White Food

Not to be confused with White People Food. More on that, later.


Maybe.


Probably not.


In a diet like the one I follow, there is a sort of unspoken "no white food" stipulation.


Before I continue I should probably mention my "diet" isn't full of hard rules. I am not a rules person. I have been known, on more than a couple of occasions, to enjoy a dinner consisting entirely of Castelvetrano olives and beer. Maybe you prefer a saltier olive. Go nuts.


I like to keep things do-able, so, I have "guidelines" more than rules, and because those guidelines are expressed within my writing/speaking style, they may sound something like, "Eat what appears to be an absurd amount of vegetables," or, "Only itty bits of sugar."


All of this relies rather heavily on you knowing what an "itty bit" of sugar looks like, because fuck measuring. For me it looks like I don't get to eat Little Debbie Nutty Bars for breakfast. When I was in radio, that's all I ever ate for breakfast. Morning radio...where, "I had to get up at 3:30AM," is your excuse for everything.


Radio Me would roll her eyes at Now Me, and probably light up a cigarette as an exclamation point.


Oh, cigarettes...I miss your stimulating...stimulants. If I never quit you, I might still be able to eat white food. But you stink, and everyone associated with you stinks, and I didn't spend $75 for a fucking bottle of Dolce Rosa Exelsa so I could smell like a loser.


Anyway...white food.


"White food" in my case includes sugar, white bread (white flour in general), white rice, and potatoes. It also includes corn--not white in the strictest sense, but...it's white food. It can include sauces in which white flour is used, and definitely includes any "snacks" like pretzels or chips which involve the frying or baking of the white flour or the potato, or the corn. The frying fat is fine, it's the starch I'm avoiding.


So...hear this in my I-swear-nothing-is-a-big-deal voice and it comes out to like, "Every day, eat tons of vegetables. Like an insane amount. And maybe some meat. And you can have bread, but have it first thing so you have time to work it off, and it should be multi-grain bread. Eat fruit and/or nuts where you would normally eat a candy bar. Have cheese, as long as it is real cheese. Good cheese. Don't fuck around when it comes to the cheese. Very limited starches/sugars (white food). And once every couple weeks you can break any or all of these rules so you don't go bat-shit crazy. Except the cheese. Don't eat bad cheese. Oh, and every December, you get to eat braunschweiger on white bread."


As relaxed as this all is for me, I still end up acting like a bowl of mashed potatoes is an illicit love affair I'm trying to hide from the broccoli.


Yeah, baby...put some cream cheese in there...butter....salt....a pinch of garlic powder.


Mmmmm....You're the best I've ever had.


So very, very wrong, but...so right.


I may like mashed potatoes more than I like pizza, and my gawd I love pizza. I tell anyone who will listen that the Punch Pizza Siciliana changed my life, but I don't make half the amorous noises eating that pizza as I do eating potatoes.


That might be because when I eat Siciliana, I'm sitting at Punch, and when I eat mashed potatoes, I'm sitting in my room, cross-legged on the bed with the lights dimmed.


Probably.


I heard someone say that the only time you should eat white bread is if you are standing next to the bakery that made it...in Italy.


I'll add that to the bucket list. Now, where do I go to eat potatoes, free of shame? Wyoming?


The worst part about the "white food" guideline is that it works, and, I've had a lot of success in limiting those things.  I keep having to buy new pants because I'm shrinking out of them. It's actually getting to be a pain in the a$$, but I'll suck it up because it's better than the alternative. My standing joke with my doctor is, "I know none of this weight loss is due to cancer because ever time I eat white food I gain a pound--do I still have to come in for my appointment?" It's an awful joke, but he is a good sport, and yes, I do still have to come in. Damn it.


One day, when I'm old, and probably under doctor's orders to do so, I'll eat white foods all day every day, just to keep my weight up. People will probably encourage me to eat all day.


"Here, Mom, have some of this starch covered in gravy. Would you like more macaroni salad? Please eat more."


It'll be socially acceptable.


Until then, I'll keep my secret boyfriend mashed potatoes for as long as I can ride it. There ain't no reins on this one.

