Pleasure Notes

by aphotoshooter/flickr

I’ve been very silent for the past week or so, both online and off. I don’t know what it’s about, really. I simply get hit by a wave of exhaustion when I think about… thinking, much less talking or writing. I’d love to blame it on the June Gloom that descends upon Los Angeles at this time of year, or an incredibly busy schedule, or an epic natural disaster but, alas, none of those hold up to scrutiny, or even a side glance. And since I have no idea what’s causing this current phase of misanthropy, I’m not sure what to do to get out of it. Which is why I’m now purging on the page.

Not that I’m expecting you to sift through my bile or trudge along as I write myself out of the vagueness– or actually, that’s exactly what I’m asking of you.

If you’ve been around here a bit, you know that I spent most of 2009 in tears. The tears stopped in 2010 and I thought:

WHOOPPEE!
I’m done.
I never have to feel sad again.
Everything will now fall magically into place.
I deserve a fairytale ending, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!
Oh, and look, there’s some chocolate.
Let me eat THAT for breakfast, lunch AND dinner…

And down the rabbit hole I went…

Have I ever mentioned that I use food like others use alcohol or heroine? Not in the recreational use kind of way, no. That wouldn’t be so bad. In fact, there’s a twisted sexiness to that use of addictive substances. Or at least I’d be skinnier.

But no.

Instead I (choose?) to use food because I frequently feel like my head screams a version of the following:

CHECK ME OUT OF THIS EMOTION THING NOW – I DON’T LIKE IT -  I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’M DOING – WHAT AM I DOING – MY LIFE IS UNMANAGEABLE – OH MY GOD THE DISHES ARE DIRTY AGAIN – WHERE IS THE GODDAMN KNIGHT IN SHINING ARMOUR – THERE’S MOLD IN MY BATHROOM – HOW DOES EVERYONE ELSE KNOW HOW TO NAVIGATE EXISTENCE – WHY AM I NOT FAMOUS AND BEING FED SEEDLESS GREEN GRAPES – I WILL BE A SINGLE, CAT LADY FOREVER – I AM MORE PATHETIC THAN THE ROTTING TURD ON A DEAD CORPSE IN THE RAIN – THE WORLD IS FULL OF IDIOTS – EVERYTHING WOULD BE BETTER IF I CONTROLLED THE WORLD – PLEASE DON’T MAKE ME MAKE A DECISION – MY BRAIN IS A HAMSTER WHEEL SPINNING SPINNING SPINNING – PLEASE STOP AND SHUT THE FUCK UP NOW

Consistent consumption of food has worked better than any Bose silencing headphones to reduce the chatter. Of course, it also silences everything else. Not so good.

There’s a saying in 12 Step rooms that you know if someone is an addict when she calls 9-1-1 after breaking a nail. I wish I could say that was an exaggeration.

Laundry piles defeat me. Dirty tubs defeat me. Wardrobe decisions defeat me. People defeat me.

I’ve been known to binge on snap peas, for crap-sake.

About seven years ago, I got help. I was tired of avoiding birthday parties because of an overwhelming sense that I would ruin the event by showing up and being fat. I hated the shame of broken promises to myself about things I would or wouldn’t eat, activities I would or wouldn’t do. I’d started hiding food even when no one was around from whom I needed to hide anything. I was done with feeling entirely hopeless and helpless.

Then, things got better. So very, very much better.

But now, I find myself once again looking at invitations with dread, breaking promises to myself, not showing up for others in the ways I wish. I am a turtle shrinking into my shell.

by littleREDelf / flickr

This is familiar terrain on which I tread, but I have NO INTEREST in taking routes already walked.

My heart is that of an explorer.

So I’m lifting up my machete, with this purge of words, and stepping into the wilderness once again. I’m scared and uncomfortable and already doubting the sense of leaving behind the comfort of isolation and silence.

BREATHE DEEP. Off I go…

by hurleygurley/flickr

I’ve been acutely aware each day, for the past few, that I haven’t written anything in this space. Since the inception of Pleasure Notes, I’ve only succeeded in creating daily ramblings during one month, despite my continued desire to write every day. I don’t beat myself up over the gap between desire and reality in this regard, or at least not usually. But for some reason, it’s currently driving me crazy. Perhaps it’s because I’ve committed to 21 5 800 and I believe that the community created by challenges is best served when the participation is public. It could also be that I love this space so much, and the creative outlet it provides is such a highlight in my life at the moment, that I’m uber-aware of my own absence. When I do show up here, however, I like to at least strive for coherency. And there’s the rub.

by Sabrina Campagna/flickr

At the moment, my thoughts are so jumbled that I’m more likely to land on the moon by day’s end than find any degree of coherency in my mind. Poor brain.

***

As I mentioned, I now resemble Uncle Jeb’s third cousin once removed because of some dental hi-jinx. It seems that was not horror enough. Over the weekend, I momentarily forgot that bed posts are solid and decide to slam my toe into one, leaving me crippled for a day and contemplating x-rays and crutches. Yesterday, my thumb suddenly decided to lay siege to the poorly defended carpal tunnel. And in a mysterious turn of events that has nothing to do with the increased availability of mini soy ice cream sandwiches at my local Trader Joe’s, I have added a new tire to my Michelin-envying waist.

by NuageDeNuit/flickr

My body has betrayed me and now I will never be cast in the remake of Catwoman!

