We asked the electric Company

 

 

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Where did the power come from?

My teeth are not, after being reviewed, x-rayed, and cleaned by knowledgeable and pleasant dental technicians, broken beyond repair.  My gums are not garish, slit cherry compote studded with shards of dissolving antacids for teeth.  They look good.  They are not shocking, they do not cause onlookers to shriek out in fright.  I don’t have wisdom teeth to pull.

I did not have any sort of panic about the fact that I have just enough money to do this as part and parcel of the larger financial issues (that I did not cause and I cannot rectify until I leave my position), that I had to rush out of work in the middle of the day to check this.  That I had to get x-rays which always pulls my trigger.  I did not spaz out even though the route to the dentist’s office was all detours and delays.  It was, as it always is, more doable than it seemed at the outset.  This does give me a sense of peace I was not expecting to have this evening.

Another surprise was that as I continue to at least let my fingers brush over the MyFitnessPal app, I felt the need to weigh myself this morning.  I was quite surprised to see that according to that fickle beast, I have not gained any weight since my last weigh-in.  In fact, I’ve lost another pound so I’m down 15 lbs since January.  The sister noted that it’s probably due to the second job where I am on my feet quite a bit.  Frankly, I don’t know how this is possible.  But here it is.  And I am not going to cast it aside even if I’m not sure how to improve it at the moment.  It’s a piece of good news and I will rub it till it gleams.

I have decided not to work on my application tonight for the new job.  I’m too emotional, too scattershot, too in my own head about a few things and I’m liable to dash it off without thinking and I’m at the point where this particular job sounds like it’s a good thing and I’d like to give it my best shot rather than pretend I don’t care.   It will be okay not to get it, but it would also be very good if I had something stable, full-time and satisfactory money-wise to be shifting into.  Because right now, my brain is shifting even if it has nowhere to go.

Today was a good day, however, I am also really frustrated about the whole lesson I’m being given while being in this singles community, that if you’re not dating anyone, and you don’t immediately leap at the chance to date the person who knocks on your message box, well, you’re manipulating the situation to wait for someone better to come along.

It’s one thing if I were to be hanging out with you, complimenting you, building anything more than chatter, and also trying to flirt wildly with everyone else.  But I’m just here in the group and now I feel like I can’t even comment to anyone else or it’s like I’m saying I’m picking that dude.  When I’m not picking anyone! There’s nobody at the moment I want to pick! Pick for what? Ugh!

I suppose it does come down to saying, sorry, Charlie, you’re not the one for me.  Can’t some other girl just do me a solid and fall in love with him like has always happened in the past?  Come on geeky ladieeeesz.

Bastet

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Very interesting. I feel like the font changed on this thing – or this particular posting screen, as it seems there are several.  I don’t know why I like it, but I do.  Maybe it makes me feel more professional or erudite than I, or my topics, generally require.

So, my cousin/business coach + a strong macchiato (one of those artisanal, hand-roasted, coffee beans were psychically encouraged and played Mozart sort of places – only, you know, with a result that feels really worth the extraordinarily cheap price) meant I feel better.  This is also the coffee shop where I’ve been on two dates which also ended two amusing and somewhat fulfilling flirtations, so I think of it now as sort of an emotional bug-zapper.  I go there and feel big things – for better or worse.

She said if it were possible to set aside the anxiety about the money – could you look at this time like a gift?  After some hemming and hawing, I think, I think I might be able to do that.  I can buckle down and get something written beyond these posts.  I can do some work and get something out of this even if I didn’t choose it.   So, I guess, my plan for the first week is to just to feel that one out by making myself come home and use the afternoons for writing and, potentially, for sussing out a new job if that comes to be something I need to deal with.  She also gave me some ideas in that regard, too.

At this moment, for open projects, I have the novel that my sister and I are working on, my short story that I am doing for writers’ group/pleasure, my big novel of love and pain that has to eventually be finished, and now this whole weird collection of excerpts from this whole daily blogging adventure woven into some other essays I’ve written and other ideas I have about fear, anxiety, and where I am at and aiming for.   That one is obviously personal and the major block is I need to change enough to justify continuing it.  If that makes any sense at all.  I just feel like maybe there’s something I have to say that might be of value.  It’s weird.  Every time I want to throw that one out, I find a reason to keep plucking at it.

That’s a bit too much, really, and so I have to pick and choose and I constantly think I’m choosing the wrong thing and feel as though I’m cruelly neglecting the others.  Really, what I need is to finish something.  So I am forging ahead with whatever I can do when I can do it.

