think manic depression is an addiction, BTW, although I'm on the fence regarding depression and certain emotions) I've mentioned above are involved with mood alterations, whether it's through chemicals, adrenaline, hormomal alterations or seratonin boosters. Food is a complex and large set of chemicals, and both sugar and fat alter the brain by shooting it up with seratonin, the feel-good neurotransmitter we all take Zoloft to enhance.

Further, natural seratonin is manufactured from tryptophan, an amino acid extracted from protein. Sugar drives insulin up, carrying competing amino acids to muscles and leaving tryptphan able to cross the brain/blood barrier to do its work in brewing up a big pot of seratonin. Sugar also releases endorphins and other pain-killers and pleasure-enhancers into the system.

For the person suffering from mild depression, sugar can be that little something that brightens mood. Research bears this out: obese people are 25% more likely to suffer from a mood or anxiety disorder. When rats are offered the choice of water or a sweet, morphine based drink in isolated cages, they choose the latter. Rats in a rat theme park prefer water. I should mention that endorphins are chemically similar to morphine.

Boredom, isolation = mood relief = addiction.

Rats who have been forcefed sugar for long periods, then fed a drug that blocks the effects of heroin and other similar brain chemicals, showed similar withdrawl symptoms -- chattering teeth, tremors, lowered dopamine -- as heroin addicts.

Further, we know that people with a self-proclaimed sweet tooth report that their moods change when they eat sugar.

OK, so I've made a case for the chemical effect of sugar on the brain. But is this addiction?

Wikipedia defines addiction as "a chronic or recurrent condition proposed to be precipitated by one or more of the following: genetic, biological/pharmacological and social factors. Addiction is characterized by the compulsive use of substances or engagement of behaviors despite clear evidence to the user of consequent morbidity and/or other harmful effects."

We are much more aware that the tendency to be overweight is genetic. I've made a good, if brief, case for sugar as a pharmacological agent. Just as opium dens, shooting galleries, bars and casinos exist for the sake of convenience and social reinforcement of the activity, so, too, food has a strong social context. Holiday foods. Family traditions. Advertising and its associations of good times and satiation. Comfort food...

More recently, however, the American Psychiatric Association Bible, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders has substituted "dependency" for "addiction".

Back to Microsoft Bookshelf we go! Dependence: 1. Contingent [i.e., "centered on" or subject to, also according to MB] on another. 2. Subordinate. 3. Relying on or requiring the aid of another for support.

So I guess the question is, does your world revolve around a particular substance or activity? Does your life center around it? Do you depend primarily upon it for company, reassurance, mood elevation, stress and pain relief? If you kick it out of your life, cold turkey, are you able to cope on your own?

Remember that just as there are different kinds of alcoholics -- gutter drunks, social imbibers, chronic drinkers and binge drinkers -- there are different kinds of addicts in the other categories. I can go for long stretches without sugar but when my life becomes too painful or too boring or too unrewarding or too isolated, I begin to crave.

But these are questions you have to put to yourself. There are lots of criteria around for whether We are food addicts or not. Here's one: http://www.foodaddicts.org/quiz.html. This set of questions will tell you that saying yes to any of them "may" mean you're a food addict. There aren't very many women in the Western World who don't calculate calories taken in and expended, so I don't know how definitive or scientific this quiz is.

So to answer the question...

I have not had any success in eating like a normal person when the food includes sugar or even "abstinent" food that's too much like other food. I don't know how much of this is a combination of deprivation & my feeling that I'm going to end up abstinent again & I'd better cram it all in while I can, & how much of it is genetics & an addict's neurology.

I can say that I have hangovers from sugar. It's interesting that insulin sends all those amino acids to the muscles because my muscles hurt the Day After. I'm terribly thirsty & I'm exceedingly generous with salt on my abstinent food & it doesn't make me that thirsty. Sugar makes me very tired, as opposed to the high I hear so much about. It puts me right to sleep, which is what tryptophan is supposed to do from the Thanksgiving turkey. I'll be tired & sometimes pretty spacy the next day.

I also run on dysthymic depression, a low level, chronic condition that occasionally peaks into a major depression. This is common for an addict who uses a substance for self-medication.

And then there are my other addictions. I've abused alcohol but am not dependent on it (it makes me want to eat). I smoke. I buy too much stuff -- books, clothes, music, movies, salt-&-pepper shakers, hat boxes, dolls -- when I have no retirement plan, health insurance, & taxes to pay off. I get obsessive about things like taking pictures, "labels" on posts, how much garbage I generate for each trash day (Oh! The vanilla box! A bonus piece of garbage!), waiting until the small jar of nickels is full before rolling change & putting it in my savings account.

I see my addictive patterns in many things, some more harmful than others. I see myself as being an uncured addict. This post makes me understand how 12-step programs work for addicts.