Revival

I wrote approximately 80 billion words in 2008-2009. My life was crazy--falling apart by some definition--but for me, I had eyes on a prize and was incredibly focused. It was not money, or a hot career, or hunky boyfriend that I wanted, it was just...peaceful sanity where I could be my true self and follow my inspiration without having it constantly questioned or belittled, most of all by me.


I am a writer, and, I need to do it. I have been scribbling gobs of crap on pages since high school. I'm 106 years old now. It is ever-present. It permeates everything, It may mean nothing to anyone but me, but to me, it is everything, and I dare say my whole life was created based on me thinking, "what would be a good thing to happen in the story right here?" You wouldn't think putting words on a page would have an effect on things, but it does. There are entire fields of study surrounding the idea that observing a thing creates a change in that thing, or, an observer creates a reality that would not have been there in the absence of the observer. The idea that I create my own reality is strong within me, and the idea that I can change my reality goes hand in hand with it. Of course I can--all I need to do observe, think about, and write about it.


So that's what was happening in 2008-2009. My marriage was ending, I moved completely across the country two times and was camping out at a friends house with my two daughters in tow, getting them to school, trying to find a job...insanity. Writing about it helped me direct it to a place where I wanted it to be. I've been reading those archives, and enjoying them. I love the girl I was--the one who had the courage to make a dramatic change, damn the consequences. I'm still her, I just haven't needed to be so dramatic lately because I'm generally happy, now, but, WOW. The things she taught me. Amazing.


But I didn't do it alone.


Who's With Me? 
(originally published 8/28/2009)

I always picture the guy in the movies...the guy pushed into leadership. Sometimes, he's an unlikely hero. Sometimes he is reluctant. Sometimes, he was born for this kind of thing, but in the movies, it is always the same--he's been put down or held down, and he's watched as the people he cares about are put down or held down. Finally, toward the end of the movie, he gives an inspirational speech decrying the wrong of it all, and declares that he's going to fight.

Then he says, "Who's with me?" and the whole place erupts in a loud battle cry. Everyone is with him.

After all, if they have each other and are united for a cause, there is nothing that can stop them. In fact, they don't really need to go into battle at all--truly they are free, at the very moment they decided it was worth fighting for. The momentum, and the energy is there, and, it carries them through the worst "the enemy" can throw at them.

Don't you just love the movies?

In real life, too, we rise or fall based on who, if anybody, is with us. Nobody wants to go it alone.

I find that I am usually the first one to get pissed off enough to act. And yes, sometimes, I end up going it alone, which sucks.

OK, most of the time, I end up going it alone, and sometimes, it sucks. Honestly, at this stage, I'm so used to going it alone that I usually skip the formality of asking "who's with me?" and just assume that it's no one.

There are certain rewards that come with being that kind of person. When you have an effect, and create a positive change, you get to feel damn good about yourself, or at least I do. Also, if other people know that you were the one responsible for the positive change, they might say nice things to/about you....after the fact, that is...when they've got nothing to lose by agreeing with you.

Of course, there are also some risks, but I find that the risks involved with staying true to your convictions, in all but the most extreme cases, are no worse than the risks involved with, say...bungee jumping. Very slight chance of injury or death. 100% chance of exhilaration.

But I haven't been going it alone. Not really.


Let me tell you a story--true story, and no, it isn't about me. A friend of mine is a relationship that I don't understand, at all. She doesn't get beat up or anything, but her mate is just mean (my word, no particulars, just...not nice to her). She is mean enough to her that, well, if anybody ever said those things to me, even once, they could kiss my ass goodbye, forever--they might possibly even kiss their own ass goodbye, depending on my mood that day.

Many years ago, I told my friend that I thought she needed to leave--I told her that in my opinion, she was being abused and she should get the hell out of there.

She didn't.

Also, she didn't speak to me for about two years after that. I don't know if she wasn't "allowed" to speak to me or what, but, my guess is that the mate considered me a threat, which...I'm not sure how to take, but OK, fine. I'm a threat. A threat to your bullshit.

