Frisson Fricassee

I am suddenly reminded that there is cheese in my purse.


Well, it is a remnant of a day of digging in.  I didn’t have to go into the office, but I did, just because there were so many emails that needed to be sent, so many checks to be organized, so many applications to process, so much to just preside over that even though I worked from 10:30am-4:00pm, I don’t feel I made much of a dent.  So much so I grabbed a box of paperwork and brought it home with me.    I don’t know if I’ll touch it tomorrow.  I know I should.  But I kind of feel like I beat back the dragon with all my might today so tomorrow it can serve me up in a fricassee.

I also did not do Mildred’s bidding.  Mildred, who is, in essence rather a Gollum-like character, rubbed her hands together and thought that she could convince me in some roundabout way to get really screwed up on the diet.  I was in the office with the door shut all by my lonesome.   It could easily have been an opportunity to get a big yeasty, carby something and get it down my gullet.  But.  I kept thinking about how maybe the way to stop getting the same results was to do the exact opposite of what I’d usually do in these situations and instead of going through the drive-through, I went back to the grocery store and got the said cheese and peanuts and some water.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t sufficient to sustain me all day so when I finally released myself from my administrative bonds, I went and got some chicken wings and inhaled them as though they’d been molded from ambrosia.  Mildred was alright with that.  And I thought it was a decent enough compromise instead of all the other options I had been contemplating.  I was sort of astonished at my own willpower because it seems like every day I need a fresh convincing that I’m at all interested in doing this.

And maybe the email had something to do with it.  It had just one line that made you wonder and that wonder was enough to make me smile and rather ignore the ambivalence the dog whoso do list to hunt inspires in me.  I feel a bit a’tangled about it.  It feels like marching across a marsh without a map and at this point I can still see the steps I took in, but the swamp is filling them in quickly and soon there’s just getting lost whether you go forward or backward.  So we just slosh and squeal as we feel the water seep in through boots that were never waterproofed.  For we always planned to go places where roads run.

And there’s another email from someone else.  Honestly, universe, you can chuck them at me all you want, someday the right one will stick.

And I thank you for moving that dog out of the way of my car.

Planetarium Dawn

Okay, I will allow you, dearest, warmest blanket of the internet to bear witness to me and my hormones today.

Holy shit, I could eat my own fist.  I could eat and eat and eat and eat until there was nothing left.  I could go all hungry mungry.  This definitely must be hormone time, somehow, maybe?

Not that I haven’t been punished by my own stupidity today.  I was cooking some stuffed peppers in a desperate attempt to fill up my stomach and get some vegetables in and thought, oh, these need to be a little bit poached.  So I put some water in a cup and put in the baking dish.  The hot baking dish.  Half a second passes and the whole thing explodes.  Cause that’s science, I was told.  Well, shit.   Now I have to get shards of glass out of the oven.  Thank goodness for aluminum foil on the bottom of the oven and thank goodness that there were no shards in my stuffed peppers.  At least none that made themselves apparent whilst I inhaled them.

I’m surely looking like some sort of goddess to you all at this point.

Maybe not.

But I answered you.  I didn’t let myself think too much or too hard about it.  I did it, if only to get an email back.   But as crazy as I feel today, I feel there’s a victory there.

I am glad, too, that for all the mania running around in my head today, and for as much as I did eat, I kinda kept my shit more or less together.  I mean, not all wrapped up in elegant shit sachets, but I am not sitting here in despair.  And perhaps, we can only thank the sudden snowstorm for that because there were hours today where if I had access to a pizza in any way shape or form, it would have been mine, low-carb diet be damned.  I was creeping in the cupboards thinking that maybe there were some saltines in there and I had plans to just eat saltines, just dust myself all over in saltine powder.   Luckily again, no saltines so I kept just nibbling on approved items.

I think the low weight of 157 this morning sort of kicked me off in both directions.   Wanting to say screw it and wanting to protect that all the while this hunger, this beast, taking over my sense of ability to say no.   I hope I feel better tomorrow, or at least can rely on the fact that work is going to distract me.   But enough about you or me or fucking food, or even Oscars, or other bullshit.

