Just A Little Bit

I've been doing just a little bit of writing. And a bit of social networking (read: tweeting my ass off). I have been trying to make my business more visible on the web. Suffice it to say that I'll never be a millionaire.

Well, that's not fair.  Maybe, just maybe I can scrimp and save and make it to one meellyon dollars (gotta say it evil).

BUT the point is - I have been writing. Doesn't seem to be funny, which is a shame as my other blog I've posited that it's a humor blog. I think you all know that my other blog is about dating and the absolute winners I find out there - plus some rants added in for spice (that is to say, no one. No one reads this blog so you - who don't exist - wouldn't know about my other blog because you don't exist.) 

Wow!  Look at that, I'm off topic again.  Back on point: I have been writing. I have been doing what I have set out to do. And I believe that's a positive thing. I don't believe anyone is truly reading these and I had to re-arrange my twitter account(s) so that I could be more anonymous, but I did that and am putting pen to paper, or in my case fingers to keyboard, and sitting down and typing for more than five minutes.  I am trying. I am doing away with any excuses that I come across and just doing it. The results are . . less than perfect but there are results.

That leads me to another thought.  This blog was originally just stories and things that happened to me and then I tried to turn it into a weight loss blog, all the while crazy was being mixed in.  So I guess I'll just write what I feel to get something on paper so to speak. It'll probably still be about crazy and weight loss and girly dumb thoughts, but it's my blog or diary so you don't have to read it. ! (heehee. you aren't.)

I am still trying my hand at weight loss using a new method that hopefully won't bankrupt me.  I type this as I am eating a DQ Blizzard. Truly.

I am still trying to navigate small town politics and business and people and trying to get my business started.  I am really in trouble on this one.  I am hemorrhaging money. Dollars. American. It sucks.

I am still trying to work on my relationships including friends and family.  This has been difficult.

Do you remember in Sixteen Candles when Molly Ringwald runs back in the church for her sister's veil and the crotchety organ player was walking down the aisle? Molly says she's getting her sister's veil - she was a little bit out of it. Crotchety woman's reply: Just a little bit. I feel like Molly - navigating the horror of high school and interpersonal relationships between family, friends and friends-not-so-much. Just a little bit.  Give my underwear to a geek. Get to kiss the hottie at the end because I'm nice.  Just a little bit.  Do a little here.  Do a little there.  

Unconscious

So. I've been mediating on the whole losing weight thing.
And. I can see me being fit and thin.
But for some reason this brought up the unhealthy in me.  The need to make a fucked-up decision (mistake) so that my life will continue to spiral and suck.
So. Apparently I've been envisioning seeing my ex.  (This also might have to do with the fact that I'm hard up. I need some bad.)

So what do I dream about? I dream about seeing him.  But I'm trying to see him again - at a motel or something.  And I can't see how to get my car over this canal (or whatever) so I'm going to cross on foot. And I fall in and get gross and wet. And when I finally get to our motel room, he's taking care of himself, if you get my drift.  He stops momentarily when I kind of crash in on him. But then begins again.  And I think, "I could join in if I blow him." And then I think, "Naw. I don't want to.  That'll take care of him.. but won't do a thing for me."  So I go in and take a shower to get the crap off of me.

So really here's my unconscious self yelling out "FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT'S HOLY! Don't do this! Look at what would happen! You'd get stuck, covered in shit and still, you'd be without. Just don't do it."

I'm going to take the hint - for now.  I want to be able to promise myself I won't be that stupid, but I can't seem to make it stick.  I hope so.  It would be a complete waste of time, energy, money, self-esteem, brain power and would bring a new level to my shame.  Let's just not do this.

ok. So

Yeah, so.

I am disappointed.  I don't know how else to describe what I am feeling.  But he's the asshole, right? So why let him make me feel bad?  And what is that (stupid) saying?  Something like, no one can make you feel something that you don't give them permission to make you feel. ?  Huh?  
Whatever - it's me choosing to feel disappointed, right?

Ok, so.  I'm trying the stupid internet fat-girl dating site.  And I swear! there are at least 90% scammers on there.  And this last one . . . I've had my guard up but he was taking so long and being nice and talking about god, etc.  So I started to believe that he was nice.  What a fucking joke!
Tonight, he asked for me to "borrow" some money to him.  Yeah.  Fucking fucker with the fucked-up understanding of fucking English.

Hmph.  So.  Here I am.  Trying for real, finally, to take a step forward and attempt to live my life and fully experience the human condition.  And here are these stupid asses trying to cheat fat women out of their money.  Like fat = gullible = stupid and trusting and, apparently, rich.
 
