Pink in Eureka

Certain forms of hysteria have taken hold.  Perhaps because I made the step to get the blog running in some sort of functional form, I have begun to think I am smart about certain things.  This is not the case.

This is day two of going low-carb.  Low-carb = traditional Atkins, 20 carbs or so for the first two weeks, then, we evaluate how shit is going.  I feel better in a lot of ways already.  The scale, as ever, is fucking with me, but it says I lost 3 pounds (yes, we can hear the yelling of WATER WEIGHT from here) overnight.  I don’t know…I do know that it mattered to me to just start this.  To just do it so here I am.  Having had more vegetables today than I’ve had in eons.  More water.    And less food overall.

I still feel weird and tired (again, the shouting of transitioning and detoxing groggery can be heard for miles) and I have done bare minimums in terms of exercise.  But I did do it.  I did do it with nary a complaint.  I will do it again tomorrow.

I keep thinking about what I want.  That is one thing that my new job has really helped with.  The courses I’ve taken have impressed upon me that I need a plan and I need to work the plan. Goal setting and moving in slow, steady steps towards the future.  That you can actually say I want this big, overblown, challenging result and if you mete it out into little, manageable daily contributions, it would happen.   That’s the issue and that’s why I’ve spent so much time avoiding finishing any of these little, manageable steps.  So that I don’t end up somewhere I don’t want to be.

I’ve done this instead of deciding where I want to be and working really hard to make that happen.

I don’t know if I’ll write this way all the time, but I like that this all has just started and it isn’t January 1 and it isn’t a Monday (not yet).  It’s not a perfect takeoff (I don’t imagine I could even recognize it if it was), but it’s like how with every paycheck, I’m adding to savings, already it feels significant.  If I continue on, the possibility continues on.  If I keep clapping, Tink still glows.

So.  What I want is to be with him.  Not…necessarily in terms of trying to have a partnership on a level that demands that one of us move to where the other one lives, though that doesn’t faze me as it once did, but I want a weekend. I want a day of shared space.  Of mutual presence.  Of figuring out if the shit in my head is anything more than shit in my head.   Not putting carts before horses.  But this, all of this, tells me, I gotta keep on this diet on track if this is really what I want.  And I keep testing it and realizing that it is.






Viola D’Amore


I meant, probably around when it first came out, to talk about the This American Life episode about fat.  I don’t know what else was going on at the time, the usual, I’m sure.  Double job fuckery, having just returned a few weeks ago from burying my grandfather, from burying a certain Camelot that had existed both in reality and in my mind since childhood, and, I think, the sudden and hardcore romantic interest of someone online.

I felt wild about it then, but it felt like this, forgive the horrible and discomfiting pun, huge box to unpack.  An undertaking to relate to these women who had opened their souls up to the whole world and within their souls is much that mine finds as kindred.   I wasn’t up to it and slowly, other posts took its place.

We were talking today after we celebrated my father’s birthday.  We talked about NPR and Serial and briefly about podcasts that the majority of which I hadn’t paid attention to.  We talked about Peaky Blinders and I made my pitch they should watch that.

I wanted to say as part of this flow of conversation – had you heard this particular episode?  This Tell Me I’m Fat episode which was something I felt charged about, felt ready to talk about.  My mother, my mother taking cancer medicine, my mother whom I adore, had earlier mentioned that she needed to lose five pounds.  That she wouldn’t feel okay until she lost five pounds.

Nobody looked at me.  Nobody didn’t look at me.  Nobody shook their index finger at me.  It occurs to me that nobody had to.  The message was so ready in my mind – I’d spent the day not eating anything, there wasn’t time, there wasn’t anything in the cupboards, and I wanted and it had made me the definition of hangry.  Worried about money and all out of whack, we had to run errands before I got food and ended up with a big burrito at nearly 4pm.  A choice made to just make all of the hyperactive pissant thoughts in my head stop in their tracks. Ravenous, I ate until I felt sick and gross.  Then, as though on a conveyor belt, my father’s birthday supper arrived at five.  Homemade spaghetti with garlic toast and wine.  A meal that is enshrined in my head as soothing, homey, wifely…real kitchen witchery.

I tried to explain how the garlic toast was my version of a madeleine – tried to explain Proust.  My mother nodded at my ramble and changed the subject.  Suddenly, it transported me into wave after wave of memory.  Joy, family cohesion, a time of weightless and worry-free childhood.

We watched the ballgame.  I felt waves of effusive agape in equal measure to the frustration I’d felt before.

Then, we had cake.   A big yellow Betty Crocker cake with cream cheese frosting and optional toasted coconut.  My sister’s boyfriend who does not care for desserts made one of those quasi-innocuous comments that I every so often wonder how exactly quasi they are meant – about how every time lately that we’re over there there seems to be cake.  Well, we said, swallowing another bite of the treacly frosting, there’s been a lot of birthdays lately.  For my part, I felt a fair amount of shame, sitting there, no makeup, nearly relaxed, nearly out of reach of my internal monologue and whammo, oh, you girls and your eating again.