It's all food for thought.

Mid-spring dreams & dramas

Three moments have scared me in the last 48 hours, coming fullgrown out of my unconscious. I'm writing the most difficult portion of the book (I'll say this about every portion but remind that chapter two was a bitch) & I think, given how instinctive these two dreams and a response are, I'd better finish the bitch & get on outta Dodge to happier stuff.

Tuesday night's dream:

M. (who I've never met) & I went dinner at a fancy French restaurant where we were "seated" with another couple in conjoining bathtubs. Flash to after dinner: M told me he wasn't interested in me because (direct quote) "You aren't good enough for me."

Man, did I rage. "You don't even have a master's degree," he said, to which I replied I certainly do, from Cornell University ("Cornell University"). "So do I!" he said but went on to disparage me for not being able to afford the restaurant, to which I pointed out I'd paid for my own meal. I think he then pooh-poohed me for walking dogs & having no intellectual life or something of the sort & I yelled that I'm almost famous, that he'd verified my voice with that of the CBS clip of me online.

He decided we should try once more, by having drinks at a hilltop fortress, a club sort of place, because the original restaurant had been a failure. I climbed & climbed in the fortress & finally found the bar, which had young clubby men & women in it but there was a terrace that led onto a huge green lawn, where I took a table and sat, waiting...

(The name of this blog, BTW, comes from just such a scene in Joni Mitchell's song of the same name -- He said he'd be over three hours ago/I've been waiting for his car on the hill.)

*

Phone call at 7.30 a.m. on Wednesday:

"G. went into labor last night & she's going in for a C-section now. Can you take Hero for the night?"

"Of course I can."

"I have another favor to ask. We're expecting a bureau to be delivered between 9 and 12 this morning. Could you be there to let them in."

[Hesitation as I think about morning dogs.]

"You can say no. We can ask somebody else..."

"I have four Labs this morning," I say. I can cancel Mellie but not the others.

"That's fine. You can take `em to our place."

"Four Labs, S. Think about it."

"They'll have a great time. Frances, I gotta go -- "

"Of course. Yeah, I'll be there. I'll lock `em all in the bedroom or something when the delivery comes."

"Hey, Frances -- you know we love you, right?"

"Yeah. I don't know why, but yeah."

*

Wednesday night's dream:

I have begged Alix to take me back and said she can pay me whatever she wants, less than the summer intern if she'll just take me back. She agrees and I'm given the least wanted, most trafficked desk in the office. But I have so much stuff to take home: suitcases of clothes & books, open jars of water to pack. How am I going to do it? I ask co-workers from my previous job. They're off to the Frankfurt Book Fare & have no suggestions, only more stuff for me to get home, Fare stuff like catalogues & galleys & rulers that say Heinemann or Loganesi on them. How will I ever get it all home in one trip on this one night & why am I working here again for yeoman's wages?

*

I'm looking at the dreams as being part & parcel of that hideous response to S: I don't know why he and G. would love me. I keep Hero all day and adore the fur off her head; I carry up packages & newspapers when I come in; I leave a running series of photos I've taken of her; I bring over my Big Sky Journals for the fly fishing porn; I gave Hero a George Dubyah squeaky toy for Christmas...

What's not to love?

Why would I beg to go back to work at a place I hated and felt hated? Why were there once-loved friends/co-workers in that office to witness my mendicancy? Why would -- or is "should" the correct verb? -- I argue my worth and my equality with a man I've never met who said this terrible thing (which he would, adamently, never do. If anything, he loves my brain)?

I found this overwhelming at about 1 p.m. this afternoon when I was stepping into the shower after two rounds of the dog run, saddening enough that when I snuck out on the three dogs, I couldn't get it together to do anything. It's not having three dogs here or the tiredness of antidepressants or even, really, depression.

It's the chicken and the egg of self-loathing. I can do everything in my power not to admit it to myself or show it to the world, but it falls out of me at night and in response to random compliments. It's keeping me from working on my book today and it's keeping me from thinking carefully about dinner, which is always a dangerous time.

And I don't like it.

And even if S. had said, "Hey, Frances -- you know we loathe you, don't you?" that's still not a reason to loathe myself. I grant myself that permission and what has my self ever done to me?

I'm looking at definitions of self:

1. The total, essential, or particular being of a person; the individual...
2. The essential qualities distinguishing one person from another; individuality...
3. One's consciousness of one's own being or identity; the ego...

4. One's own interests, welfare, or advantage...
5. Immunology. That which the immune system identifies as belonging to the body: tissues no longer recognized as self.

Of the five I like the last best, at least for the purposes of this blog. Take all that other stuff -- essential qualities, individuality, consciousness, identity, interests, essential tissues -- & I cannot recognize it as me.

