Foodie Snobbie Returns

My favorite butter lettuce salad has a rival.

Since my arrival in Charlotte, I seem to bring with me the ability to destroy networks. The internet connection for the office I'm has inexplicably gone belly up within one hour of me sitting at a desk, rendering the day a wash. This happened twice in two days.

When we realized by the end of the day that it was not going to be fixed, a coworker and I went up to the 27th floor on the high rise to a posh restaurant. We sat and the bar and drank a delightful cabernet and he taught me about wines, traveling, and I enjoyed a little buzz by 5pm. The owner came over and talked to us and offered us some sort of repast while we drank. Most of his offerings included oysters and shrimp, none of which unfortunately interest me, and he asked me what I would want if I could have anything.

A small appetizer sized salad, I heard myself saying. With goat cheese and balsamic vinaigrette. Wow, I sound all snooty and stuff. LOL.

Out came an arugula salad, the perfect size, with tiny pan fried sliced fingerling potatoes, sun dried tomatoes, and a round medallion of creamy goat cheese that had been lightly breaded and also pan fried. Holy God. The dressing was not too tart, nice and peppery, the arugula was soft with that unique tangy taste. I loved it. I'm going to recreate it...and I want to do it all from scratch. Now I have to look up recipes for home made salad dressing, too. Store bought ones just suck...I always love the ones I get at restaurants.

My wine drinking friend is also a gourmand, so we talked about delicious food and the art of eating in Europe.

I must go to Europe one day. Must.

Francis Ucker

And the humor of the universe still shows through.

Since I don't believe in coincidences, and believe everything's part of a genius' plan (because efficiency is genius, and the everything in the known world is efficient...with the exception perhaps of the DMV) I smiled to myself when I met a charismatic salesman named S. Ellis. His username is sellis. No coincidence, right?

What, then, my mind wondered, would that say about a man named Francis Ucker?

I have been giggling to myself all morning.

Here Comes the Sun

The cycles of psychoses are finally almost over. The craziness that has been my life the past month - thankfully - is finally subsiding. The Tao says, Even nature cannot make a storm that lasts forever. Somehow I forget in the middle of the thunder.

I walked out of my Rockville, MD office earlier this week and was stopped short by the sudden presence of trees. A small forest faces the building. The sun was behind it, giving that eye-of-God panoramic. I took a few steps, eyes still hypnotized by the unexpected scene. I slowed to a stop and just looked. There was something different about the trees, something alien. I noticed their bark spines were thick and strong, and damned tall, but the branches of the leaves and pine needles were short and stubby, yet healthy, as if they were the real life inspiration for the creation of pipe cleaners. It gave the trees a watchful, polished, foreign look like a sweet-tempered pit bull with cropped ears. Or the Dutch. :) Not the usual east coast fare.

I let go of the last of my mundane work day and put down my laptop, letting the trees sing to me. Mind you, I'd had no plans to be granola that day, or even remotely spiritual. I'm so busy that I have to plan it :) But it happens when it happens, and I made a deal with the universe to investigate and surrender where applicable. (and in return, the universe sends me hot guys I can't touch) The trees swayed, whispered, emitted friendliness I can't explain but I truly enjoyed. I loved them instantly and did a few short yoga breaths. I felt my insides relax, muscles quit tensing that I didn't even know were tensing. I picked up my laptop and walked to the car with a little smile on my face. I guess someone was telling me it was time to surrender. How absolutely neat that it happened so silently, yet significantly.

Don't Tread on Me

I choose to be happy. I choose to be positive, I choose to love. Though it brings me a lot of joy and I feel pretty fullfilled as a human being, it doesn't come without a price.

Several of my closest family and friends have recently stampeded all over my good nature. The yang of it is dealing with this emotion of wanting to reject the shit out of them. Wanting to carefully remove various knives from my back, turn around and face them, unlock the bitter, loosen the vocal chords, and have-fucking-at-it. Slash away. Use the words I am often gifted with for purposes of evil. I want to enlighten them in a direct manner that is totally devoid of emotion and brilliantly crafted. I want to amputate their egos with surgical, chilling, and grisly precision. I want them to see themselves as they truly are, I want them to see how they actually behave towards me.

But I won't. After all, my opinion, no matter how justified, is still only one side of the story. I could be in the right, but I certainly contribute in rolling shit downhill to other people. Until I'm without fault, I have to love people through good and bad.

