Learning about when British women could get drinks from a pub.  The answer is currently unclear.  Probably never.  This may mean I need to rewrite something.  Not sure.  Displeased by historical accuracies.

Feeling like a beast that skulks the frozen wastes at the same time I feel like Betty Homemaker, skulking the frozen internet for Huevos Rancheros recipes that have calorie counts.  Fuck, sometimes I am over myself.  I find myself annoyed by every possible direction my brain wants to run out of this briar patch.  Language is failing me.

It is a nice impulse to cry.  To reach towards a catharsis rather than shrug it off.   There’s been such death, such dark spectres, the feeling of winter if not the weather hanging low and close to me of late.  Enough that I want to throw everything out the airlock and, not even start fresh…not even start anything until I can know for certain it won’t curdle under my attentions.

I can work my way out of this.  Might just have to get on the bike.  Those ten minutes are nothing, probably, if you’re asking for giant weight loss leaps, but they are, also, precious.  Vital and restorative. Every time I haul myself up on the seat, I am proving that I can do more than nothing.  Something more than sitting in my own despair and circular thinking.

Today – I noticed – and I only noticed because I was tracking that I ordered way less than I normally do from Panera and I felt more full than I usually do.   I also figured out that the low-fat mango smoothie I like is so goddamned sugary that it should be illegal.  At least in terms of what I’m trying to watch.  And that a clementine is often sufficient dessert for me.   They’re perfectly ripe right now, as good as any candy.  I used to hate it when people would say that, but it’s true.  All I wanted to be able to do was track and I’m doing that!

Alright.  Endorphins are bubbling up.  I’ve been amused by a few clever people on the internet.  I’ve gathered a bit of a sense of my own reckless frustration not getting me anywhere and I do, actually, want to go so somewhere.  Breathe, the Faithful Light tells me. Now that I have stopped banging pots and screaming, I can hear her clearly.  It is not horror! to have a dental appointment in a month.  It is not DEVASTATION to have to re-write this scene in one way or another – I’m smart enough to figure that one out.  It is not the deepest, most seismic desolation that will cause me to evolve.  It is the tiniest of the tiny earthquakes.  You don’t even feel the shift, but you keep shaking.

Okay.  Okay.  Enough.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll stop, but I haven’t stopped today.


No more rhapsody.  It was funny.  The fact the boss called me to laugh that she had figured out why the skin on her feet was so dry.  The creepy delight I am taking in a Twitter joke and some YouTube videos.  Eddie Izzard.  You laugh or you revert into the primordial muck.


Secret Ravings of a Homeless Witch


This is the post I wanted to write – the post I am writing despite still needing to do my romantical paean or whatever the heck rutting behind the chiffarobe sort of scene I’m aiming for.

I need to track exactly what I eat.  Or as exactly as the software allows.  I need to document my choices without curling up into myself.  Without yellowing and peeling as soon as I realize that I fucked up and then, trying to alter the record so that it isn’t written down, in digital stone, that I am a failure.

I have been really good and today, that fuck-up happened.  But if there is nothing to fuck up, and that is fucking with my head!  There was the Timely Garnet Extravaganza playing all day long in my undercarriage, with the glorious attendant rumblings of pain, sharp and bright like sheet lighting.  There was the financial dealings that have bled their way into my financial dealings which meant, at least for today, there was soup for leftovers and a crap outlook for grocery shopping. Then, there was me sealing that aforementioned soup shut in the microwave, and me in my new but already shaggy-dog looking poncho which is a look jokingly referred to as “homeless witch” by a sharp-tongued co-worker.  Whose sharp-tongue I usually appreciate and am amused by, but today, instead, felt rather a bit exhausted and irritated with.  I had put on makeup today.  I had pulled my hair into a cute ponytail.  Everyone was a little surprised at me getting the brunt of it, even him. Even though we all know that he just says whatever he thinks for better or worse. That’s the bit that bothers me, because nobody gives me feedback, really, and then, suddenly, out of the blue, this wry negative I have to laugh off.  I mean, I am totally down with witchery and wildness, but that wasn’t what he meant or what I had been gunning for.  I feel sort of messy and melted, but nobody’s allowed to pick up on that.  It sort of pisses on this idea that I thought maybe I was getting somewhere, yesterday.  It was feeling easier.  And today, I’m feeling like I can’t move two inches but for falling into another black hole of unsolvable problems.  Like my self-esteem got kicked in its imaginary junk.