And... as I am writing this, I have to laugh (almost).  This is part of the human condition, isn't it?  You put yourself out there and some of the people are assholes and maybe there are more assholes than not.  And if you are really lucky (or destined, whatever) you find the one diamond in the rough, right?

Ok.  So.

Now what, exactly?  I'll keep trying I guess.

Where to start?

Any ideas?

FEELING (uncomfortable)

OK.

I need to just feel. I’ve been trying to think through all of my problems: all of my weight control/eating issues & dilemmas. And I have been wondering why I stuff myself with food so I don’t have to feel the feelings, because the feelings (or feeling the feelings) make(s) me uncomfortable.
Obviously. Always known this. Haven’t I?

I need to just feel.

This morning I started freaking out (perhaps it started yesterday) because I should not have weighed myself, and yet after weighing myself yesterday (another no-no), I knew that today I would probably be less than 300 pounds. (That’s right chickadees, I’m massive.) (OK ENOUGH WITH THAT KIND OF TALK!) Well, I wasn’t. And I guess I should have felt relived, but I didn’t. I think I started panicking. But I don’t know. Because I don’t know what I feel, ever.
----side note: Nutritionist asked: “What’s it going to feel like to weigh under 300?” I didn’t have an answer. I was thinking, “Normal,” but I knew I shouldn’t say that. I thought it would feel exactly the same—sort of numb, I guess. So instead I replied, “I don’t know.” Also the truth. I don’t ever Know how I feel.

All day today, I’ve been feeling hungry. Or I think it’s hunger. Do I really know? Perhaps I do not.
-----flashback: Scene: An mid-1970’s California burger chain Carl’s Jr. A young flawed-heroine (very young) eating burger and fries with nice young friend and young friend’s mother. And eating everything. And young friend saying she’s full. And young heroine remarks that she isn’t. And parent is mildly astonished. And young heroine replies that she never gets full, she just starts to get a stomachache. And parent and young friend share momentary glance and parent tells young heroine that the stomach ache IS full.

I’ve been writing down differing feelings of my body (read: stomach) and my responses to them and if/what I eat on sticky notes while at work. An attempt to feel my feelings and recognize . . . patterns, perhaps. I’m not sure. I’m sure there was logic behind it originally.

I think I’m panicking at the idea of losing the weight. That’s why I’ve stopped. But I haven’t really been gaining because I won’t give up.

That’s it: I won’t give up.
I cannot.

I will get over this hump and it will be a memory.

Hours tick by. Or do they?

Day One without My Beloved.

sugar

Ok. Here we go again kids. Trying to kick the juice, the junk, the dope, the lightening. The Sugar.

Hour Two.

Actually, I’ve been up a little more than two hours. . . but who’s counting. Oh, that’s right, I am.
I am depressed and weepy. I tell myself not to despair. Nothing ever comes from despairing—nothing, nothing ever gets done. And it’s true.
Did you see Scarlet O’Hara despair? No. She decided she was too busy trying to fix things, trying to save the beloved Tara, trying not to starve, trying to keep her family from starving. She just didn’t have time to despair.
And it helps. (Telling myself that.) Oh, and also I’ve been telling myself that it’s just coming off of the juice, the smack, the sugar that is making my emotions so . . . volatile. And it could be true. What it really feels like is going insane. And not so slowly. Kinda quick, so you notice it is happening. “Why am I behaving like this?” You ask yourself. “Why, I don’t know. Perhaps it’s the sugar. Perhaps you are insane.” You answer yourself rationally. Heh. Rationally. Answer yourself.

I watched a lovely movie last night. I Capture the Castle. Lovely young women: English and poor. Lovely young, rich American men (and one was Henry Thomas... makes me kinda glad he survived ET). OK SPOILER. So, the lovely young woman, our heroine.. winds up with.. well, not nothing.. . and not alone, she has taken care of her family. But not with the object of her affection. And the end of the movie (my hand to gawd) she says, “I love. I have loved. I will love.” Fade to Black. Fuck. What the hell. Ok, great. But that’s why I watch movies. I need a mother-fucking, even-if-it-makes-no-sense, twisted plot, don’t-care-how, HAPPY ENDING. Need it. Like I need to breathe. And so yeah, a little hope, but not really happiness. And I’ve discovered in my pitiable life that HOPE kills you every time. Every time. Obliterates you. Crushes your soul. Kills your spirit. Makes you waltz then sticks out its big, rude foot and purposely trips you. So you fall on your face, in the most dramatic, theatrical, humiliating, public way, ever.