Reason #45312

He threw out my wedding dress.

A lesson in fear

I was training a very nice lady today. Let's call her Beth. She has the outward appearance of a broiled baby robin. Scrawny and tawny, anxiety rolls off of her in waves. Her energy is so fearful and anxious at all times that I feel like a bridle and a sugar cube should be on hand whenever she comes to visit. And praps a trank gun.

In the training session, she came in apologizing for her sweaty armpits, wanted to close the door so nobody heard how little she (thought) she knew about the product. I told her this was just an assessment to see where additional training could be developed. She was a nervous wreck the entire time. Hey, not everybody's a rock star, but it upsets me to think about what she's missing out on in life by carrying this huge burden of fear on her back.

Which made me recall my own experience with fear...

The other night I had a weird dream before I awoke. I was climbing a rollercoaster track on foot. I dream often of rollercoasters, usually they are dangerous and life-threatening, where the harnesses break, or the shoulder bars fly open, or are about to fly open, and I spent the whole dream riding this rollercoaster in mortal fear for my life, holding onto anything to stay in. Hanging upside down, feeling my body start to succumb to gravity...feeling my leg slip out...my other leg....sweaty hands grabbing and sliding...dangling from the car....not quite letting go. I'd never let go, and I'd never get off the ride. I just keep doing this death grip dance all night.

I hate those dreams. They seem to love me, though.

This recent dream was about me manually walking a track with a bunch of other people, up and down, around...I was trying to reach a goal.

Pretty obvious as far as metaphors go, right?

We were all very solitary in our journey; I would not stop to help someone else, they would not stop to help me. It was a private achievement that I chose to undertake.

I got to the top. I could not believe I got to the top. And it wasn't even as hard as I thought it would be. I looked around and noticed the "top" of the track was probably 10 miles from the crust of the earth. I got instant vertigo and felt fear grip my chest. I looked wildly around at the person who was there to greet us - right behind him was a platform that took you to safety, to get you back down. I couldn't wait for my turn to get off this very narrow, slippery track. When it was my turn to go, I realized the platform was too far away. I looked down and saw monkeybars connecting the track to the platform.

Everyone ahead of me was swinging across the monkeybars and got up to the platform.

With no net.

Dangling above the earth.

My palms are sweating right now as I recall this. I immediately got painfully sweaty hands when I looked down, seeing miles and miles of sky going down to the ground, never feeling so close to mortal death. I knew if I tried to do this, I would fall, and I'd die. I was paralyzed with fear. I knew my hands were so slimy they'd slip, even if I had the strength to hold on.

I woke up, sat up out of a dead sleep, heart pounding, with sweaty palms.

I thought about this fear a lot, and decided it had everything to do with letting go. Maybe it's a lesson in conquering fear. Makes sense since I've been so Zen and balanced lately about everything other than romantic relationships.

But as for the dream, as for the fear of dying...What's the worst that could happen? If I died trying to reach my goal, I go straight Home to the Other side. Where, if stories are to be believed, I'll be happier than I could ever imagine. The question was, would I let this fear, on top of the sweaty hands that could cause my death, stop me from finishing a goal?

Would I halt my own progress just because I was afraid?


Very interesting stuff.

face meets door

He left, and I don't think he's coming back.

I wish he'd at least said goodbye :( I feel like something necessary has been torn off my body.

Genetic Engineering

As I was cleaning up around my office, I came upon a notebook that was mostly empty. Flipping through the pages I discovered a random page of writing I did, presumably in college, of which I have no memory. I thought it was brilliant! LOL.

Are there limits to knowledge that people should have?

I don't believe it is physically possible to limit our knowledge. There are limits to what we can understand, but our curiosity is renewable. Logically, we would not be happy with having the means to discover all the "whys" and "hows" and not possess the freedom to exhaust them. At least, not to a single individual. Collectively we might be able to slow down progress, but we'd never be able to stop it while retaining cognitive awareness.

DNA is a mystery that will be solved. It raises logical questions with moral responses. Should we genetically engineer children? Prune the undesirable traits? We could, but is it right?

In my opinion, no. That is tampering with natural evolution. We are creating artificial conditions to speed up our adaptations based on a severely limited understanding of life itself, much less the planet, much less the time-space continuum, much less the impact our blind floundering in genetics will have on future generations.