The sky is so beautiful right now, right outside my window.   Street lights, usually so braying and garish, are made milky in the winter sky.  It’s almost like an artificial planetarium dawn at 9:30pm.   A certain peacefulness comes with being tired and knowing that sleep with take care of some of it.  Sleep will fix nothing, but it will give me some ease.  And to paraphrase the lovely Dawes, that’s all I want right now, a day, a night, that moves easy.


A groove, a rut, a comfort.

It is good to have converted my Saturday into a chance to get my bearings again.  My weight is not way up after all this kinda sorta/not really at all low carb of the past week since the snow storm and I lost all my momentum.  I feel a little less ravenous and a little more sure, though I couldn’t possibly claim to be wholly back on track.  I’m still a little bit chafed for whatever reason that I can’t get through some of this new stress in old ways.   Kind of annoying when an active part of you doesn’t care about your ambition.  Or is bafflingly petrified at it and is dragging its heels in the dirt without remorse.   I have to calm myself down throughout the day and remember to be present with the whole thing.  Not let the, ahem, weight of the whole thing and the baggage of trying to do this my whole life drive me berserk.

So I put the chicken carcass of the rotisserie chicken in the crock pot with a bunch of water and cooked it with some onion and some different sorts of salt.  I assume that’s how you make chicken stock.  It’s all in the fridge now, letting the aforetitled chicken fat rise to the top so I can make Egg Drop Soup tomorrow.  My mother offered me some canned, and she has extra, but I wanted to try and do it myself so we’ll see if this little kitchen experiment will be bearable tomorrow.  I also cooked all sorts of other things, turkey burgers, some garlic marinated chicken.   I am turning my nose up at vegetables which is a terrible sign, so I’m going to do what I can to get some swallowed tomorrow and fill me up.

I also made myself go to Target today.  It’s part of the whole driving regularly thing I need to do, and even if I was stuck behind this melodramatic cunt in line who made the poor old man who was our cashier feel like crap because she had to wait in line behind a credit application customer AND there were two hats and he only rang up one, it was worthwhile.  Sorry for the long aside, it just got under my skin.  I wanted to say that there wasn’t anything so important it was worth stamping about and making yourself look like a moron in a Target on a Saturday afternoon, but…alas, no point to that, either.   And I got my shakes and my bars ahead of the snowstorm.  There’s something to taking care of yourself in advance instead of by triage.

And you, sir, who kindly wrote me back.  You aren’t revealing your heart, except you are, and even that small tear in the veil bothers me tremendously.  I see how I choose to turn away and then wonder why you’re all behind me.   You’ve hardly done anything and Mildred knows what you are and Mildred has decided you’re not her Prince, her best beloved one man who never was or will be, and she wishes you would go away.  But I don’t.  I’m glad we’re corresponding.  I’m sorry for trafficking in bullshit.  At least it’s only in my head and what I’ve given you thus far has been meant and real and not in secret code.


Chicken Fat

When you feel yourself starting to dance as you write, that’s when you know you’re leaning into the fiction.  And sometimes that’s the aerodynamics you need to fly, other times, that’s the thing that’s going to throw you to the ground,  render you motionless.

I ate okay, but not right.  I did not do right.  I did not engage.  I did not show up today.   All I can taste is sugar and salt and chicken fat.  I see, keenly, how  little slips and corners cut lead back to this place. I  feel blobbly and slippy and the same ways all over again.  I feel the power for the hunger to reach out and take over, zombi-fy me.  I feel like if I don’t mind every minute, every second, all will be lost.  Yet again.  I feel that I just got bored and ran out of things and couldn’t deal.

So I am sitting in my bed in the dark and not eating the dinner I had planned to follow the rest of the lunch I ate when I got home from work.   I am sitting here and not doing anything further to jeopardize anything and instead am watching Pemberley Digital vids, going to download the latest Rifftrax of the Vanilla Ice movie (what.) and complete this post before sleeping.  Maybe I’ll be very good and brush my teeth.  If I sit on my hands, and stop watching cooking shows about very sugary desserts, I’m bound to be in a better position to reorganize myself.  I know if I don’t do this, even if I’m hungry, I’m going to make a seriously stupid choice again and I don’t want to act against my own best interests.