So, the pizza I said yesterday, oh no, it’s crap, I would never eat it.   It is crap, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t eat it today because it Or the doughnut holes I am eating before dinner and probably in a minute going to have again.  I really wish I could have not.  But I did.  I have to own that I did it and not do it again tomorrow when things are going to be equally haywire.

Life is always going to jam me up.

I think the shame exists because I wish I could have some backbone in me that would feel obliged to say, hey, you are trying to lose weight and that means that you can’t do do what you did before.  This is what you want to escape.  You have to dig your heels in and pivot.  And when you don’t listen to your better voices, and you know you’re giving up time just to feel…not good or bad, but simply nothing, it’s embarrassing.  It’s embarrassing to say I ate maniacally and privately and in an attempt to keep myself from feeling regret about my job, regret about my body, from perceiving the failure I so often register myself as being.  Not resulting from my choices, but in-born, genetic, terminal failure.  I can hear the tsk-tsk, and the berating tone, and nobody’s said anything.  I make myself feel terrible so that I can keep eating poorly and have this same exhausting conversation over and over again.

But it doesn’t have to be.  Because before, I would do this binge-eating (which, I think in my personal history of bingeing and the collective one I believe exists, is not so bad) and nobody would know about it.   Food was medicine. Food was private.   Food was the panacea and where I didn’t have be nice and polite and silent.   I didn’t have to think about  I had the power to make sure I could get all I needed.   If I happened to eat publically, that was a social requirement, not nutrition.  Lately, though, all I needed is a hell of a lot.

So we have to say what is.   I didn’t want there to be rules I could fail, but there is still the desire that I want to meet. So we have to track what I actually ate.  Even if it’s “bad.” Even if it says that I took a flying leap.  Because we can’t work from nebulous generalities.  We do choose better when we know better, so pretending we can’t know – that it’s all incalculable intangible ATE GOOD or fluid, approximate ATE BAD, how do we replicate it or avoid it?  We end up pulling the same experiments over and over again, every time coming up REPLY HAZY, ASK AGAIN LATER.

Time for the bike and the floor.

Hear the Quiet: Day Two Hundred-Seventy

488346_97930638oh the incredible mixing of feelings.  on one hand, I feel completely vulnerable and unnerved that we have to announce my leaving to 1000+ people.  on the other, the obnoxious thought went through my mind that people should be freaking out more, there should be more emails.  And I have to stop, because my ego should just calm down so I can survive this transition.  As much as I love current boss, she is not making this easy.  I know there was always going to be a huge wall that I’d slam into whenever I had to leave, but damn, damn, I just didn’t realize I’d break my neck doing it.  We have a huge event and the annual publication it takes me days to proof and even the suggestion that I have to deal with this on top of everything is making me feel, I didn’t want to feel frustrated with her because this is something I’ve dropped on her head to make my life better, but…

There is a feeling I am hunting and I must walk though fire to get it.

Ugh.  I don’t know.  I guess I contemplated how stressful it would be to quit, but I didn’t really absorb how much groundwork should have been laid.  On top of that, I just didn’t realize how powerfully I would react inside.  I can’t just toss everything aside and as my friend suggested, “just let it burn” and I was sure I would just work out until my last day and leave everything in as best shape I could.  But right now, I feel like I’m being pushed to figure out eight years worth of failures and mistakes and compound bullshit (including some things that are making my obsessive mind obsess about having my head run through with a rusty shovel, and this is not at all hyperbole) and lay it out in perfect marzipan-flower form for the next person in thirty days when I’m trying to go to Italy, trying to transition mentally, trying to figure out how to start eating right when every meal feels like triage like I’m somehow helping myself by not doing or eating anything different, ever.  Certainly not a vegetable.  It’s making me just say in my mind, once I’m done, I’m done…but that’s not even true because my current boss is making arrangements with new boss (with my blessing because I can’t say I don’t want to be there anymore and I want to shut the door and not have any more of their responsibilities, I have to oooh, yes, of course, I would be available to help, of couuuuuurse I would want to give my crazy co-worker my new work number, I mean, fuck me.) for me to help with hiring and cross-training.  Suddenly. the burnout feels 100%.

And all of this plays against the fact that people are being so damn nice.  There have been really generous emails and comments from people about it, hugs and people gripping my hand and telling me intently how glad they are for me to be “spreading my wings.”  I’ve already got two lunch invitations and two parties of some degree happening, one of which current boss is throwing, and I feel like such a cunt about it all.

Pink Nectar: Two Hundred Four


I am so Sunday Night Fevering.  I am so…I feel like I’ve been trying this boss battle for a hundred thousand tries and my last save point left me without enough healing potions so everytime I restart I’m at a disadvantage.  And I don’t want to go back and start a new game, the thought makes me mad as hell.  Nor do I want to hand over the controls to someone else, I want to have won the whole thing for myself.  So the only answer now is to just turn off the machine and wait until I care more or less.

