Food

I rarely write about what I've eaten, unless it's some superior thingie that I made and I've taken photos of it and I'm offering it up in a Martha-ish way. That is not the case with today's post. Today I am standing up in front of the group and saying, My name is Jane and I can't keep my mouth empty. You'll notice I have not used the traditional Twelve Step thingie of admitting to an addiction. That's because I'm not addicted to food. I just use it in a mildly damaging manner as a substitute for whatever else is or is not happening in my life. And don't tell me that's an addiction, because I AM NOT ADDICTED.

Can you tell I have a problem, a slight issue with the whole Twelve Step thingie? This made me tres popular in my Drugs and Addiction classes. It's not that I don't believe in the theories or whatever behind the Twelve Steps; it's that the people I know who participate seem to get, um, addicted to the Twelve Steps. They trade one compulsion for another. Is that such a good thing? Shouldn't a Program be working on getting a person to understand the source of their compulsion?

Take me--for a very good example (please, someone, take me). My compulsion to cram food of any and all sorts into my mouth today was a function of--if I keep that mouth busy, it won't have time to scream. See, that's the source of my compulsion. Now all I have to do is deal with the tiny details in my life that are making me want to scream. Easy peasy....or not, as the case may be.

So: today: I ate: a big fat piece of white layer sheet cake with sprinkles on it, purchased for a mere $2.79 at the local Raley's. The same cake, same sprinkles, is $5.99 at the Nugget, our new holier-than-thou, grander-than-Whole Foods market. Sane cake, same lard frosting, just a tad difference in cost, owing no doubt to I'm not sure what. So--I had that cake for dinner. That's how I justify it. Nine million calories--just another steak and potatoes meal, but without having to cut the meat and digest the potato skins. The cake, rather, is psychologically satisfying because (a) IT'S SWEET, and (b) it's mooshy, so I can squish it between my tongue and the roof of my mouth.

Now I've moved on to itty bitty baby heirloom tomatoes. Much better for me, indeed. And satisfying unto themselves, because they pop and squirt itty bitty tomato seeds into my mouth. An explosion of vegetable glory--and heirloom, as well. Good for the environment, not to mention that organic foods and family farms business.

But the night is young and I'm not done yet. Before I waddle off to bed, I've got some chocolate-cherry soy icecream waiting for me. It's soy, for chrissake. It's healthy. And then there's popcorn in my larder. Did you know that popcorn is the broom of the digestive tract? And, of course, I finish every night with a ritualistic nightcap--glass of milk and piece of chocolate.

Doesn't everyone? Admit it--let he who is without sin cast the first whatever....

Moleskine -- and Jane's addiction

Jane's addiction--small 'a', people--is my addiction. I love Moleskines. I can't not fondle them wherever they're displayed. I lust after each and every one of them, and I own three, THREE, three of my very own.
The one on the left is a cunning little accordian file, just the right size for--whatever is 3-ish x 5-ish.
I've used it over the years to carry with me whatever stuff I might need, but don't know when. Like a credit card for Robinsons-May, a department store which no longer exists. And my Express card, a reminder of the days when I could wear those clothes. And my Women's Shoe Club benefits card from Bloomingdale's, last used on 4/29/98. As I said, I've used it over the years...

The one on the top is a vertical lined notebook. See.

And the one on the bottom is a sketchbook, in which I--sketch. Until today, I thought I was alone in this addiction. No one else I know even thinks of Moleskines, and if they do, it's probably only to say--what for? But today I was idly browsing my Google reader and came across this post from Communicatrix on getting stuff done. I believe she put it rather more creatively than that, but suffice to say, I'm a sucker for any kind of organizational information. I firmly believe that all that is standing between me and great success at whatever is the correct organizational mode. So I read her post, and then there at the end, she had a photo of a Moleskine. Eureka! I followed the link and learned there's a whole world of Moleskine-lovers out there. Flickr even has a category for them! And oh what riches following that link produced.

I feel as if I've found My People.

Today, Tomorrow, but never yesterday...

I don't really know what that means. It just came to me, and when things like that come, I write them down, and some time later, I say, Oh yeah, that's what that meant.

I had a hard day today. It didn't start out that way. For the first half of the day, I was charging through--gettin' stuff done, achieving, crossing items off the list. Then I went to this meeting I have every Wednesday. I went vowing to keep my mouth shut and my nose clean, and pretty much, I succeeded--but at what cost?

Why am I so bothered by other people's bullshit? Why can I not sit still when those around me are doing their paltry little ego dances? Why does this stuff not drive others nuts the way it does me? Why am I so intolerant? Why am I gritting my teeth--still, hours later?

I recall a dressing down I got from a boss a long time ago. He said, and I quote, "You walk around this office as if we owe you a living." And I was pretty proud of that, thought it acknowledged my obvious superiority which could not be hidden underneath that proverbial bushel. Now I think--man, how arrogant I was--and am. I really do have a sense of entitlement that is somewhat off-kilter. And if it drives other people crazy, you can't imagine what it's doing to me. I'm the one that lives inside this head, and somedays, I'll tell you, it just ain't fun.