Do I substitute food for "me" or "I"? ("Me" being the indirect object, the self that is acted upon, versus the subject pronoun "I," which does the acting upon "me"). Do I let depression become "I"? Have I substituted men (not a powerful current in my life right now) for "I"? Clothes, tchochkes, books, music, jewelry, mahjongg, obsessions like Christmas, eBay and housework for "me"? Even the dogs for "me"?

Have I substituted obesity and thinness for "I"?

Yeah. I don't know why, but yeah.

But not, quite, tonight. Tonight Daisy can whine a little as I finish this post. Tonight I'm talking back to all that stuff. And I'm saying "I" write.

I even took the photos.

Insurance policies

Each morning as I leave the house, usually a little late and feeling harrassed and scared about the advnetures and confrontations and possible disapprovals I'll be garnering to come, to pick up the first dog of the day. I pat myself down as I walk toward the front door.

Watch.

Cookies.

Bags.

Cigarettes.

Keys -- musn't forget keys!

Some days there are other items. My camera. Invoices for my services. My big clip to tie dogs up outside the next stop on our way to the dog run. Lists for errands. I consider what is in my backpack, which I'll pick up as we swing back. Enough balls for everyone to play? The flinger stick? The tug-of-war rings? The spray bottle to keep -- ha ha ha -- Henry from eating sticks?

Those things established, I have an 8-block walk to pick up Hero, time to think about my other insurance policies. Or maybe the better word for them is "investments". I ask myself, what have I done so far in insure/invest in an abstinent day.

The first items are almost always the same. A weighed & measured breakfast. Doing the dishes. Taking my medications. Brushing my teeth.

I tend to forget that the quiet time Daisy allows me while she wallows in the pillows & I have coffee & cigarettes in the kitchen is partly spent in prayer. I tend to forget that before I went into the Rooms, I rarely hung up my nightgown or did a cursory wash on a day I wasn't going to be "public" (i.e., office, seeing people, etc.)

Today I used my 10-minutes or so to ask myself what else I needed to shore up today's abstinence. A weighed & measured lunch & dinner, certainly. Putting in some time writing just as certainly -- that pride at the end of the day is valuable. Being present for the dogs came next, again a matter of pride at the end of the day.

Then there are little things. Doing lunch & dinner dishes. Picking up groceries to get a head start on boarding a dog for the next four nights. Trying not to fall into the black hole of mahjongg. Posting my daily inventory of food & actions & responding to others' inventories in a hopefully supportive way.

Service is important. Small service is always available. I picked up a chicken bone from the sidewalk, angry at the sloth & danger someone exhibited in dropping it. I picked up some fresh poop in the dog run because I knew I had enough bags. Maybe my blog will help someone; maybe my responses to other blogs will. Picking up the phone when I'm home & returning calls -- no one calls me unless they need me, or need to be needed by me.

Today I'm trying an experiment. I usually have my second carbohydrate at dinner. The trouble is, I'm often too tired to cook dinner. So I roasted my Brussels sprouts & potatoes while I was in the shower & am eating as I write. Maybe I'll be more content with less labor-intensive (gee: 10 minutes) meal tonight.

Oh -- washing my hair! That was necessary to today's investment, as are clean clothes.

It's interesting to see that the shower I put off too long took 15 minutes. The labor-intensive meal was 10 minutes. What's up with that? One answer is that I really am tired by 6.

I even `fessed up the true amount owed from a dog-sitting gig. I hate asking for things, even things that are mine. I crossed a character fault, on of my San Andreas veins, & did the right thing for a me who has a lot of taxes owing. I stood up for myself.

So overall, now that it's 2.30 p.m., I've already put a good deal of investment in keeping my abstinence intact. If I were really motivated, I'd hie me to that Greysheet meeting tonight or call someone from program.

Dunno if that will happen. I still have to wash these dishes, put on clean clothes, keep my energy intact enough to write later & have one more round of Good Dog to give.

But I've begun.

Amazon Flails Again

I haven't looked at my Amazon blog in about a hundred years, for which I'm sorry. Looking at it might have prompted me to post. I've been in Writer Head & dealing with the most personally vicious part of Just This Once. Progress has been steady for two whole days, which is a lot like trying to stick to a food plan -- TWO. WHOLE. DAYS.

Woo-hoo! you think as you go to sleep on Night Two. I can DO this.

Then life interrupts, rudely. We've had ghastly rain, although mild in comparison to the snow Upstate, the mix of atrocities in Cleveland & Pittsburg, & the surfs in Massachusetts. Yesterday this was a good thing. I was boarding a 10-month-old Labby baby named Henry & Daisy didn't so much as consent to stick her neck outside the door, while he didn't do much better. The rain has a soporific effect on them & they were pretty quiet.