Maybe it’s the shot of caffeine, but I feel pretty creative and energetic right now.  And I still have one more day off, holy smokes!

Weight this morning indicated that I lost 1.8 lbs last week.  Okay.  So about 8 pounds in 8 weeks.  Okay.  Sure.  Well.  I am good with that. I don’t know what the next month or two of privations will mean, but this is a result of tracking on My Fitness Pal, fitting in exercise, eating much less, messing up, messing up again.  Just working on it.  Prioritizing it.  So.  Yeah. Let’s not count any chickens or any eighths of chickens.

But yep.  Onwards and inwards.

 

 

Happy Galentine’s Day

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Google search: Edward Somerset, 2nd Marquess of Worcester

Head-on collision with .4 pounds of imperfection.

You say you’re totally cool if the scale goes up.  You say that.  You say, you got this whole year to do this.  You feel, the night before, that you’re open to anything.  But then the scale goes up and the realities of now, the stress you’re under, the two nights of pizza in a row, the fact that you’re crossing the Red Sea are all forgotten.

God, I wanted in that moment to say what in the ever loving fuck is happening?   I have a plan.  The plan’s a pound a week and we can’t go backwards.  If I start to spin my wheels, I’ll give up! I always give up!

Which is true.  At the first instance of adversity, I feel as though stars aligned against me and that I may as well turn back.  Or that I’m rattling a safe and comfortable status quo (which I am) and that means I might feel something risky and new.  It’s 30 seconds on this platform and already I question the whole concept of tracking.  Suddenly, everything becomes unknowable.  Everything I’m doing feels loosey-goosey, without authority, as you like it.  Not this confirmable, one to one match with a plan outlined by God, put only this much in your mouth and run until you gasp and then, and only then will I, the god of belly fat, withdraw, mathematically, your pudgy stomach.

I want the failure to be clear as day.  (If it is a failure, it IS clear. It’s the two pizzas and the Blood Moon, and a couple apathetic exercise days.  I just don’t want those things to add up to failure, maybe?) And they don’t.  Maybe I built some muscles? But the “failure” also includes the success of having tracked those pizzas, having gotten on the bike and moved my body to the point of dancing yesterday, of having done twice as many situps, eating a 1000 times less than I would have at the Galentine’s Day party today because I was aware of what was going into my gob.

I am building those kind of habits.  That’s pretty great.

I wasn’t planning to stop.  I am not planning to stop.  But of course, I never PLAN to stop.  I never hit these moments of adversity and say, OH NO, I CANNOT! and throw a white flag.  It’s tiny, tiny slides.  It’s saying, I will start fresh tomorrow rather than I start fresh now.   It’s saying, I’ll just have this calorie-laden thing because it’s too much to handle right now. It’s saying, I’ll just guesstimate on MFP, because it’s too embarrassing to put down what I know I actually put in my mouth.

So I don’t know, precisement, how many calories are in the mimosa I drank or what the single cream cheese spinach wrapped thing contained, but I know enough to guess at it.  I can get pretty close.  I can do something more than nothing.  I can exercise through these cramps.

The party was nice.  Very nice to talk to a couple old friends and see them in a context free of the entanglements it used to have with work. Already there are pictures up on Facebook and I find myself having to settle myself down and say it’s okay to post this on your timeline.  No need to act like you weren’t there in the body you have.
Talking to my mentor, equally, but differently nice.  Feeling someone’s interest in my life without having to explain anything.

My feet feel about 50% better, too.  My driving panic  was held at bay, even going so far to try and reclaim a road this morning.  It helps with the time of the year, this deep dark shadow that wants me to lay down, very still, and wait for the last morning.  Valentine’s Day and the long rope it can go piss up.

I just feel real talkative about it all.  It’s early enough, the money is going to work out for Tuesday, I got done what needed to be got done and there’s some real time to relax.  So.  Yes. Yes.  Yes.

Come on, belly, let’s have another day of dancing.

The Dollop

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If I could bottle a Saturday night feeling into a bottle, I’d be the richest woman the world over.  Of course, that’s probably what you’d call a good buzz but I think there’s a bit of nuance to be had here.

A Saturday night feeling is uniquely secure.  It’s this moment by moment reassurance that you get one more sleepy morning, one more day of being a private wreck, one more day where the air can get you because you’re not platen over with masks and personae and fakery.  One more day to walk around with your heart unbuttoned.

I checked the scale this morning and it suggested on the first go and with minor verification that I had lost 2 pounds this week.  This adds up to five pounds lost for a girl who has had a fair amount of pizza in her last five weeks of dieting.   That’s…exciting.  It is not, of course, so exciting that it feels worthy of some sort of food-based reward.  It is not so great, five pounds, that I want to start trumpeting “I have this new perfect diet plan – eat pizza and lose weight!”