I wanted to have the conversation with everyone about being okay and being seen and being registered as I am in this moment and being connected when I felt so loving and caring towards everyone.  That dissipated out of my hands.

But listening to it again now, I know I wouldn’t have liked the path the conversation would take.  No matter at what point.   I wanted to offer a tool for greater understanding of me.  Me, a zaftig person, or an overweight person, or a cute little pudgy darling, or a fat. person. and how maybe I was trying to be okay with myself…mentally, right now.  I was trying to say, think about me, hah, doing something so crazy, wow, as to just live.

When Lindy says, for the most part, she doesn’t see her fatness as likely to change.  That for the most part, fat people’s fatness doesn’t change no matter how valiantly they war against it.  That after holding space for that question to even exist…she’s struggled and struggled and eventually, somehow, found the place where she’s okay with that.

It blew me away. It felt like such an epic question to me.

When Elna Baker explains how the thin and fat versions of herself are in this conversation of worthiness and fear and pedaling as fast as you possibly can to keep these two versions of self separated despite how they long for one another…that’s something I want to share.  The profound nature of Roxane Gay finding herself outside these constructed barriers of fat levels that can use societal tools to subvert societal messages.  This idea of working as hard as you can to better yourself and if your body doesn’t hit a mark, you don’t make it.  You don’t get the gold medal.  You don’t get on the podium.  You don’t get some guy to hang out with you and complain about the type of TV you watch behind your back.

Sitting there, though,  I didn’t want this to be taboo.  I want it to be a shit that could be shot. Even as I think about dieting and weight loss for my own physical comfort, my own air in my own lungs, my own clothes on my own body…I want to say, hey, whatever you think of me…it could be okay if I knew what it was. Even as I contemplate what it means in this singles group if a guy talks about liking heavier girls?

Do I feel…appreciative of that, relieved, amused, disappointed, encouraged?  If you knew someone would look at you and want you, and they’re alright in your mind, do you go and chat them up?  Yes, the universe leans in and hollers, YES.  But for me, I feel profoundly less able to go towards someone who is moving towards me. I feel as though there’s that finger wagging I’ve been looking for.

And maybe that’s my problem.

I have needs in this world.  And being so bold as to breathe them out loud, to say, hey, I want happiness and I want it the way I want it and the way I want it is evolving every day in my own mind and I’ll let you know when we’re getting closer so long as you do the same…that seems like progress.

And if me saying something out loud complicates someone else’s reality, well…good.  It probably needed saying.

Spare Change

dirty-old-truck-1475644-639x503Okay.  So.  The thing in the way of my happiness is me.  If I am to gauge that I would experience a noticeably larger amount of happiness were I to follow up with my plans and attempt to struggle towards my dreams.

So, weight loss.  Right now.

I hesitate to write this because I certainly wouldn’t want anyone writing about my status when I’m working on myself, but my sister is doing great with her low-carb.  I don’t know how much or how little she’s lost, but she’s feeling good, she’s doing it and I can see a difference and I hardly pay any attention to anything.   There is, not an insignificant amount of jealousy, in that I feel bloated and starving and exhausted all the time and she seems, from the outside, alright.

And I am making no money at all, (so it seems) and running out and buying fast food and eating out at places that aren’t really in my poor person budget, acting in old habits, airporting as I defined yesterday.  Just thinking about the

I think, okay, vegetables.  And my whole body gets pissed off.  I get pissed off about everything that’s out of my control or seemingly so…my job situation, the fact that you can have one of these lingering powerful romantic interactions with someone and be strung along for weeks, my mom being sick and having to suffer to do what we can to destroy the sickness and getting messages from my vacationing sister about how I need to be reacting and behaving right now.  And in that space, being able to have a sandwich or a piece of pizza or four or five peanut butter cups to quash hunger and everything else attached to hunger, is magic.

It feels like sidestepping the effects of time.

Yesterday’s truth: There is no day outside of the chain of days, time does not stop and restart, we don’t escape life to some other place.  We just live in or out of fear.

This is the story of the fat people of the world.  Sometimes.  Some of them.  Of me. The Brene Brown bonafide truth that you feel freaked out and vulnerable and you do whatever you feel is necessary to excise those feelings.  Eating, when you’re scared of your own power, is this magical shield that is also a sword.  It just shuts off the thoughts for a while.  I feel like if I am vulnerable to my thoughts, I’ll lose ground, not gain it. Start panicking about driving which I’ve mostly avoided for the past three or four months.  I’ll look around and see what I’m currently half-blind to – real unhappiness with the treatment I accept, real fear, real sense of time slipping out of my hands.  It’s all the mental surgery I don’t get anesthesia for.