What am I complaining for? Well. After that and I just wanted to cry, I got on my newly returned, fixed computer. (Moment of silence and reverence for the COMPUTER.) And I checked my horoscope. And it was all.. You have had to relive part of stuff you thought you already handled, but didn’t (and pushed deep into your subconscious, you pathetic idiot. And will now wake up out of a very real dream and cry inexplicably for an hour whilst you are overcome with sadness and deep, deep, hidden trauma) and now that you’ve re-dealt with those aspects, move on and push your boundaries. Made complete and total sense. [Now I know that these are vague. And allow for various interpretations, but seriously, folks, how do they do it??? And as I write this… this is what they’ve written:
“Circumstances in your life may be full of drama and you'll need to use all channels of communication to share your story with those around you. Although you can be putting on quite an impressive show, you may not realize that you are only telling part of the story. Your beliefs are coloring your perceptions more than usual and you can only see what you believe.”
So here I am thinking I am giving myself therapy, and hopefully entertaining people. But I’m not being totally honest, with myself or with you, dear reader. Fuckers calling me a liar. But I digress.]

Soooo, anyway…I felt really sad. And I did a little (expensive) tarot reading (but considering they gave me the credits for free, wasn’t really a bad deal). And what was this wondrous question I inquired about in my future? I couldn’t really decide. Would I find love.. that’s not right, I have love. I love my mother. I love my friends, etc. And what if I love someone who doesn’t love me back? Would I be loved? No, that’s not right, either. G loves me with all his heart. Just can’t work out. So, I settled on “Will I find happiness in love?” So lovely Tarot tells me to push my boundaries…let my passions come through (because this is obviously something you are uncomfortable with, you fucked-up, damaged prude). And then goes on.. and I’m all.. who is it talking about?
Yeah, well. Money well spent.

Oh, look it’s been about 3 hours. And no sugar. Good for me.

And yet, the discomfort lingers. But I’m not weeping at work either. So. There ya go.

Dumbass and uncomfortable.

Why I should not have sugar.

I have a headache. A sugar headache. A headache that could have totally been avoided. But no, I have one. I had a HUGE, ooh, a HUMUNGUS sweet thing of somesort. Which, by all accounts, I should not have had. Not because – I am allergic to sugar, not because it leeches the B vitamins from my body, the very B vitamins that are essential to weight loss, gives me a sugar high, then a raucous sugar crash- and then I wish for death, not because I am going to considerable difficulty to be on a health maintenance (read weight loss) program, not because I am spending not inconsiderable sums of money on vitamins and healthy eats (when I truly have no money), not because today, of all days, is the day of the week that I must face my fears and weigh in , in front of a kind (skinny) woman who has taken on my case, at no charge, just for my betterment. No, not for any of those reasons. The real reason is because I had one very similar to it yesterday. And it was gross. Grody. Yucky. It did not taste good.

Any normal sane human being would have remembered (apart from all those reasons listed above) that yesterday, it tasted like crap, and today, it is one day older- and has been sitting out for the better part of 2 days. Do Not Eat This Vile Thing.

But I did. And I must say, it was very good. Right up to the blueberry goo—that was indescribable, and very much tasteless, but I ate anyway.

And now. The. Head. Ache.

Dumbass.

Cliff: Hanging from a

Ok. That was scary. I just ate my entire Clif Bar and didn’t realize it. I mean, I was hungry. I made the decision to get it out of my purse. I opened the package, had fleeting thought of the trouble it took me to get the prized, my favorite, my precious, Black Cherry Almond Clif Bar, and took nummy first bite. Then went back to have more, and it was gone. I had consumed my entire Clif Bar (which, I would like to point out, is a meal Replacement bar). A Meal Replacement. Good for an entire meal. Enough energy, calories, protein to replace a meal. And I ate it all. Without realizing it.

Now I realize that this is not on the level of “Fat Girl Eats Own Arm to Survive.” But I am very disturbed, nonetheless. I am supposed to be watching what I eat. I am supposed to be losing weight. And already, I’ve had some candy from the evil candy dish, and then decided I was hungry – and ate my whole Clif Bar.

Damn!

This job. I start to get busy and then get munchies and then before I know it, I’ve blown my diet. It’s supposed to be better here than at home. I’m supposed to be able to control my eating. Ha ha ha.

Will definitely work on it.


Dear J.

Get a clue!

Sincerely,

Your Self.