Instead, it feels, really precarious and odd.  Like I must have goofed up somewhere.  I’ve been reading a few different MyFitnessPal threads and articles.  Getting ideas like what can I eat to get more potassium (which I apparently care about when they show it at 21% in red) and then, of course, reading things that suggest maybe I should allow myself more food.  More calories, anyway.

And immediately, my brain starts to glom onto that.  I hear devilish little purrs in my ear.   This means a bit more butter, a bit more popcorn, a bit more cream.  This means you could eat, really, whatever.  You don’t want be to starving yourself…restricting TOO much…you don’t want to set up a new bad relationship with food.

Ugh, of course I don’t want any of that.  But I also don’t want to suddenly not know what the hell is happening and where the deep end of the pool is.

I know that I get so terrified of breaking the rules I end up blowing them off spectacularly when I set a toe outside the line.  In for a penny, in for a pound cake.  It’s odd that this is working.  I feel…fed. It’s 1200-1400 calories and then I try and exercise back my overage.   Right now, I feel a bit hungry, and I’m trying to attend to that as it crops up by tracking first, but it’s almost 11p.m. and I can probably just get some sleep and eat in morning.

I don’t know.  This is a lot of minutiae cluttering my mind on a first benchmark reached celebratory sort of day.  It’s, in its own way, resistance.  It’s a desire for perfection even in struggle.  The worry that maybe I can’t lose 2 pounds next week again.  The worry that everything is fluky and I’m going to suddenly have that weight back.  The idea that I want to succeed at this whole year-long process so well that I can get it done in a week or a month.  That sense that I need to do what is right and what works and what is documented and hit those marks and then I can forget all of it.  The fear that I am losing weight – at some level, at some pace – and if it continues, I will lose control of it, but more than that, I won’t have it lurking as this unchecked to-do.  That it wouldn’t be an excuse.  That it would free me and that freedom is downright petrifying.

None of this matters at all.

I am not changing tactics until the tactics don’t work or I find myself unable to follow them out of excessive, uncomfortable hunger.  The rest is just me trying to build a case to get out of doing this and the court is not hearing that case.  We’re not letting that one get to trial.

AND LIVE FROM MY BEDROOM, IT’S SATURDAY NIIIIIGHT!

 

Merry as a Grig

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I know I need to write on the novel.  I do, I do, I do, or at the very least start editing a few other things, having some word fun.  The Faithful Light (i.e. the very cleverest, most loyal part of my inner eye that watches all and guides towards higher ground) said today that it is only doing the work that will save you, not the dreaming of doing the work.

So I heard her, but I have applied it in a different arena today and have tracked food, eaten a little that felt like a lot (still have room for some ice cream, caffeinated ice cream which I don’t need), and have done a little in-home cardio for 30 minutes rather than the baseline 10.  Also, it appears that I have nearly (.8) lost the first pound of the however many I end up losing and leaving lost.  Almost wish it was frameable and could be stuck on the wall to remind me.

But it’s not even a whole dollar’s worth of a pound yet.  And who can say what my body will do as I collar it and yank it around the exercise pen.  There’s always push-back.  There’s always stress headaches and skipping food and long days rather than three day weekends and food cooked for you to fuck it up.  It will happen.  But today, today was grand for its clarity.  Also washed all the pots and pans and watched a bit of The Tribe, so I feel well sated for intentional living.

As shitty as yesterday was, we boomerang around to feeling alright.  Thinking about my birthday coming up.  Happy about it, actually, because I’m both working on myself so I’m not Queen of the Slugs, and because I’m free to enjoy it.  Actually enjoy it and not have to consider how much I have to pinch and cut to make it “justified,” or insisting that I was going to throw caution to the wind and just gorge myself.  Now, it’s just going to be a nice day and I’ll read on it and write on it and dance on it and sing on it and possibly cry and mope on it and it won’t be catastrophe.

So long as I get my dutch oven.

Alright.

2102

+300 story words.

 

Lust-Cult

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Learning about when British women could get drinks from a pub.  The answer is currently unclear.  Probably never.  This may mean I need to rewrite something.  Not sure.  Displeased by historical accuracies.

Feeling like a beast that skulks the frozen wastes at the same time I feel like Betty Homemaker, skulking the frozen internet for Huevos Rancheros recipes that have calorie counts.  Fuck, sometimes I am over myself.  I find myself annoyed by every possible direction my brain wants to run out of this briar patch.  Language is failing me.