I’ve put forth this diatribe before.  I’ve danced the dance, lit the candles, stood very still and waited for signs to emerge.

Yet. At the bottom line, it’s will I do it or won’t I do it?  Right now, I don’t have the strength of will to curb things slightly.  Right now, I want a big act or nothing.


Lego My Ego


I am going to try and do double duty as some kind people on MFP have noted my absence there and I am trying to both rev myself back up to start tracking again and empty my brain of all of the resistance I have.


I obviously did not track while away for the funeral and vacation.  I didn’t want to.  I didn’t want to think at all.   I don’t know if I wanted to float as idly as I did, but that’s what happened.

So I’ve drunk soda.  Quite a bit.  That’s happened after more than a year of not drinking it.  I think I’m still capable of turning on a dime and not drinking it again, because the return is infinitely diminished, but I have to actually make that turn and stop.
I have eaten…not great things.  Cupcakes and lava cakes and tacos and random hamburgers and basically hardly even a green thing at all.  My body doesn’t like that at all.  We just sort of ate out constantly, first because of the stress of the funeral, then because we were vacationing and everyone had that mantra of food feels good and there was a lot of good tasting food to be had.  The idea of ordering a salad or having a smaller portion honestly did not occur to me.
I did drink less coffee, if there’s anything to be said for doing that.
I didn’t eat as much as was physically possible if I can get any points for that.

I think the deal is…the new you.  The new iteration.  I’m back in my house, back in my patterns, back in my thinky-thinky brain and you’re just a nice guy I get to think about who likes my facebook pictures and posts and whose pictures and posts I am daring now and again to like.  You live very far away.  You’re not a threat to my creepy little existence.  You, unless I really fuck up wonderful, can’t make much of an impact except in one important little way.  You can make me feel good, like I exist, like I have a draw and a pull on another human being even if that pull isn’t any stronger than a refrigerator magnet.

So I need to get back into the diet.  There’s this impulse, like hey, you’d be more willing to be confident about this if you were confident about you.  Then, the impulse that he seems to just like me and he’s very far away so I don’t have to race.  But he didn’t even exist before and I wanted to do this then so what’s the deal, yo?


I am just going to spend the next three days tracking whatever goes into my mouth.  I can do that.  I have done it before.  Then, tracking and adding back in the exercise and getting myself rolling.  Get back on the scale.  It’s not so terrible.  It’s just a habit I have to make by repeating the motions.



The Sweet Consumptive




You know what you need to stop doing?  You need to stop putting caffeine in your body in the afternoon.  Sugary caffeine in your body 3-4-5p.m. ain’t doing you no favors when it comes to this whole chilling the fuck out situation…

So, okay.  My plan was to write on the short story and get that all sewn up and then gleefully post the word count here and go on to my other projects.  That, I don’t think is going to happen.  Still gonna try to work as so often after I refuse or think that tonight is not the night for it, some vision will bubble up to the surface, but this girl is jumpy and panicky for no reason.

Well, the reasons are that I exercised and I ate below my calorie counts for today – mostly by having a big lunch (or a lunch that filled me up at Panera that was good but full of salt and sugar) and then added a tall skinny caramel macchiato – my weapon of choice these days – and I saw that damn, that’s the calories I need all used up.  So I stopped with the eating (save for a few pretzels).  And now I am bouncing off the walls, trying to focus and freaking out that I can’t.
So that’s why this post is happening.   Sorry, I want to say.  But it’s really borne out of something good which is giving a damn about doing this when I have had all sorts of terrible impulses and giving up the trick vibes and I haven’t.  I’ve lost 14 pounds so far.  I started higher than ever before, I have further to go than ever before, but I’m still going.  I’m definitely still learning and the lessons become clearer all the time.

I am also hanging out in a MST3K dating facebook page group.  I don’t know.  The whole premise makes me laugh – not the idea of the group, which is a fine and sensible idea and I like, pretty exclusively the guys who are intelligent enough to find MST3K funny, but the idea of me being there is laughable.  Because it’s me being an encouraging force for people to chill the fuck out about being so goddamned desperate about finding out of this relatively tiny pool of people spread out all over the country.  It’s me being this sage voice of reason.  There’s worries about the ratio of men to women, who messages who and when and I…for my part, feel as though there’s no rush in the slightest.  People – men – have been kind to me, but I realize how much I’m hung up on Mr. Confusion’s style.  A man who can write to me like he could and I’m not…it’s all a probably terrible idea, but I’m staying on that road, too.

In the interim of all this, I found the time to get obsessed as hell with this short film set to Ane Brun’s music which I think is such a beautiful work of art…did I mention this yesterday? Perhaps I did.   You should watch it, oh my word.