***

I fear that I am THIS CLOSE to becoming a shut-in, and I blame it all on my furry feline friend, Bella. I grew up with dogs. I also grew up ridiculing people who owned cats. Now, I have one. What’s worse?

Eating cat hair with every meal, and finding it woven through every piece of fabric that has ever entered my home, no longer fazes me.

by exper/flickr

Also, the torrid, entangled affair that cat hair and dust bunnies seem to be carrying on in every nook and cranny of my truly humble abode is downright unseemly, and it is for this reason alone that I’m leaving them untouched.

One benefit of maintaining this level of filth love on all surfaces is that, like fog, it reflects light in interesting and unusual ways. I can pretend I have a floor covered in disco balls.

***

I should be pregnant. I already have the silhouette. I’m hungry all the time but NOTHING IS SATISFYING, not even chocolate. My boobs have enough storage space to hold milk for quintuplets, at least, and are in dire need of something to restore them to gravity-defying plumpness.

by Pikaluk/flickr

Of course, there is the prerequisite of sex, and I’d have more luck finding a cow to tip on the streets of Los Angeles than engaging in that 3-letter word at the moment.

***

I would have made a great heiress.

***

I will never be an Olympic gymnast. Damn you, Nadia, for putting the idea in my head!

***

Why do I love office supplies and kitchen utensils so much when my fondness for offices and kitchens is so tepid?

***

Will I ever have a coherent thought again?

by vaXzine/flickr

Welcome to my world. How are things looking in yours?

by Jean Baptiste Mondino

It has been raining for 40 days and 40 nights 6 days straight, so you will now have front seats to my complete unravelling. First, I start staring out the window in mid-conversation and try to count how many raindrops have hit the pavement. Then, I sink into the couch and engage in lengthy discourse with my cat. If the sun hasn’t made an appearance by then, my brain casts itself as a whirling Dervish and I am overcome by an urge to cut things up into little pieces. It is moments like this when I praise the farmers of the world for providing me bountiful heads of lettuce, brussel sprouts and zucchini. I drift into my kitchen and I begin chopping.

Blades THUNK into wood.

Green bits ferociously FLY.

My cat HIDES under the bed.

So therapeutic.

And I’m left with a finely minced vegetable medley. Nothing wrong with that.

What do you do to stave off the straight-jacket?

p.s. Check out Jean Baptiste Mondino’s work. Aside from the shot above, Slim Ladies No. 1 is my favorite of his photos.

Slim Ladies No. 1 by Jean Baptiste Mondino

Image via EatReadLive

This is the month I’m supposed to be writing every day, and in case anyone was keeping count, I’m four posts behind and it isn’t even mid-month. I have a legitimate excuse, I swear. I have been moaning and groaning and wanting to chop my head off but with too little energy to crawl to the kitchen and find a meat cleaver… Yes, I have the flu, or a cold, or something. I don’t think it has anything to do with pigs, but it has laid me up but good. So, I promise I’ll double up a few days to make up those four posts because, well, I get hung up on details and I did promise 30 posts in 30 days. But right now, I’m going back to bed. xo

At First Blush

All that glitters may not be gold, but it sure catches my attention, and that gets me into trouble. Not the kind that has me trying to accessorize a pantsuit in Sing-Sing. The emotional kind. The kind of trouble that translates into envy, resentment and debt.

I have a pretty amazing life – phenomenal friends, supportive family, engaging employment, comfortable home, adequate health. A sane person could be completely content with that. Hell, I should be completely content with that. However, here’s where my crazy head comes into play. Well, my crazy head and In Style.

You see, the depth and beauty of my life can’t be summed up in a glossy three-sentence bio. It requires inspection to fully appreciate. It isn’t flashy. It doesn’t inspire people to gasp in awe. It doesn’t support many paparazzi moments. i don’t frequent a different restaurant’s soft-opening every night. I can’t tell the brand of a pair of jeans based on its pocket stitching. The glamour quotient is decidedly low.

But I live in L.A., the epicenter of all things glittery and glamourous. This city supplies the tabloids and guilty-pleasure magazines with endless fodder. That fodder is like quicksand. It sucks you in. Or it sucks me in, at least. It is so easy for me to get distracted into thinking that I’m missing out on… something. There are so many restaurants, clubs, bars, openings, events, festivals, and moments that I don’t get to, don’t hear about, or can’t afford. At first blush, those missed opportunities seem so significant.

An emailed Urban Daddy update about the newest Hollywood Hot Spot has me lamenting my life instead of celebrating it. Catching sight of a friend’s new Jimmy Choo peep-toes has me resenting the width of my feet and the size of my bank account. Idling next to a fabulously phallic roadster has me plucking at my fabric-covered car seats. It is pure insanity.

The best medicine to counteract the crazy – aside from meditation, gratitude and a slap upside the head – is an occasional taste of what I erroneously think I want. Dining at a super-trendy, high-end restaurant. Schmoozing at a Joel Madden-DJ’d shindig. Sipping a pepper-infused cocktail in a crowd of men and women who don’t seem to understand the purpose of clothing. It always gives me a horrible case of indigestion.

It makes my life, as it is, look exceedingly rosy.