This is the reasoning behind requiring people to reach age 16 before letting them drive a car. There are certain growth stages to complete, awareness to stimulate, consequences to grasp before giving someone power.

The main difference in self-fed evolution through genetic engineering versus natural evolution is that we are not changing by pressure from external factors, but rather out of aesthetic, subjective desire. This is not Darwinism, but a contrived evolution of selfishness.

I am Henry VIII I am

I just finished watching The Tudors series on Showtime, the first season. My overall impression improved with each episode.

In the beginning my opinion was so-so. The first few shows seemed to rely heavily on near-pornographic sex scenes and young, beautiful, tan??? actors with plucked eyebrows and closely cropped facial hair. I thought it a cheap bone to throw given how ridiculously interesting and dramatic the subject matter was. Henry VIII was a magnificent clusterfuck; the court life alone was riveting, even without all the beheadings.

I stayed with the series because I was gripped by history. I even went online and read up on the Tudors to better understand it all. I vaguely remember my teachers trying to tell me about this reign in history class, but it was taught with such dry boringosity (today's word! AAAHHHHHHHHH!!! *ring bells* *lights flicker*) that I feel rather effing cheated that I didn't better absorb this story.

Actually, once Henry's whorebag sister Mary Rose died, with her lip injections and Hollywood Tan, the series really picked up. It's like the writers came off their make it sexy and flashy just to get past the first five episodes so we secure funding and then can make it a real work of art contract. Damn, it got enjoyable.

The supporting actors were fantastic. They more than made up for the leading man and lady's ridiculous affected English accents. And if either of them are native Brits, their speech coach needs to ease off the hallucinogenics.

Overall, the entire series was well acted except for my questionable criticisms on the characters of Henry and Anne Boleyn. I thought the actor Henry Cavill (Duke of Suffolk) would have made a better Henry VIII, actually. He was more suited to the role. He is one I'll be watching and following, for sure. Despite being burdened with the most beautiful male faces I have beheld in this life time, Henry's actually a damnably good actor, dramatic, funny, and easy going, and made the evolvement of his role's character actually believable.

Ohhhh, Henryyyy.....


















Wait here's another one...























oh just one more...........





What was I talking about again?

Oh right. The Tudors. The one artistic aspect I don't quite understand is how in the first few episodes the men have these shorn heads like they stepped off a college Lacrosse bus for a state championship game. With each progressive episode, their hair grew out as both the characters and the writing matured on the show.

By the end, the writing had finally burned up its adolescent buzz of soaring CGI castles, opulent excesses of wardrobe and jewelry, and overacting-for-the-pilot that brought a bit too much 21st century into the 16th century background. The writing turned lean, mature, dramatic, with well timed reaction shots and the elimination of some of the more frivolous dialogue that made me think an "O no you DIDN'T!" was constantly about to be sprung.

I'm glad the season burned off the excess glitz and let the story come alive by itself. The second to last episode with the charges of high treason, the torture, and the executions was expertly done. I thought that was by far the best written, acted, directed and episode of the season. Even better than Anne's death - which I lamented in the beginning of the season, and was rooting for by the end :)

I highly recommend this series. And can't wait for next year ;)

Travel Writing

I've been writing again, even snippets here and there if I'm traveling or just busy. And busy I am, with an impending move into a new apartment and impending hellacious travel schedule. But all things will settle with the cool hands of autumn.

I was poking through my Treo recently and found a few descriptive notes I jotted down in various airports. People watching has become a fun new habit while I'm by myself. Boy, do I enjoy sitting alone with my iPod and watching people walk around, snipe at each other, hug, kiss, avoid, look awkward, stuff bad food in their mouth, look rumpled and exhausted, losing their patience, holding on to their patience. I get to be a participating observer. You'd think with my Irish and Italian blood I'd be aggravated and fuming all the time at the long bouts of waiting, but I seem to find it interesting.

While I'm watching this life happen around me, the writer in me is stimulated, waking up from her daytime sleep. I start seeing phrases forming around people as they breathe in and out, as they exist in front of me. My palms itch to curve over a keyboard, to stare at a blank screen of unwritten possibility...so in the event I am unable to drag out the laptop, I write the following tidbits on my Treo notepad:

The smell of the jetway reminds me of the gasoline-and-generator smell of crude, small-town carnivals.