I knew I’d have to do this even though I was fantasizing that I wouldn’t, but here it is 7 weeks out or something like that and I am bristling under the program but I know, that secretly, I want to work in its constraints.  I want to get the results.  I just have to push past these situations and not let them snowball and ruin everything for me.  And I don’t have the experience to really believe, faithfully, that I can do that.  So I have to – just like the driving – give myself some basis for faith.

And the boy has emailed me back and I hardly know what to think about it, so I don’t think and sally forth like a person who doesn’t need to sit still and pontificate every letter of every phrase so it doesn’t express its double meaning.   I appreciate the conversation and if I say the wrong thing, well, I say the wrong thing.

It’s Friday.  I am tired as hell from getting up early and today was hard.  Too much work and too little me and I wanted to just not be responsible at all which made it worse and I want to give everything up and go back  (but immediately, and with relief, I feel myself contradict these insipid urges toward entropy and gluttony and a life without living in it.)


Cold to the Touch

Another famous great start.  I pressed the title and it shot off as a published post.  Who knows if you’re getting an email where I seem to have given up my whole shtick about writing five hundred words every day in favor of just one: Let.   I’m not trying to coerce anyone to let anything, not in or out, it was just a simple error and hopefully, the computer and the tubes and wires will work in such a way that I will sound entirely ridiculous now as opposed to entirely ridiculous twice.

Alright, there’s a hundred words about nothing.  I’ll try and provide a few hundred more with a bit more than a ghost of substance about it.  That and I’d like to try and turn off all this machinery and go to sleep so that I can wake up and stand firm about the fact that I am a human being and I have a life and I have goals and shit and all the crap I’m fucking up needs to be dealt with instead of ignored.  How about that?  It feels so huge sometimes, the thousand steps between me and escape, so much so that it seems much easier to me to just embrace the fact that I’m caught in this world where I am a linchpin that’s bending under the force of everyone else’s needs.  Where I should just fake adult behavior instead of exhibiting it and everyone’ll get what they want.  Hah.  I just feel very small sometimes under the heel of my problems.  But what else is new?  This is not a new complaint and I am not the only girl who has to deal with the needs of others, sometimes that are well beyond her reckoning.

As Regina Spektor noted and I will now horribly mangle and paraphrase, you laugh until you cry, you live until you die.  So I gather up my posies and my perils and I put them in a rucksack to haul about with me and I hope, somehow, to make progress.

I did play a lot of video games today.  I did, briefly, hallucinate that I had Eagle Vision.  And that I was going to go mad on Animus Island.  I also did not destroy the house.  And that’s about all I have to offer in that regard.  I kept the clean bathroom clean.  I put dishes in the dishwasher.  I ate food that I had previously bought and some free food from my mother’s kitchen when we went over there to re-situate the cars and not any fast food.  There were two apples in there! And a stuffed pepper with quinoa and black rice.  I actually feel like I’m able to contemplate my problems because I didn’t slather them over with a thick layer of guacamole and sour cream today.

It’s not nice to have to go to the abyss, but if I’m going to be there, I’d like to at least know where the edge is.



Amanda Palmer is making me think about art and the critical, seemingly obviously critical, reception that the woman who repainted the fresco of Jesus and did so with such unplanned and unexpected results.  It’s nice to read the back and forth of minds as they bat around the question of whether or not this was restoration or destruction.  It’s nice to think at all about something on a larger scale, rather than scurrying from task to task to relief to relief.