Goooooood Morning!!

Morning.

Why is it that the morning is so nummy? I want to lay in bed and pet the boobas. And they stretch and snuggle-and put up with each other to be closer to me. And then I jump up and decide I cannot stand the kitchen any longer. Because, in the evening I just don’t have the energy to look at the kitchen. Or walk into it. Or think about it. But in the morning- it seems ok. But ugh! RM gets up early lately. And not necessarily spoils the reverie, but interrupts it. I like my private time: when the boobas stare up at me and wonder what I’m doing, and wonder whether they are going to get a treat, and the kitchen gets cleaner inch-by-inch.

And did I mention that I am half naked? Because no one is supposed to see me, and I don’t care what I look like—it’s not as if I have full length mirrors lining the walls, or even mirrors at all, for that matter.

When you are large, heavy, you don’t have many mirrors. And I have perfected the mirror trick, I look into a small mirror, that I can only see about 3 inches of my face at a time. You get a very distorted vision of yourself that way: putting together an image – overlapping every two inches or so. But most people have a distorted self-image, I would say. Thin ones want to be-oh, I don’t know, thinner- or less hairy or bigger breasts or nicer thighs, lighter hair, straighter hair. Big ones just want to be acceptable—whatever that entails. So: thinner, taller, longer, leaner, prettier, smarter, neater, more fashionable, better paid.

Uncomfortable.

So: half naked, bending and moving and showing only heaven fears what and interrupted reverie. Oh, ok--time to take a shower, running late, anyway. Ooooh, way late!!!

Heavy morning. NO! Have nutritionist tonight! Ugh! A day early, too. Not fair! Not Fair!! Drink lots of water. Prepare water bottles. Make shake for breakfast, put in extra for lunch.

AHHH! Get to work ahead of boss! Hooray. Get stopped by do-gooder. What’s with the voice? Trying to scare me stupid with story of strep throat and kidney damage and eventual death. Long, long story. Certain it’s just allergies. Learn that her mother passed when she was 12. Very sad story. And uncomfortable. Learning stuff about someone you barely know—a certain religious person, who doesn’t necessarily seem the religious type. The hypocritical type, more like. Later, after finally done—see her talking in back of office to someone else, must note that she is boss’s pet. Come back and she announces she got in trouble because of me. Because she was talking. Uh huh, whatever.

And now, writing this for my blog. And I realize, not for the first time, that I get up happy, ready for something—more than this. And yet I come here and know… what exactly is it that I know? That I was meant for more? Yes. That I wasn’t mean to be a grunt? Yes. That I am smarter and funnier and more extraordinary than this place will ever allow me to be? Yes, yes, yes!!
But I cannot work with such disquiet; I cannot pay my bills with out a job. So I will put it away. Cover it up, bury it, until I can focus, not on my life, but on the stacks I have piled up next to me. My goal: to get my desk cleared, so I can begin again tomorrow. And tomorrow.