The man's deep-set eyes are framed by querying eyebrows, drawn perpetually together and upwards as if earnestly perplexed and dismayed. He looks like a puppy hearing "No" for the second time.

This old guy is shuffling along the aisle, stooped and genial. His thin neck pokes out of his humped collar like a happy, but tickled, geratric turtle. His wife is taller than he by a good half a foot, all elegant angles and silver grace. They must be foreign, they look way too contented for the States. (turns out they were German)

I have no clue what I'm going to do with these, but I like the exercise of describing people.

Impatience

According to Eckhart Tolle, impatience is the hallmark of unhappiness. Unhappiness, of course, is the root of addictive behavior. If you were happy, why on earth would you stick needles in your arms, eat until you hurt, spend until you were not only broke but behind on rent? No happy people need that; they are genetically averse to such self-loathing.

There is a super morbidly obese woman in my office who I think of every time I hear the word Impatient. She is a walking punctuation mark to Tolle's assertion. I used to hate her. Today, I understand her.

I never hated Janice (let's call her Janice) because she was fat, although fat was not adequate a word to describe her. Much like the waking world of chairs, restaurant booths, airplane seatbelts, "fat" does not fit her. She is obese. Soberingly obese. Obese enough to halt laughter in people's throats. Obese enough to make even a mean kid feel real concern at the immediate threat to her health, not to mention her quality of life. I wince internally when I am near her.

I couldn't hate her for being in such a sorry state.

I hated her because of her impatience with everyone. Even herself. Always hiding. Always glossing over. Always moving too damn fast.

As if knowing her appearance illicits sympathy and pity, Janice's personality has blossomed sickly into a self-preserving tornado of charisma that destroys, obfuscates, confuses and tricks anyone or any situation that crosses her path. Nobody knows what she is really like, what she is really doing. The ranges of opinions on her character are staggering from a group of such educated people. But it's the same self-preserving tornado that whipped up the eating frenzy and protected the real Janice in layers of hardened, packed adipose. It is a survival mechanism deep inside her that knows that bleach will clean anything. It will also kill every living thing it comes into contact with. It reminds me of the cloud of dust around Pigpen's character; hers is a miasma of double talk, half truths, and lies worthy of any 1980's Enron trader.

Oh, how I hated her personality.

Hate, though, is a wasteful emotion. It is not productive unless you are my apartment, in which case, I turn to cleaning furiously. It's not a meditative cleaning, it's combative with jagged energy, occasionally relieved by my remembering to unclench my jaw. It was threatening to overtake me as I found myself unclenching my jaw during the work day, specifically when she was in the office.

Sensing the impending destruction of my inner harmony and organ function, I managed - by the grace of The Spaghetti Monster - to get out from her dictatorship, where she could no longer change my business strategy on a whim, forcing a "do over" every three months in our sales organization. She could no longer send me out as a cliche, food-obsessed overweight person, buy birthday cakes for the "office" or bring back FOR her, her lunch. And now that I'm out of the center of the storm, I have nothing but pity for her.

She is impatient in all matters of business, cagey as a subordinate and unfortunately for her subordinates, awarded with an upper management position that leaves roughly twenty people victim to whatever side of the ship she’s leaning towards, causing a nervous, unsure, awkward stampede from her underlings. She avoids process. She argues. She maneuvers, manipulates, changes her mind every thirty seconds, and denies whatever crazy law she’d put into place a week before. There’s a saying around here: Don’t like what Janice is suggesting? Wait a week. She’ll forget.

She drew me into her office and asked me all about the Band. She compliments me often, making me cringe back inside with the weird light in her eye that is anything but happy for my success. She found a doctor insane enough to perform the surgery given her weight, stints in her heart, blood thinning medication, and two months post-chemotherapeutic condition. When she heard she would have to attend two information/group sessions, it blew apart.

“I’m not doing that,” she said, aggravated, flapping her hands dismissively. They reminded me of skittish doves. “I’m too busy.”

Too busy to save her own life.

She’s smoking again.