Today is Monday, however, with Boomer, Hero, Mellie, and Roger to entertain, as well as Henry's morning with us. It meant bringing the dogs into the Bat Cave, sorted out by who gets along with whom. Back-&-forth & forth-&-back. It's going on 7 & I haven't written a word but I have played some mighty mahjongg today as the fur flew & the stuffing of several plush toys wafted under furniture.

Then there's the little matter of taxes. I overstated what I owe to a friend--it's only $8900, not $10,000. After my feeble enclosures, it's $8500.

How hungry was I when I hung up the phone with my accountant? Ravished. Bring it on!

I haven't brought it on but I am weary. Weary of dogs & stairs, weary of worry, weary of reliving the past & trying to untangle the web of my relapse. I wish I had a wife tonight. She would have cleaned the bathroom, vacuumed up the dog detritus & made something yummy & nourishing for dinner.

Also, we could have filed a joint deduction.

There's some logic in that, which is a little frightening. Men don't need husbands nearly as much as women need wives. Either women should be allowed an extra deduction for unpaid labor or we should become ersatz-Mormons. Put out a faint call -- Bad day -- too tired to do anything -- & suddenly a casserole (without noodles) & salad would appear on one's doorstep.

{Sigh}

Look for more posts here in the future but please don't expect profundidty: I'm saving it for the fucking book.

Is rhubarb mousse food porn?

Food porn? I think not, or not quite.

There are three ways to make the rhubarb mousse in my previous post.

1. By the book:

4 egg whites = 60 calories
1 3/4 c. sugar = 1,347 calories
1 c. heavy cream = 820 calories
1 package unflavored gelatin = 25 calories
4 c. rhubarb = 66 calories

Total calories: 2318/289.75 calories per portion

2. My modified version:

4 egg whites = 60 calories
1 c. heavy cream = 820 calories
1 package unflavored gelatin = 25 calories
4 c. rhubarb = 66 calories
1 3/4 Splenda = 0

Total calories: 971/121.375 calories per portion

3. Completely modified:

4 egg whites = 60 calories
3 c. sugar/fat-free Cool Whip = 60 calories
1 package unflavored gelatin = 25 calories
4 c. rhubarb = 66 calories
1/4 Splenda = 0

Total: 211 calories/26.375 calories per portion

Happy Easter -- Rhubarb Souffle for Dessert

Anne asked how I make rhubarb souffle so here's how.

4 c. chopped rhubarb

6 T cold water

2 1/4 c. sugar *

1 envelope gelatin

1 c. heavy cream **

4 egg whites ***

1 t vanilla

optional: 12 fresh strawberries; additional whipping cream

* Sugar is why God invented Splenda

** I used heavy cream for this because I'm taking it to dinner hosted by civillians. You could, however, used sugar-free Cool Whip or even sweetened Greek yogurt.

*** Daisy got the most delicious & appropriate Easter breakfast of an egg yolk omlet with kibble.

Cook the rhubarb with 1/4 c. water & 1 3/4 c. sugar/Splenda in a heavy-bottomed saucepan for about 10 minutes until soft. Strain & cook down the juice to 1/2 cup. Puree the rhubarb in a food mill or blender, or put through a vegetable mill. Soften the gelatin in 2 T cold water, then add the hot rhubarb juice & stir until completely dissolved. Add the puree. Beat the cream until stiff. (Alternately, open the Cool Whip.) Beat the egg whites until they begin to stiffen, then add the remaining 1/2 c. sugar/Splenda & the vanilla, continuing to beat until stiff peaks form. First, fold the egg-white mixture into the rhubarb, then the whipped cream.

Now you have some other choices to make.

You can do the traditional collar of wax paper & fit it around a 1 1/2-quart souffle mold. Chill for at least 6 hours. Remove the collar & decorate the top with fresh strawberries & rosettes of whipped cream piped from a pastry tube.

OR...

You can be as lazy as I am & take the mixing bowl of souffle over to your hostess whom you know has pretty bowls & dance with Boomer as she pours it into a crystal bowl that was precious to her mother, watch her wash the mixing bowl & take Boomer home with you to sleep on the couch.

Happy Easter everyone -- no matter what your denomination, god or tradition is.

Daisy's first day with me

This is Daisy on the day I brought her home.

She fit in a cat crate.

She will be three years old in three days.

Now she would like to eat a cat.

Daisy -- very young

"I don't consider myself a pessimist. I think of a pessimist as someone who is waiting for it to rain. And I feel soaked to the skin." Leonard Cohen

So far, today, Amazon-Schmazon seems to be accepting posts. It has not, in two weeks, delivered on the promised "your picture here soon."

So here it is. A very belated birthday bouquet.