Ah.  I feel alright just about now.   It was Monday with all the added stress of it being this time of year between billing cycles where we have tons of bills and no money coming in and I felt really just overwhelmed and undone by the agenda of the day.   It was just Monday, every minute, every inch.  So no filming.  But no crying, either and I arrive here after taking a pile (a literal) pile of work home and my dear sister helped me get the gumption to work through and sort it so that it will be manageable for tomorrow.  I am very lucky, because this is going to make all the difference in the world tomorrow, given that I have to leave early.  Don’t have to, but am.  I had only asked for half days tomorrow and Wednesday, but my lunacy, my relentless lunacy made me anxious about the whole being in the front situation and essentially NOT being up there in the not so cheap seats, made the very good decision to take Wednesday off.  Despite it being a board meeting, despite me needing to take minutes, frankly, dear universe, I need this more.  I need this so much more.   And my boss who deserves kudos and credit for getting that as much as I dissemble and say it doesn’t really matter and I can stay as long as is necessary (a really nebulous phrase if there ever was one), I still want the time off.  And he said, well, if you were in a car accident, we’d have to get by, so…but he meant it, 100%, that I asked for the time, I wanted it, I’ve been working hard and I deserve to go.

It is a small, pear-shaped permission, but I’ll take it.

So after we got the work done, I have been fumbling around on the internet, letting the anxious feelings die down and fanning the fangirl flames of psychosis.  Not psychosis, just safe, normal excitement!  I only maybe nearly killed a cyclist today.  I didn’t, though, and I’ll take that, too.

Life is full of risk, anyway.  You walk out your door, you take a grave risk and I am happy to play my small role in helping someone avert an early doom, but yet giving them a cheap thrill by which they’ll perhaps value their life at a slightly higher rate.

So, fake lashes, no hair chalking unless I’m deeply committed to hipsterism, my paperwork, a poncho, a light jacket, a pillow for mine arse, a cheeky grin, a pen and something to sign, and some gémissements terrible!


It made sense in my head.  And maybe that’s the worst thing to say for it.


Do not begin with well.  Do not begin with well.  But do, please, begin.


I will stumble.  Stumbled a bit today.  Ate an Arby’s sandwich and too many tortilla chips and a cherry smoothie today.  Quite contrarily to the direction I want to go.  It was a direct result of just being shaken and stressed to my toes and wanting to cosset hunger with this precise kamikaze attack of fat and sugar.  And it just was so unnecessary.  And I’m happy to report that my brief sojourn on the couch, recovering, and grousing and zoning out has been followed up by the situps and the time on the bike and now water and a bath and a firm commitment to sparkle motion and the life I actually want to lead.

Sometimes I think I run myself too hard.  It’s an odd thought for me because most of the time, when I do my comparisons, I seem to always be behind, I always seem to be crushed under the jack boot of time.  I always seem and feel, to myself, adrift, unbound, listless and waiting for something far and away.   I don’t feel much to myself like an ox under yoke.

Oh, but somedays, somedays I see that I do give a damn, and I do struggle and do my best and I do strive and I do force more for myself.  And when I do that, remarkable things do happen.

Both parts of myself are important.  The fallow fields and the harvest.  I can’t have one without the other and one is not the punishment or the reward for the other, they’re just cycles and seasons and it’s alright.  It’s alright to be laid low for a time and it’s right to rise up ready to fight again.

I’m listening to The Boxer.   Tomorrow’s a long event and it’s followed by an early morning and then, perhaps, a weekend where I can make some progress and plans on myself.


Mr. Evelyn, the name he gave her, appeared to like nothing more than to appraise the world.  And his judgments withered what fell, helplessly, into his ken.  There was no telling if he approved or if he as marking you, engraving your forehead with invisible, indelible ink as a discard.  All Annie knew was once he marked, he never gave a second look.  Except, perhaps, for her.

He wasn’t expecting her refusal, but the way he turned, those marbles running over her very pores as if he might find the single spot of betrayal, the bad egg gone and spoiled her whole barrel.   That look seized her up inside.   She’d been his good one with the will and the skill to satisfy his curious demands, and this, this simple request…for incubation.

But she couldn’t paint him with that brush.  It wasn’t that simple.  He handed her a wine glass and she watched the lip of the merlot tremble in the bowl.

Between slugs. “It was all a delusion.  You.  It’s like I’m seeing you for the first time.  And you’re some kind of monster.”  She stepped back, feeling her high heels become as fragile as the wine stem.
“I know you’ll do it, Annie.  Because…I think it’s already done.”

She had seen everything coming save his fist and the blackness that followed.