Janice is overwhelmingly unhappy. I could wish the Lap Band on her, I could wish the Bypass on her, I could even wish Death on her, anything to relieve her throbbing open-woundedness that reminds me so excruciatingly of me, five years ago. But since I've actually attempted to become more aware of the world, the righteous anger has fluttered down from the air. She's not a monster. She's not tragic or misunderstood, either.

She is only asleep.

She is closing her eyes and turning away, building her stories, repeating them to herself until she almost believes it's not as bad as it really is. Oh, but it is. Two heart attacks, one breast cancer, and ongoing pizza/cheese fries/sneaking cigarettes later, her time is ticking at best.

This is the end of the movie for her. Will she keep hiding? Will she take responsibility? Will she save her self as the timer ticks down to zero?

I just don't know. I think she's going to be one of the ones that has to come back and do it all over again.

Wake up, dammit. It's time to get up.

Crotchular Needs

This is how it goes with me. I make a statement; I take a stand. God says "Not so fast, white girl."

Some of you may remember my recent declaration of intentionally empty pants; my Kissing Embargo. No dating, no kissing, no work on anything other than my dreams and goals. Financial goals, spiritual goals, health goals. No men.

I ended up going out on a non-date (I insisted we call it a Social Visit) last night and found myself doing a Jekyll and Hyde all week. Angry that I agreed to it, nervous that it was happening, my heart incredibly sore as it was from recent, re-devastating disappointment from a former lover. But maybe, my dear friend pointed out, it was exactly the reason I should go out.

So I went. I hate being nervous. I had an unsettling feeling of foreboding that it just would not work out and be a waste of time. Turns out I'm psychic, folks. Though he is not a bad person in the least, it was a familiar tune.

He did most of the talking about himself.

When I mentioned my side business I am very passionate about, he was distracted and seemed disinterested.

When I mentioned my own music and writing, twice, he didn't ask anything about it.

Oh but we spent an hour on his business.

He sat there reviewing my email and told me I was longwinded. I fucking KNOW this...I'm a writer. Better to edit out than to reconfigure! But he was the one asking me all these fucking match.com type questions all week - and it was not supposed to be a date. And I'm longwinded.

When I mentioned, during the course of our Divorce-Story-Trading, that I'd legally changed my first name as part of my independence, he stopped me and said "I don't want to know." I stared at him, not sure what he meant. I told him it was nothing sinister or dramatic, just part of m..."Nope. I don't want to hear about it." I felt like I was slapped. That was especially nice.

Within the first twenty minutes of conversation he told me he was well hung; he mentioned porn, dildos, whatever. He'd accuse me of thinking something sexual when I wasn't. I'm not the kind of person to throw a drink in a man's face or publicly embarrass someone, which is maybe something I need to learn, but I wish I’d done just that. Worst part was, I didn’t fully realize what was going on until the next morning. With two glasses of wine in me, no food since soup for lunch, and the tolerance of a pre-teen, I was a little buzzed and courtesy laughing over the sexual innuendo to hide my discomfort.

Three hours of this. For a drink. Not to mention he drank 6 beers and refused to order dinner. Guess he wanted to get lit up and fuck.

I couldn't leave soon enough.

And it occurs to me as I sit here watching Tombstone that I want a Kurt Russell. I'm not a prude. By far. Christ, with the right man, I am shocking :) But I can't deal with these teenager-minded men anymore. I want Kurt Russell. I want a man who knows right from wrong, who might have an edge to him but doesn't behave like he's a victim to his crotchular needs.

But yeah. Kurt Russell in Tombstone. A man who has already manifested his potential, has personal power, a noble reputation, who has faced demons and has gained wisdom from it...not some blazing saddles young hot shot. I want a warrior. A mature role model. I want a hero. I'm holding on for a heeero til the end of the niight! He's gotta be stro....ok sorry.

I just am not training anymore men. My finishing school is closed.

So I guess the Social Visit helped me bring my ideal match even more into focus.

Meanwhile I remain maddeningly celibate.

/cracks open another merlot

Dear Motherfucker

I’ve just turned back from the kitchen counter holding an open bottle of wine and two glasses to share with you, my friend, only to notice you haven’t moved position for years. You are still in the same clothes I met you in, your head tilts at the usual angle, you seem interested in what I’m saying, but you don’t respond to me anymore. You’re silent as a tomb.

I call to you repeatedly. Answer me.

Quit fooling around now!

My smile falters and I put the glasses down.