Brand New

Discomfort.
Disquiet.
Fidgety –

Happiness. Is it real? Is it tangible? Sometimes I think I can feel it, other times I swear I can taste it [and I’m not talking about Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia-or even cheesecake –which I’ve often equated to being better than orgasm. C’mon, the average orgasm last 2 seconds. 2 measly seconds. A good slice of cheesecake can last long, delicious, glorious, exuberant minutes building to the pinnacle of just licking the fork clean because you are spent and exhausted from all the lovely endorphins and chemicals (read sugar) rushing into your blood stream and slamming into your neuro-connectors. Closer to heaven than actual happiness.] I’m talking happiness. Does it last or is it some fleeting feeling that even our idealist forefathers knew we could not obtain and keep, hence the whole “pursuit” liability clause?
Sometimes I feel happy. Sometimes it overcomes me and I feel that I will burst from fear or joy or just shatter because I cannot contain all the simultaneous emotions I know are going to erupt and, like Mount Vesuvius, take every thing and everyone and destroy us all.
And really I know that it’s me, being crazy. Because if I feel that kind of joy, it isn’t real.
Sooner, rather than later, I’m going to fall, not necessarily hard, but just come down and be bummed. Bummed that I no longer feel elated? Possibly. But this feeling, this overpowering sadness, I would say is real, and it lasts.
But happiness, true happiness: does it exist? Is it just fleeting moments and with luck, we can string all the moments together to craft a crown or a netting that covers us, protects us, reminds us, and comforts us?
Is it a state of being—a state for your soul to reside in? Pop culture artists, authors, publishers, advertising execs, and the religious say a resounding “Yes!” Buy this book and beer and subscribe to this god and witness the beauty of the synergistic harmony of all of today and know that it is art and art is life and aren’t we happy? I just got a new Jaguar.
I’ll tell you the last time I was happy. I went dancing. Now I love dancing, or at least I used to. I loved to move with the music. I loved the way my body felt and swayed. I loved the songs and the feeling of freedom I used to get. Of course, I used to be free. I was under 18, out until 4 a.m. and had my own car. My parents trusted me-and most of the time I was just out dancing. Not much to fear. OH, yeah, and they gave me an allowance, clothe, fed and sheltered me. All I had to do was go to school, which sometimes I did.
I’m talking dancing now, or at least, last night. Going out with friends and worrying if they will have a good time, because it was my suggestion. And I think it’s a blast, but they could be uninviting to the “happiness” bird, or the laugh bug, or the silliness cootie that you can catch, but really it catches you. Luckily, I wasn’t out with antiseptic types (they stayed home). And we relaxed and enjoyed.
And I am much larger now than I was in high school. Much. (More on that later, I’m sure.) And at first I felt self-conscious about dancing. It’d been ages. In fact, I hadn’t danced in this millennium. Not even in my underwear, knowing it doesn’t make me Madonna. I hadn’t felt loose or comfortable. And I started to dance and feel self-conscious (danger: poison to dancing well), but then I had a startling thought through my 80’s self-torture: I’m at a lowly club. A club (which shall remain nameless because currently I cannot afford a lengthy, expensive trial) that, in my uninformed but highly prejudiced opinion, only holds stupid people—losers, if you will—who only want to look cool, to see and to been seen, people I don’t have the time of day for. So who cares if they think I’m fat? Who cares if they think I can’t dance? Who cares about their opinion? --They go to (insert lowly club name here), for pity’s sake!
So last night, when friends came… not just acquaintances, I was ready. Except for the nervous, will we have a good time mantra (see above). And I got out there and boogied. And it was good.
And I was free. And even (male) friend got on the floor. And I was so happy. I clapped my hands and announced it (not that anyone could hear over the racket). And I realized that I had perfected my 80’s, bored, look far away glance, the I-could-stand-to-be-here-but-I’d-rather-be-there look. And he was looking at me. And making eye contact whenever I would allow him to. And I would see a flicker. My soul matching his. A longing, a connectivity. And I would have to look away. My eyes would skim away and I would force myself to look again. But I could feel myself falling and longing.
Background: I have fallen for this person no fewer than 3 times. 3 times! What is that? We have been friends a very long time. And he is a hard person to get to know. But he is sensitive and fantastic. And I feel a certain affinity toward him. Like we have kindred spirits. Anyway, it’s been a long time, and he (although quite dense) has never wanted to go forward, or so I gather. And all his chickee’s have been small, slender type girls. I’m not slender. I’m not small. And even if I were, I am not mousy. Let’s put it this way: I’m as big as life-I’m big in every way. Loud, rambunctious, obnoxious, annoying, I have a cackle when I laugh, and you could never, never not see me (although seems like some people try). Even if he wanted to take things further-we would be a disastrous couple. I would walk all over him. Not that I would want to, I just would. I would rail all over his feelings and he’d be miserable. He’s that sensitive.
So here I am dancing and I get the floaty, uncomfortable feeling that means—what does it mean? I am in danger of drowning in his eyes, and I keep forcing myself to look back at him, to meet his gaze (it only seems polite). And I can’t stand it. I smile, I look away. I swallow. I look around and come back. I get off the dance floor. Finally, after this ritual is repeated-my disquiet has me at breaking level. I feel giddy, I feel Stupid (yes, with capital “S”). I take off my glasses. And maybe that way, I cannot see into his soul when I look into his eyes. I go smoke a friend’s cigarette. I calm down, as he didn’t come. And the happiness subsides and so does the illness, but the antsy-ness remains.
And why is it so uncomfortable to not have pavement beneath your feet? Why is it sickening to not have something familiar to cling to (ahh, lovely puff of smoke)?
Why are we uncomfortable with joy, love, freedom? (How many times have you heard of someone who just became lost/sick after retirement, because they had no place to go everyday?) Do we just trudge along because we have OCD? Were we not taught to expect more? Did we need to be taught that? Or did we have “Expect Less!” drilled into our heads until it seeped into our souls? I return to reality, laugh at myself and thank goodness that I am myself again. Dull, boring, and sad. But comfortable.