Tonight I saw that Polly Williams died. You can read about it here: Polly Williams Of HBOs Thin Found Dead Did you see Thin, Lauren Greenfield's documentary on eating disorders? I've never had an eating disorder, so watching that doc was like visiting a foreign land to me. I sort of spoke the language--had a couple of nouns and verbs here and there--because after all, I am an American woman and I have spent my life not liking my body. But if I had a hard time understanding what motivated the other women to binge and purge and starve themselves to such drastic measures, I was completely undone by Polly Williams. She was just what I want to be: beautiful and outspoken and smart and not giving a damn and so very sure of herself and seemingly accepting of who she was. And yet--not. She died of an overdose, and intentional or not, she is gone. Jesus, I think, if someone like Polly Williams can't make it, what hope is there for the rest of us? And then I remember where I got to know her: on a TV program about eating disorders. Which are, as we know, a form of suicide. Which is, as we know, the response of a body in unbearable pain. Yet I envied her, eating disorder and all, I wanted to be her.

I can't come up with some grand summation here. Or maybe I could, but it would be trite, facile, bullshitty. Best to leave well enough alone, and say Goodnight, Polly, I will not soon forget you and I will someday make sense of what you're telling me.

How To Quit Smoking Overnight...

Have a blood vessel in your brain explode. Be taken to the ER in an ambulance. Have the docs send a slinky up your femoral artery to seal off the blood vessel. Spend about four or five weeks (who can remember? I'm brain-damaged after all) in ICU hooked up to various machines. One that took a direct reading of whatever from a nifty wire than they shoved down another artery in my neck to my heart. (It was called a Swann, for those of you who care to know.) Another pumped air into my lungs after the hospital shared not one, but three separate infectious diseases with me. Get food from a tube down your nose. Pee through one poked up your bladder. We won't even discuss any other eliminatory processes. Go through all of this, and be delivered six weeks later (after rehab, remember) back home, a non-smoker.

I started smoking when I was 15, and I don't have to tell you how long ago that was. I smoked about a pack a day for the next thirty or so years. I was a die-hard, love it love it love it smoker. My friend, Laurie, whose mother died of lung cancer, tried to get me to quit when she did. She went to SmokeEnders, and she would come home from a weekly meeting and give me a mini-version of what she'd learned. I remember having to list all the reasons why I wanted to quit smoking. None of them had to do with health. All of them had to do with odors--my breath, my car, my apartment, my clothes, even my body. Laurie went back to smoking, and I never quit.

Then she found an acupuncturist who had worked wonders with old-school smokers such as Jason Robards, Jr. The guy was an MD in Scarsdale New York, and he cured Laurie. So she made me go. And he cured me. I walked into his office a smoker, and walked out a non-smoker. It wasn't that hard. Evidently he knew the right pressure points to hit for endorphin rushes, and I recall being sort of blissed out for a week or so. I barely ate the sunflower seeds he had given me to assauge my need to keep my mouth busy.

Several years passed in which I (a) didn't smoke, and (b) didn't particularly want to smoke, and (c) was obnoxious about those smelly smokers in my path. Then, I don't know, one day I happened to notice that all the most interesting people were those smelly smokers. Non-smokers were up-tight, rigid, parsimoniously correct; smokers were creative, funny, fuck-the-world types. That was me, and I wanted to be outside with them.

So I analyzed my smoking versus non-smoking situation and came up with these rules: 1. Since smell was the major issue for me, I would never smoke inside. 2. I would not smoke mindlessly; I would make sure each cigarette I had was a wanted one. Because I lived in the Northeast, rule 2 was impacted by rule 1: standing in a freezing rain or blizzard is not condusive to enjoying one's smoke.

My rules worked well for me, and I ended up smoking about seven cigarettes a day. I had my last one about eleven o'clock on July 8. I sat on the porch and smoked before going to bed. Four hours later my cerebral aneurysm ruptured, which takes us right back to where this post started. When people asked me how I quit smoking, I would tell them the ICU is a good place to do it. Sheer coincidence, was the implication.

But then I read this article in the paper today, and I'm wondering if along with the other parts of my brain that the aneurysm flattened, did it get my insula as well?

EDIT: Ooops, forgot to put my tags on.

My Name Is Jane and I'm Addicted to Magazines

Yes, I confess. I am a magazine junkie. I love them. Can't get enough of them. The smell of a new magazine, the glossy (or not so glossy or even matt) paper excites me. I want to touch them. Fondle them. Flip quickly through their pages and then slowly, slowly go back over each one.

I see magazines as repositories of everything I might ever want or need to know; the cover lines say so. How to deal with my belly fat. What the newest tech toys are. Why Hilary may not be running in '06. I believe what they tell me. Even though when I was writing for magazines, I know how I could work with words to make them seem to say far more than they actually did.

A room is never painted. There's no prep or primer that goes into it. You "merely use your roller to apply a coat or two." A perp never says something. He alleges, which inserts that element of doubt, reminds you that we're talking about legal matters, which are never, after all, totally true.

Here are the magazines that are in my house every month or, god help me, week: Allure, Cooking Light, Eating Well, Hadassah, InStyle, Los Angeles, Money, Men's Best Life, More, Newsweek, O, People, Rolling Stone, Sacramento, Time, Vanity Fair, Vogue, Wired. And those are just the ones I have subscriptions to.

And I've just found a new one, which prompted this post: sactown. I got the premier issue yesterday. It's lovely. The cover stock is heavy and dull, sort of like brushed metal. The fonts are varied, as is the way today, but still comprehensible (as is not the way for some mags I could name). I've only done my first flip through, so I can't offer a full J-school analysis, but I will say this: it's the first time in years that my journalists' buttons got pushed, and I started thinking story ideas. Perhaps I'll write them a love letter....