Can you hear me?

Are you there?

I walk around the counter to your stool and jump back seeing you have no third dimension. You’re a cutout!! My heart pounds. Questions fire along hundreds of synapses, piling up in my skull like a runaway grainery. How long have I been talking to a photo? How many people have watched me talk to to photo? Who tried to warn me? Where is your depth, anyway? Did I imagine everything? And where are you? Who are you?

....a smaller voice asks, Who are you with?

From this distance of time, your big, stupid smile that once charmed me looks so fake that I am briefly more hurt that I wasted my time than I am hurt from being pinned. Pinned by your vapid, self-serving, unconscionable stare.

You used me, you doped me --

you left me, you motherfucker.

The Kissing Embargo

I've climbed down out of the "I have to have a boyfriend" rafters. I was there for a while, wishing and dreaming, putting ex boyfriends in the Pet Semetary and reanimating them just so I wouldn't really feel alone. Cept I am. And I still do. But yeah it's been a veritable plethora of dipping into wells I thought had long since gone dry, huffing fumes and pretending to be a part of someone who is a part of someone else. If it doesn't make sense, don't worry. I'm not trying that hard and I don't care to :)

The strange thing is, I don't know if I will ever find someone. I mean....jesus I am so picky now. I have a whole subset of requirements in spirituality, philosophy, background, education, etc that have narrowed my already limited field (I am socially inept) to .... a vaccuum in space. I'm literally looking for the male version of me, but with a propensity for patience and unflappable calm since I seem to do "Hormonal Mexican Jumping Bean" exceedingly well.

I love the word unflappable.

All that is moot, anyway, because I am now on a Kissing Embargo. I am not kissing any boys (calm down, I'm not kissing any girls either) until a few goals of mine have been achieved. Christ I think this is a 6 month starvation.

AND WHAT ARE THESE EFFING FRUIT FLIES IN MY APARTMENT I HAVE BEEN TRAVELING FOR TWO EFFING WEEKS

Why, you may ask? (about the Kissing Embargo) It's simple.

I am a retard around men I like.

And when I catch the scent of Possible Mate, my retardation exponentially increases and whether that man is worth it or not I will continue being a retard until I've married him or gotten emotionally attached. Whichever comes first. And being a divorcee, I can tell you, the past few relationships I've had were harder to end/cope with than leaving my ex husband. When my tender girlie heart latches on, she will not let go until I've asked to be kicked in the kidneys a few more times, hit me again, Ike, and put some stank on it.

So I think, even though I'm 2.5 years out of my marriage, that I am still a Retard and I need some severe Timeout before I go to something Dumb. /having an unpleasant memory of a dumb thing I did over the last year....cry

It's those flashbacks I want to avoid.

So no kissing for me. It fucks me up. I get dumb and goofy and mentally deficient. Whereas, at my prime, I am just goofy. I will unwittingly think men are worthy of me (or anyone) when they're not. I think I'm less than what I am, then I forget my goals and they get pushed off. So, now you men are getting pushed off. Yeah.

This will last til my next horny season, which will be /looks at watch....mmm 7 days from now.

You have time to pop some popcorn, tuck the kids in, run the dishwasher, and be back in time for the hilarious sequel.

See you in a bit.

A blog about blogging

I want to blog, but don't know what to blog about. It's not that I've got nothing to say; the past week I've been journaling record amounts and enjoying the words that infuse my brain and rattle around until I expel them. It's just that what I have journaled has no place on a public blog. So, weather?

The things that occupy my writing brain revolve around personal growth and things I'm not ready to share with The World At Large.

I can tell you that I did indeed get the job that I interviewed for in Frisco. In fact, I was just there for a week learnin' and absorbin' like a champ. The gloss has not dimmed; this job is still absolutely perfect in this time and space for me. And I for it. I can't believe my good fortune sometimes, so I work hard for it.

In other news, I'm still not ready to buy a house. But my divorce papers came through all finalized, so I am officially free. After doing my finances this morning I am thrilled to report that I am out of the Lean Times for the past three months and am completely on target for paying off the 0% APR deals in the next few months. My personal financial goals for this year and next year are on track to be met. I am well cared for financially and feel once more in control of my world. It's an odd feeling after having been so completely removed from it during my marriage. This isn't hard, and this isn't worthy of such obsession. I feel even more sympathy for my ex's money issues.