I am feeling gross.  I keep moving this fan around with me from room to room and now that I’ve retreated into a less distracting (totally profoundly distracting) bedroom, I haven’t hauled it with me and I feel as though the metaphor is real and my body is cooking through.  That you could gut me and pints and pints of oil would be produced.  Like the leavings of a supermarket rotisserie chicken.

Beauty, value, respect.

Either/or is the question tonight.  Do we play at fixing it?  Do we say tomorrow we could start low-carb regardless of supplies. Do we say that we are at rock bottom and the only success we can hope for is by sticking, without swerving, to a diet and path and a lifestyle choice?  To focus on numbers and weight loss and eight cups of water a day and baselines and tracking and being “good.”   Do we say that will make us sexy, alive, energetic, organized, “fixed?” Do we say that we could take a middle road and work at moderation in food, drink, exercise, life knowing that we’ve been on a wild tear of chocolate croissants and chocolate chip pancakes and that we want to tear and cook our own flesh at the moment such is the state of our self-hatred?   Do we say that there’s room for one more coffee, one more burrito, one more stab at making food satisfy emotional needs and then, and, then?  Do we say that girls of all sizes who love themselves are given the capacity to love others simply by virtue of believing themselves worthy of it and will, somehow, a spree of self-acceptance into being that is pre-ordained to fail because we don’t accept; we understand the revulsion and shame and we  get why we’re passed over – because we want to be passed over because we are afraid of sexy, alive, energetic, organized, and most of all, being “fixed.”

Or most likely, do we stand inside Schroedinger’s Diet Box where all the walls are papered with Cathy comics and all the TVs play are Slim Fast commercials and you’ll either come out fat or thin so long as you ever bother to come out.  I’m here for the moment.   For the while.

Maybe all being vulnerable is just not walking away 1 time out of ten when you start to turn tail.   To stop yourself and stay in the fire, let the collagen liquify, let your state change.

Palomino: Day Two Hundred Three

1407477_75285780I’ve been trying to remember to use this title for an age.

Today was many things, but it was also the funeral for our accountant who passed away after a sudden, short-lived, rapacious and then circumvented battle with cancer.  A woman who treated me so kindly and believed in my ability to handle all of this through all these years of me hanging on by fingernails.  She reminded me, and watching the slideshow of images of her life only added to this, of my own mother who is about her age.  I sat and listened as they walked through in the eulogy all the benchmarks of her life, proving the power of an ordinary school, marriage, motherhood, business progression.  When the chemotherapy became as much an enemy as the cancer, her reverend and several people who spoke reported that she found profound peace in her faith.  A solace that to her became tangible, physical, real.  It was moving, exhausting and after a volunteer at work had some sort of post-traumatic stress episode where I realized he was sitting behind me trying not to sob, I feel open and raw and have had all sorts of bad food choices to try and seal off this emotional vulnerability.  It has not worked at all tonight.

Odd British Television making me think about pansies and driving me to tears, funny, self-aware tears.  Oh, boy, this is one of those things that makes so much more sense just to feel than to try and tell the internet about.  To try and bend into words as…

sometimes I feel so profoundly my own personal sadness, my own personal loss, that I forget to worry for a moment about anyone else’s or to feel guilty and ashamed that I forgot.  for ten or fifteen seconds, I get very close to just being sad, just wanting comfort, just feeling without anything swooping in to tell me to give it up or grow up or stop out of feigned boredom.   lately, I’d give anything for a whole minute of tears and pain, to feel it and let it go rather than to give all my waking hours to this half-felt sensation of failure and regret and a loneliness that can’t be fed or starved away.  i stare at the faces on OKC – this carnival of possibilities – and as one seems like a maybe, a sort of, a sliver, I realize how much the problem is me.  How many questions I do not want to answer because they invite other questions.   How locked up I am so that I can’t even force myself off of dead-center and pick someone out of a lineup of purportedly willing and seemingly not sketchy characters to say hello to.  Fuck.

I have a stuffed Puppycat, though.  And a breakfast reservation tomorrow.  And a whole bunch of work which should satisfy something in me.  And some white boots to order.  And a flight to Boston and onto Italy and a future where maybe I can pull this around.  I don’t know.

This is being vulnerable and I don’t like it.  At all.


La Coterie des Gateaux: Day One Hundred Sixty-Seven

592525_56508861Vacation happened today.  My mind vacated the premises.  I disappeared, though my body was present and situated right here on this bed.

