When Something Got Said

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It’s all I can do not to fall into cliches, but perhaps I might as well. Because if it ain’t one thing, it is assuredly another.

The mouth/jaw thing is not unbearable, but it has not, thus far improved.  Doesn’t hurt at all to chew, or talk, just mostly to close and clamp my teeth together.  Which you don’t think about doing until you realize that when you do it, your jaws feel all numb and sore at the same time and the teeth don’t like it.  So need desperately to do it and it feels all kinds of nope.

So another night of careful care.  Maybe dig out that night guard I got a jillion years ago and never used because it’s awful.

While all of that has been on my mind and has punctured a bit of a delightful day, I continue to think as positively as the hormones and hypochondriacal panic will allow.

It was not delightful in that we had cakes and pedicures and went shopping today, it was delightful in that I had an honest conversation with the boss and I know what her intentions are.  And mostly, she doesn’t know what she intends, but as a part of that, she doesn’t anticipate full-time being a viable possibility in October.

It was sort of not what I expected and exactly what I expected at the same time.  I had kind of been dreading it because I wasn’t sure what clarity I would get or if I’d feel coerced on some level into offering up something I didn’t want to offer in terms of my own plans and goals  And I didn’t have to do that because it was clear.  I can’t anticipate actually getting back to where I was financially, hours-wise in my position any time soon.   We all wish it were otherwise, but it’s not and nobody pretended it was.  I told her it was okay, but I just needed to know and I hadn’t made any plans or decisions, but I had been talking with retail boss and in general and I just had to see how my time needed to go because right now, it’s just not working.  I actually said that the status quo wasn’t enough.  And she, really, patently, truly said, and I want so much more for you.  Then we talked about social media writing and freelance writing and that she hears about those work-from-home opportunities to write and she thinks of me.  I talked about perhaps other things are best for the organization, a part-time bookkeeper.  That, I hadn’t been looking, but the experiences I’d been having lately – borrowing money from my parents (as I do intend to pay the money I was given back) – had made me think. I was firm and clear and said I just wanted to keep the conversation open.  She agreed.

I sort of thought as I was walking home, carefully not grinding my teeth and managing a whole rainbow of mood swings, that maybe she didn’t mean it.  Maybe she was grinding her teeth and hating my guts for thinking about walking away.  But that’s her business and nothing she said actually indicated that and I am way too tired and achey for subtext.  Right now it feels freer and more productive just to openly contemplate moving on.

If only the rest of my body would hear this good news.

But I’ve cleaned the kitchen and wrote this post and am now not going to belong to anything for a good eight to twelve hours.

Brandy Alexander

“Oh, mon dieu! Oh la la, je n’ai pas de chocolat! Impossible, c’est pas grave! Pas de chocolat au lait! Pas de biscuits, c’a m’agace! Pas de bon bons, meme pas de glace! C’est affreux! C’est pas bien, je vais surement mourir de faim!’

Strange what sticks in your head.  10 years ago we were made to memorize this in high school french and repeat it back as “a rap” to our gentle, kind, and rather unfairly maligned French teacher.   This is how I remember her in retrospect.  I think at the time, as much as I loved French and was pretty into a boy who also took French, I was rather unmoved by whatever psychic cross I empathically intuited Madame to bear.  But she’s left me with this little worm that wriggles into my mind whenever I’m not thinking anything in particular.  It just rises up like my French numbers…(un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix, onze, douze, treize, quatorze, quinze, seize, dix-sept, dix-huit, dix-neuf, vingt.  Always wondered about that seventeen, eighteen and nineteen.  No one ever explained it to me.)

I am on day two of the small revolution.  It is still fairly invisible to anyone other than me.  It is quiet.  It is still.  It is entirely without reason save me wanting to do it.  I will keep you posted and I’m sure, eventually reveal what I’m talking about.  Though, that’s been the case in other circumstances before.  I promise to explain myself even if I fuck up and fail.  But I haven’t, so the grave silence must prevail.

I’m running out of daylight and dusk is running away from me, too.  I left work early today to work on a project which I am still working on and I will have to work on all day tomorrow and somehow handle the board meeting and somehow handle the rest of everything which is standing on its tiptoes and screaming at me with the keenness of the sobs of a child you’ve borne.  Biologically engineered to reach your ears, your heart, your nerves even in the deepest of sleeps.

Sigh.  Sigh.   Those few hours off, just not being at work, as per usual, made me all too aware of how much I need a rest.  A break.  Time to be at home and not there, and not, going through the joyful travails of travelling.   I have 9 days of vacation between now and the end of the year and I’m waiting for the weather to turn.  So strange to be waiting for this.  Never in my life have I sought winter, the death of things, but this year…this year the death of the insects, the deliberate slow down, the white slate, all sounds pretty wonderful even contrasted against my driving terror (which is well on its way to being classified as full scale terror).

I ate today.  Truth and Honesty.

Cereal for breakfast, some soup for lunch, later a couple pieces of pizza and some dried fruit, later, some bits of a Qdoba burrito’s guts, and a Starbucks for courage.   All true.  And I drank some water.

All true.

Lash in the Attic

So.  Food Business.  Wot did I eights ta-dae?

I had cereal with the very lastest bit of of milk, so, yes, FYI, sister who may be reading this, we probably ought to buy some more.

I had a Quiznos sandwich for lunch with some Diet Coke.

Then I had an 100-calorie ice cream cup with some water.

Then, dinner, some baby carrots, some salad, and pasta with water.  Now considering a bit of popcorn and perhaps some drink (which after the Athena-birthing sized headache I had this morning after just one…will have to be the end of a trend.)   And that will be the end of that.

Yes.  Not really diet food, per se.  I mean, not altogether and not all measured out properly, and obviously I shouldn’t have necessarily gone out for lunch, but still.  I can see the difference.

BEFORE this attempt, I was eating

Skipped breakfast.
Cup of coffee with fake sugar and fake creamer.  (Skip this if I’m at home on a weekend.)
Lunch – wherever the office decided to go (diet coke + heavy diner food or Mexican, usually, and only on the rarest of occasions, a vegetable would get involved in something other than a seasoning role)  OR if I was home:  fast food.   Following by a gigantic plate’s worth of self-loathing.

Dinner – Chipotle burrito bowl, bag of chips and a diet coke.  Maybe candy or ice cream or dessert.  If I had to work late or go to an event, this would go on top of whatever little food they served as refreshments because I can’t actually consider that dinner.  Maybe pizza as a great alternative.  It had to be this big aggressive shield of food, this spear of food, this Roman phalanx of a meal for having gotten through the day, for all the weird food shortcuts I took or moments where I just wasn’t fully able to wallow in the joyful, unhinged, and private process of eating.

Then, not so much lately, but sometimes, 10pm-ish, I go scavenging something “just to finish up the day, besides, I didn’t have breakfast.”   Then, throughout that, I somehow find time to have Starbucks or desserts or just random, bloating, miserable treats that I don’t want or need but somehow, determine myself to eat.

I mean.  Honestly.  Crazy unhealthy. Gross in its consistency.  In its utter   I speak in the past tense as if it won’t potentially go back to that tomorrow.  I just know that telling you, throwing off all the coyness and wordplay and just saying how it is, helps tremendously.  It makes me nervous, but I am not cowed by that.  Not here.  Not on my blank page.

So tomorrow, we go to IKEA.  We march around and I dedicate myself to just walk.  Maybe put on the pedometer.   Not be whiny about a thing.  And tell you my food, even if it is bad.  It won’t be because I’m choosing something else, but I swear to you, dear diary and dear folk that pass this way and see me straining for light, I will tell you true.