Fast forward over ten years. My friend is still with the mean one. She is a great person and gets her fair share of positive attention from lots of nice people who would love to go out with her, but...she's stuck on the "what have you got to lose" part of the equation. She is convinced that she couldn't make it on her own, or maybe that she's such an awful person that nobody but this meanie could ever love her.

But then, one day, the man arrived.

Enter one very cute, very smart, sweet and kind gentleman who, as it would happen, is CRAZY about my friend. He thinks she is awesome.

He's "with" her. He's soooo "with" her. And you know what? It's incredibly empowering. Finally, after 15 years, someone out there is making my friend feel like she could be happy. Really happy. Finally, she is examining the possibilities. Finally, she is accepting the fact that she is worth it.

The very cute, very smart, sweet and kind gentleman did not roll into town on on his fine steed and sweep her up and away from danger. They are not "together" as a couple, and they likely never will be--it doesn't appear to be his role. What is his role? His very presence has planted the seed of the idea, and is making my friend stand up for herself, even though she never had the courage to before.

She still has a long journey ahead of her, but the simple fact that she has started walking, is huge. That makes this goof-ball boy a very big deal--Divine Intervention--and way more of a threat to the status quo than I could ever be, no matter how much time I spend postulating on whether or not my friend is in a "good" relationship.

When I talk about inspiration on this blog, that is the kind of thing that I mean. Not just "oh, I saw that painting and it inspired me to decorate my whole apartment around it." I'm talking about, "I had an interaction with that person and then my whole damn life changed." There are people just walking among us whose role it is to force us to be that reluctant hero in our own lives--to bring us to question why things are the way they are, and, give us the courage to change if change is needed, by letting us know they are there--they are "with" us.

Sometimes, they do this in a subtle way--they might be the person at the office who is always nice to you, and you always feel good after talking to them.

Sometimes, they'll knock you flat on your ass with no subtlety whatsoever, usually at the exact moment the universe tells you, "Oh, by the way? Change of plans. Person X has now been introduced into the story line...." and just like that, you are shocked into wakefulness, with not a damn thing you can do about it.

This exact scenario has played for my friend, and for me, because this is the thing that happened to us both--she with her cute, smart man, and me with someone else. Picture being pushed off a cliff (don't worry, you have your bungee chords) into incredible exhilaration and excitement and googly-eye silliness and Happy To Be Alive-ness, peppered with heaping gobs of, "This is so fucking scary!" because they pushed you into believing you were worth it, and you do hate it sometimes and wish they would have just let you remain unconscious--it was so much simpler to accept things as they were and remain asleep.

It requires less action of you to pretend that everything is fine than to contemplate that maybe you deserve something better, whatever that "something" may be--especially if that "something" is...really nothing more than an absence of the bad thing.

One day after 3 years of influence from that particular muse, I woke and recognized that I had become the reluctant hero in my life. What had I done since seeing him, and speaking to him? Everything. I had changed my entire life--not necessarily because of the warm interactions we had, but because knowing he existed somehow made me think, "I can do better," so, I did better. He had no idea. He didn't know I kept a little picture of him that I took, where he was smiling at me, just to remind me to do better. I'm sure he still doesn't know, and I have no plans to ever tell him.

I put the picture away when I realized that I feel pretty damn good about myself. I had successfully saved myself from personal heartache that would slowly kill me. Finally, I was at ease--better and stronger now than I was, and not content to sleepwalk through life, ever again. I survived having cried more tears than I thought my body could ever handle, as old perspectives, fairy tales and conventional "happy endings" were revealed to be untrue.

Now I know that amazing days lie ahead.

Who's with me?

Bad Metaphorical Scotch

There used to be a sub-category on this blog titled, "In Which She Drones On and On About Justin-Fucking-Currie." In that sub-category you could find warm and loving tributes to the man, such as, "I hate that prolific little fucker," and my personal favorite, "I'd lock him in the garage for the month of February to assure he is sufficiently miserable to write songs."


This is how I talk about people when I think they're pretty great.


No, I don't wonder why I'm single: It's because I'm awful. It's well established.


Another thing I wrote: "He ain't pretty. When you listen to his music, though, you get the strong impression he is actually so beautiful that he has to shaggy-up so the whole world doesn't paw him to death in adoration."