It is a nice impulse to cry.  To reach towards a catharsis rather than shrug it off.   There’s been such death, such dark spectres, the feeling of winter if not the weather hanging low and close to me of late.  Enough that I want to throw everything out the airlock and, not even start fresh…not even start anything until I can know for certain it won’t curdle under my attentions.

I can work my way out of this.  Might just have to get on the bike.  Those ten minutes are nothing, probably, if you’re asking for giant weight loss leaps, but they are, also, precious.  Vital and restorative. Every time I haul myself up on the seat, I am proving that I can do more than nothing.  Something more than sitting in my own despair and circular thinking.

Today – I noticed – and I only noticed because I was tracking that I ordered way less than I normally do from Panera and I felt more full than I usually do.   I also figured out that the low-fat mango smoothie I like is so goddamned sugary that it should be illegal.  At least in terms of what I’m trying to watch.  And that a clementine is often sufficient dessert for me.   They’re perfectly ripe right now, as good as any candy.  I used to hate it when people would say that, but it’s true.  All I wanted to be able to do was track and I’m doing that!

Alright.  Endorphins are bubbling up.  I’ve been amused by a few clever people on the internet.  I’ve gathered a bit of a sense of my own reckless frustration not getting me anywhere and I do, actually, want to go so somewhere.  Breathe, the Faithful Light tells me. Now that I have stopped banging pots and screaming, I can hear her clearly.  It is not horror! to have a dental appointment in a month.  It is not DEVASTATION to have to re-write this scene in one way or another – I’m smart enough to figure that one out.  It is not the deepest, most seismic desolation that will cause me to evolve.  It is the tiniest of the tiny earthquakes.  You don’t even feel the shift, but you keep shaking.

Okay.  Okay.  Enough.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll stop, but I haven’t stopped today.

….

No more rhapsody.  It was funny.  The fact the boss called me to laugh that she had figured out why the skin on her feet was so dry.  The creepy delight I am taking in a Twitter joke and some YouTube videos.  Eddie Izzard.  You laugh or you revert into the primordial muck.

 

Fumbling Towards Adequacy

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Green grass is not that far away.  I hope we pay attention to the turn towards spring when it comes.  You only get so many Johnny Jump-Ups in your life.  So much verbena and stargazer lillies and clematis vines.  You only get so many January 12ths, as a matter of fact.  And I can’t piss and moan too much because I can wear tights and wander the streets and it’s still the dead of Winter.

I am distracted, as I have to write something romantical for the novel, or something at all for writing group which I am finally returning to.   That feels a little eerie, having left it to manage on its own and now turning up again. Mostly the displeasurable thoughts linger around driving, which is stupid, but they linger so we acknowledge them and go the fuck on anyway.  I need to write or read, and so I find myself here, fumbling towards ecstasy.  Or just adequacy.

Watching more David Bowie interviews, including one about the Internet where he seemed particularly prescient and engaging.   It’s just sad.  A lonely sadness that has to be held and batted about, encouraged, before it can fly away.

On much more physical terms, there’s something oddly pleasing about having the period-tracking app Clue notify you that “You appear to be late” (I am paraphrasing. I don’t think they accuse you, the period-haver, of any particular failing) as it has decided it thinks I need to bleed (like a modern day witch-doctor appraises you for a good leeching) and a few hours later, be able to spit in its metaphorical eye.  Yes, I press into the screen, my endometrial fluid is punctual as fuck, so don’t go around second-guessing it.

The State of the Union.  In another heavy lump on the pile of things that will no longer be, I thought it was really a nice speech.  We still have the year left, but it’s sad and exhilarating to realize that we were given eight years of a President of such intelligence and good intent.  Who knows what the future will bring – aside from

Exercise.  It’s going well, in that it is going.  It’s strange to be able to do the same ten situps and feel like it is simpler to do them.  Less fight, both in the doing and in the willingness to do them.  It has the ease of muscle memorization, a motion down by rote.  Not so well-known and practiced that it isn’t a challenge, I just find my body able to assume the position, ahem, without fussing and mewling and rationalizing skipping a day.  I have taken away the question of whether or not I will do it and that seems to make all the difference.  I don’t think this means I have lost weight, or even if I will, but I am alert now to why it could never possibly work before.  That pizza I love, that fills my stomach so well, that I could eat day in and out – 800 calories.  Meant for two people.  After 12 days of trying to pay attention, it’s harder to eat as much, and it’s easier to stop myself.

I have this whole other thing to say, but I am tired and done and those both mean I should stop.