You think that’s what you want.  What you need.  To take your head off and put it on a shelf, let your torso and legs, everything below the neckline go on walkabout.   So you do that, watch a lot of tv, play a lot of games, avoid eye contact, avoid best practices and healthy actions.  You go numb and void and blank.  You say this is how the stress can be vented out of the system.  You say that everyone is taking a piece of you and by laying low, biting your tongue and satisfying your id, you’re reclaiming what’s lost.  You are throwing off the yoke and the weights and all of the neediness that is put upon you day after day, week after week, year after year.

But really, what you’re doing is making it much harder to handle the facts of what reality actually is. You’re tweaking the difficulty setting on your own life up to nightmare levels.  Because you do have places you have to be, things you have to do, vegetables you have to eat so that everything, metaphoric and literal, can pass smoothly.  And if you lay around saying you’re cutting off your corset and letting it all hang loose for a day, the next day, it becomes a lot less palatable to put the garment back on, to suck in your lungs, and fit back into the whalebones.    So a day of freedom bleeds into the furthest reaches of the calendar until finally, you have to make a rough start all over again, progress eroded into nothingness.

Instead, you should just say that the rules don’t change just because we’re not up there on the dais, performing them for the daily social jury, for the audience that votes where and what and if we get to proceed into the higher orders of human possibility.   You don’t blow out your moral pilot light on the weekend, on vacation days.

And yet, I always do, and I always feel profoundly justified until about halfway in to however deep it is I end up daring to fall.   And then, I feel my hands begin to flail for the railing, for a surface, for a ledge to hang on.

What I want is the thing I can get from food, the sense of calm, of achievement, of pleasure, of risk.   The thing that makes me feel like if I am forgotten and alone, I don’t have to sit around and feel it.  I can medicate it and fix it and stave it off and procrastinate it away.

And then, you and I step back and realize that the corset has to go back on and the head comes off the shelf, and fuck it, all of the wanting is still there, and all the angrier for being put off by a slice or four of pizza and the idea that you can fix a soul with sugar.

Pineapple Hospitality: Day One Hundred Thirty-Four

1415535_47645058When you keep a food diary, or at least, when I do, I realize I have to end up dealing with issues of perfectionism.

Which is always laughable when you consider how I keep my room, my workspace, my car, anything I can claim as my own space.   If I try and explain that it’s easier to fret about mess than fret about attempting to clean it and seeing all those

I had a stressful day.  It was just all Monday all over the place where, you’re emotional and grumpy and feeling really shat upon and your co-worker is trying to cause trouble and say the other co-worker’s mad at me…you…whatever and she wasn’t, at all, and I need to deal with all of their quirks and needs while the boss is away and basically, I didn’t get lunch until 3:00p.m. because I started to remember that a.) I needed to eat and b.) I needed to eat right that very minute.  But leaving the office for even 10 minutes, even to walk outside, felt like I’d be flying off this constant treadmill which included a letter from someone I’m too nervous to do anything other than vaguely explain (like they said that because we rejected them on merit, they remembered some situation years ago where someone called them one nationality other than another related to us, a nationality their actual nationality would be offended to be mis-identified as and because of this, they feel we maliciously brushed off their application.  Because what other explanation could there be?!) which lead to me having to craft this very intentional letter to spell out how that wasn’t the case.

It wasn’t *ALL* I wanted to tuck into something carby, but if I didn’t have this bright new intention leading the way when I went to the grocery store, it might have happened.   But, well, the not eating until late and the idea that my blood sugar was outta whack got in my head and I decided on getting the fixins for a low-carb tortilla quesadilla (and some kale to bake.)   So, I got an Atkins bar to help balance me out, I guess, and get me home, but I realize now, having put all of what I ended up eating into the myfitnesspal that even with the exercise, my numbers are not lovely.  They’re not bad , I mean, they’re not old food numbers, but they’re not numbers of someone trying to lose weight.  Like a shit-ton of sodium, and only two glasses of water (providing I drink one before bed!).  It tells me that if you do this every day, you’re basically not going to lose weight.

I mean, I told myself, you just have to track it.  You just have to accept that you put that stuff into your mouth.  It really happened.  I just want to “accidentally” not track the guacamole or not track the crazy calories that are in these low-carb tortillas, because it makes me look better (like anyone is checking or watching but me) and I’m learning as a result.

Now I have a food plan for tomorrow and I need to finish up, get in the bath, and get to sleep so I’m ready for my 7:30a.m.  meeting.

That’s all for now.