The compliment wrapped in an insult. Classic. I slip out the side door during the ensuing confusion.


OK...it wasn't all bad:

When you have been listening to a musician for a long time, and, if they're any good, you can't help but feel their progression, album to album. It’s like watching your kids grow up, I suppose. You've always liked them, from the first moment, and as they get older and get better, you find yourself feeling proud. It warms your soul.

Some days...I feel very much like I watched Justin grow up. And calling it 'growing up,' while somewhat insulting, may be the only way to describe it. He simply came to know a few things that he didn’t know before.

We all start off toddling, don't we?


Things Del Amitri recorded 20 and 30 years ago, I liked a lot, back then, but he was a fucking infant by comparison. Babies…they positively glow with potential. I hope he knew what an incredibly skilled songwriter he would one day become.

I sometimes joke he's my second longest relationship, right behind Paul McCartney. Men in real life? 3-4 years and my eyes start to glaze over. Random musicians I never have to meet? 30+ years of carved-in-stone loyalty. Let's face it--it is a lot easier to adore Paul McCartney from afar than it is to love anyone up close...up to and including Paul McCartney himself.


Limited exposure. It's a beautiful thing. The entire relationship consists of them saying, "Hey, I wrote this song," and me saying, "Shut up and take my money." Even a dysfunctional fuckhead like me can handle that level of commitment.


I've long since stopped trying to figure any of this out. You like what you like. I like the way his writing brain works. He is as cleverly caustic as Paul is sweetly coy. I like most of his characters (not that irredeemable cheating dirtbag from Be My Downfall, though...fuck that guy).


However...that bloggy sub-category no longer exists and won't be revived. Sorry. Those words I wrote over the course of many years are tucked in a draft folder--just like a lot of things I peeled off in a flippant flurry and later reconsidered. Honestly, I think it was maybe 10 mentions in over 500 entries...? (Much like on the shelves of music I own, there are around a dozen pieces with his name on it and some 500 without.) Yet, that name was somehow the #3 searched topic on this stupid blog.


First of all...who are you? Searchers never say "hi." Jerks. Second, I must be so terribly disappointing...probably why they never say "hi."  I mostly talk about other stuff, like that time on my wedding anniversary where I got dressed up for dinner but ended up busting up a frog orgy in my back yard, and, not surprisingly, never had another wedding anniversary after that. It's not exactly fan site material. Plus I re-read every piece in the J-to-the-fucking-C category and was underwhelmed. We all start off toddling. I have the great luxury of un-publishing things I no longer enjoy, so off you go. Don't get me wrong, I think the line about locking him in the garage is fucking hilarious, but you know how things get once they're out of context...people begin huddling and murmuring and acting like it's all so serious. It's not.


I will say that for the most part, I am incredibly jealous of Justin--good stuff seems to pour out of him like it's nothing, and it holds up for ages. (Except The Heart is a Bad Design. That one doesn't hold up...and probably a couple others, but I can't get started talking about this shit or I'll end up having to devote a fucking category to it. And if I do that, then I'll end up having to confess how I excuse myself to the beer booth whenever Queenie Eye comes up in Paul's set list, because I can't stand that song. I realize all of this makes me a terrible fan in worshippers' circles. I'm prepared for my stoning--I've probably already been ostracized, I just haven't received the paperwork, yet.)


Maybe Justin's writing isn't as easy as he makes it look. Maybe he sweats word choices and chords.


I don't know. I don't particularly care. Shut up and take my money.


The rest of you? Please enjoy this hilarious story about sex-starved frogs and their insidious plot to destroy my marriage. It's funny because it's true.




***Bad Metaphorical Scotch = A reference to getting rid of things that are not of your preferred quality, based on that time my sister found a gallon jug of Scotch with the words "Aged 3 years" on the label, in one of the cupboards of her house. She wondered if she should save it, just in case someone might want some one day. We all have stuff like that sitting around. It might be bad whiskey, might be a bad blog post. The answer to "Should I save this?" is No. The answer is always No. Keep only that which makes you happy--chuck the rest.