I'm in a good place right now. I'm happy. I've just noticed my investments are getting sizable, even thought I considered it play money, I really have to start paying attention now and let it catch fire.

I'm doing it. It's getting done.

What else can I conquer, now? Small business. I'm all over it.

Except for having a loving man to share all of this with, I think I am the happiest I've ever been. Thanks for everything, whoever's up there watching.

Delta Burke vs Jane Austen, Cage Match

This is a hard entry to write, because now you're under the covers with me. I had zero intention of fessing up to what I ate last night because I still feel like a large bucket of crap for having made the decision I did.

Sun Tzu said, "If you know your opponent and yourself, you will never lose the battle." I'm taking this to heart. Scarlet cheeks of embarrassment and all. I need to know what is going on with me. And you're coming along for the ride.

Recap:

I skipped the gym last night, due to Female Issues. Inadequate preparation, although I had sailed through the last two days of Working Out Despite Female Issues. I had only consumed something ridiculously anorexic like 300 calories before dinner, and was wondering how I could get 1000 healthy calories in with a pouch that can hold a cup of food at a time. At night, I can eat much more because the band wakes up with coffee and tea and soup and relaxes by the evening – and I knew I was in trouble. Check out what I ate. I can’t even say it out loud.

So I pondered my choices on the drive home. I could just eat one of my South beach chicken-and-veggies meals, they’re good sized and I could stuff myself, but that would only be 270 calories. And I’d be uncomfortable and stretch the band. Good thing I didn’t go to the gym to burn off what I had already consumed, eh? I would still be practicing malnutrition, and I did not want to lose hair again. I could eat an individual pizza from Pizza Hut, the fat and calories would fit nicely, but I wasn’t in the mood. You see what I ended up with.

There is a voice in my head who cheers for Fat and Carbs (oh let's call her Delta Burke) who, last night, gained serious ground over my sensible Jane Austen self. Jane, who is my reserved, slightly shy, erring-on-the-side-of-demure-to-the-point-of-self-flagellation persona has been a welcome addition these past few years. She is what I want to be; analytical, patient, austerely yet delicately feminine, wise; but I was born to Delta.

When I try to be more Jane-like, I feel like a wolf in sheep's clothing, disguised for only so long before the scent of nearby deep fryers sends me into a frenzy. Then Delta bursts forth with fanfare and lights and party streamers.

With all due respect to the real Ms. Burke and Ms. Austen, these two ladies seem to embody the body-less personalities who have influence over my decisions. I see Delta as a plump, slightly devilish, irreverent best friend who is a Guru of Taste. I love her. And she is evil. And lord do I love being evil right along with her. She just has to look at a chocolate Munchkin, fix her light eyes on me, and nod. And I'm double fistin' those little sugary cakes into my pie hole

So Delta has been perched atop my chest for approximately three decades, swiftly ordering anything deep-fried, with extra cheese and a side of bleu cheese dressing. I didn't mind Delta so much; her taste was impeccable and I had the best time gaining a billion pounds. It was delicious. And when Jane showed up with her Mary Poppins white gloves and prim pillbox hat, I was at once overjoyed that sense had arrived, eager to get to know her, but left vaguely guilty at ignoring Delta.


Long and short of yesterday:

Many things contributed to the food fest. I was “off” from the gym, watching TV and bored, and psyched myself out. I need to be able to trust myself home alone with food. Next time I’m in this scenario, I’m going to choose – well – malnutrition over overeating. If I only get 800 calories for a day, I only get 800 calories. Wait! I’ll can just drink a soy protein shake to get another 500 in – damn, that would have been a good idea. That way I’m not stretching the band. :) Oohhhhh!!! I didn't expect an actual solution out of this.

All right. I’m now planned against this again. The final touch on the new plan: Eat the good stuff first til you’re bloated, if you must. The macaroni and cheese only whet my appetite for pizza, which I wasn’t in the mood for, if you recall.

Mac and cheese. The gateway food.

You won this time, Delta, but Jane and I have a new plan. Gym tonight, dinner out with a friend, and gym tomorrow. Big gym tomorrow since it's Saturday, we're going for a 700 calorie burn.

Finally. They understand.

Click to enlarge.

(Yeah if only it were that easy)