I love it so much that the young man in the film who becomes the old man, totally mentally cast him in my story.

Okay.  I feel very obnoxious, so off I go.  Till tomorrow.



So.  It’s a weird thing to both be aware of what you usually do and want to do it again and mostly do it, but then, not.

I know that sounds weird, but I think what I mean to say is I am still exercising and tracking my food on March 20th.  We made it through the winter and now the lion’s burst through and chased off the lamb.

I’ve lost about 10 pounds if we trust the scale – and I’m trying not to fight with it but to track what it says and try harder on my end if it’s slowing down.

I still have the same feelings about the weight loss.   The expectations of just finding a way to WANT it 24/7 with 100% of myself, and instead, I have this odd cycle of, oh my god, I’m actually losing weight – this is fantastic! I’m making good on my promises and goals and my sacrifices are getting me somewhere to oh my god, I’m losing weight – this means I’m capable of anything.  The barriers I’ve told myself are permanent, the way people respond to me because of my inherent physical flaws and shield of tubbiness, the protection I have against being fully accountable and in charge of my life is being burnt away.   Then this fear becomes oh my god, I’m putting back up those walls, I’m pretending I don’t have to get up and exercise, I’m giving up, I’m giving up, no!

Only now, so far, I’ve come back around at that no.  This is a rare development. Even today, I got on the bike.   I am contemplating another half an hour of something since the legs are getting the brunt of it these days.  I haven’t been eating perfectly, but I’ve been minding it.  I’ve been making different choices than I would have made in December. I have been stressed out of my everloving mind, and I haven’t crossed my fingers that binging on food would change that.  I haven’t tried to fill in these voids of time with mindless eating – instead, reading and writing and sometimes even exercise have kept me going.  I’ve wanted to, now and again, but it’s definitely different.

I have had a few days recently of just feeling…numb about it.  Scared, maybe, which is odd because at the same time, I also feel like I’m a little bit more comfortable with the new tightness, the inch or two here or there that is gone from where I expected it to be.  You get this idea that you’re doing so well, you need to do better.  You need to be perfect.

And for today, I want to tell myself…slow down.  You are going at the exact speed you need to go to get there and get there with everything intact and ready to live there instead of blow by it and crash.  You are okay.  You don’t need tomorrow or yesterday. Just track and do the work today.

Writing other things.  Reading.  Continuing with life.  It’s okay.

Melting Down the Broomstick


I am writing to you now over my plate of roasted chicken thigh and a stewy wine and carrot and cherry tomato concoction (leftovers, I might add) and this is something of an achievement.  In that, I chose this of my own free will after leaving the house for writers’ group and having a fair amount of calories to allot for dinner.

I’ve felt a bit Lucy McGoose lately about the diet.  Still doing it, still tracking, still exercising, but my heart and brain have been slowly melting down the broomstick of intention.  The fact that I have all of this extra time, but not really any extra money, and in fact will have less money than ever…none of that seems to have sunk in yet.  I feel as though I am floating, unable to affect even so much as a detectable increase in friction.   In part.  Sort of.

I have to qualify that because today was good insofar as I made choices that reflected my participation in the diet, lifestyle change, whatever.  I did things and refused offers and drank water and thought about it without shoving it out of my mind.  Without lingering regrets about not getting another teaspoon of ice cream or being given leave to go fall apart some fast food.  It was just too many calories, it was just factual that the food equated to more calories than I had to give, so it wasn’t possible.

It was nice to feel it so clear in my mind.  So straightforward to stop when you are supposed to stop.

So, yes, hello.  How are you?  I am well.  It feels like I need to make introductions despite having been here every day – the writing has been fruitful and I knocked out another section for group.  Perhaps this has been part of the disconnected sensation.  So here’s the news:

  1. Getting pretty excited for Seattle.  After picking the parents up at the airport, I’m ready to take another flight.  To feel those hundred thousand little things that travelling provides – the alertness, the expectations, the freedom, the vulnerability, the newness, and of course, getting to see my friends.  Taking off all the encumbrances of who I am here, and being who I am – but there.  I know what I mean.
  2. The working 4 hour days has really thrown me.  It all comes down to habit.  So the plan tomorrow is to get up at the usual time, not linger in bed, and work out and clean up for a bit.  Then get ready and write.  Build the right muscles, Popeye.
  3. Tomorrow, too, I plan to put some makeup on my face.  I have missed doing that.  My morning routine has evolved out of taking enough time to even be alive to the degree in the morning where I would recognize missing it.  I do miss it, though.
  4. Put on some pants.  Same size as the jeans I’ve got on which are getting really loose on the legs and NOPE.  Closer, but a big ol’ NOPE.  But I didn’t find that painful, but instead, a target.  When those work, we’ll have done something concrete.  So shooting for that.
  5. UH.  Tomorrow.  Tomorrow!