I have to stop eating WHAT? - part 2 - and the decision to Hello Kitty

Since my last post, I've had 3 acupuncture sessions and done my VERY best to stay on the food diet Dr. Pins n' Needles put me on - sadist that she is.

The following is a list of foods I can no longer eat (at least for a while): no red meat, pork, dairy, animal fat, vegetable fat, wheat, chocolate, beer, wine, or alcohol of any kind. And NO SUGAR or foods with artificial flavors or colors.

It's a boring palate. Which explains why I fell from grace (moderately of course): 6 glasses of red wine, 3 margaritas, two beers, champagne, 2 glasses of white, a slice of pizza, feta on everything, a hot dog, fries (and gravy), a lemon cake, a bag of chocolate eggs and crab dipped in enough melted butter to worry all the pastry chefs in the world that there might be a shortage if I keep it up.

Oh dear...

What started as a perfectly acceptable short list (in the interest of denial) turned into an embarassingly detailed confession.

But that was only week 2. I was a saint for the first 10 days, I swear. I'll get back on track. And really, I have loads to celebrate. For one thing, I now own a cat.

Don't ask me why. I don't even know why.

It's possible I'm having a mid-life crisis and I'm replacing any dwindling ambition I might have with something fun and furry that will provide me with the perfect excuse not to burn the candle at both ends, (which I am apt to do) but I don't know for sure.

All I know is I woke up possessed one Sunday morning with the specific goal of coming home with a furry beast and then begged an unsuspecting accomplice to accompany me so I wouldn't change my mind.

Perhaps I simply wanted a non-human to teach me the long lost art of relaxation once and for all. And just for the record, I wasn't going to pick up any old stray. But whatever plans I originally had to drive up and down the streets of a sleepy suburb fell short when I realized catnapping was a federal offense.

No. I had to do this right. I would let the feline pick me.

Whatever stray liked me enough to follow me around and rub himself up against me was going to be swimming in Friskies for the rest of his (or her) life - as long as he wasn't too needy.

I was after all, still a commitaphobe and sharing my space without wanting to banish him to the hall or couch every night was going to take some deep breathing exercises and maybe a few Xanax.

But if no cat chose me, then I had my answer. I wasn't about to pick someone I had to support without some entertainment value or reciprocal cuddleability. I was prepared to stay single.

This had to be a mutual relationship.

And pick me, he did. What's more, he's a 'chill' cat. As a bonus, he's a social cat and likes everybody. And he could care less about toys, which means I don't have to entertain him.

Bonus.

If he wasn't a cat, I might have just described my perfect boyfriend.

His name is Rodin (after the French sculptor) but I call him Pumpkin. Which makes no sense because he's black and looks like a little panther and I don't think anyone who saw a panther in the wild would ever be inclined to call it 'Pumpkin'.

'Killer' maybe, or 'Zorro' but never 'Pumpkin'.

Nevertheless, he's 7. Which in people years, makes us about the same age. It's a match made in heaven. He wants to lay around on me all day long and I like the feeling of a hot water bottle.

What's more, he'd been living in the shelter for 4 years. His owner had to give him up because she was diagnosed with a terminal brain tumor. She was young, and with two small children still at home.

That story pretty much sealed it for me.

Anyway. Whatever possessed me to seek him out follows the same line of reasoning that is also possessing me when it comes to my health.

I think it has to do with being in the feel good stage of life. Whatever short (or long) term plan can improve the quality of my life is going to garner some serious attention whether it's a pet or a diet.

The same goes for choosing friends. Or Work. Even a partner.

Maybe, especially that.

Suffering is out of the question. I've done enough of that.

So for now, acupuncture it is. (And with it, the damn diet that in spite of my complaints, makes me feel ten years younger).

And of course, Hello Kitty.

I have to stop eating WHAT?! Part 1

My body is like a car that hasn't had an oil change in a VERY LONG TIME but runs just fine thank-you-very-much so "put that George Foreman grill back where it belongs pal"!

Yeah, you know what I'm talkin' about. And furthermore, you know who you are.

Most of those who dare to claim oil-change-diligence do so only AFTER they learned it the hard way.

Most people can think of at least one car they royally abused in their wanton youth.

The typical case involves a hormone-blinded pubescent, driven to neglect the maintenance needs of their vehicle (or God forbid, their mom's car) so they can use the cash they saved to buy enough gas, beer, and cigarettes to last the weekend and then drive all over town to pick up enough friends to break a Guiness world record.

Even the Diabetes Association won't pick up your red chevette after that.

ahem

The typical person treats their body the same way...

Except instead of saving money, it's more about being in denial - of your age, your mortality and most of all, the knowledge that you will have to devote some time (and give up some things) to maintain a status quo of general health.

But deny we do...

And just because no little light goes on to warn you it's time for an oil change, doesn't mean you don't need one.

Today, as I sat at my new acupuncturist's office, pen poised, ready to fill out my health complaint form I thought to myself;

You know I don't really need this appointment considering I've been going to the gym, but it did take me three months to get in, so I might as well follow through and write shit down. After all, I've got fifteen minutes to kill and this is going to take me all of FIVE - if I write slowly AND use good penmanship AND pause thoughtfully, AND use complete sentences.

sigh. WHATEVER. Quit your internal whining and just do it.

scribble scribble scribble.....pause....jot jot jot....pause.... jot some more.... feel beads of sweat begin to form... write more frantically..... aw to hell with my penmanship....! weep quietly.... completely and utterly defeated...

Twenty minutes later, I hear my name.

"Ms. Alexander, the doctor will see you now".

I look up at her with the same wild look a raccoon has when it's been caught eating garbage."But I don't have enough time! You people didn't give me ENOUGH TIME"!

She smiled at me sympathetically as if she'd seen all this before, then looked down at the illegible chicken scratch on my page.

What started out as elegant calligraphy turned into what looked like someone's last will and testament written by a gangrine-infested hand using a piece of charcoal while clinging to life on driftwood in the open sea.

"Don't worry, you can explain it all to the doc when you see her."

Or, I thought to myself, I could high tail it out that door right now and no one would be the wiser...

But like someone who knows they've gone too far, there was no turning back now.

Head hung low, I walked the green carpet to her office and sat patiently, reflecting on the bad deeds I had done....

If only I had changed the oil in my car...

The genius of Hugh Macleod

I recently read a quote by Tim Burton in a book by Hugh Macleod called Ignore Everybody - and 39 others keys to creativity. .

Burton said something to the effect of If you have the creative bug, it's never going to go away so you better get use to it and do something about it.

And if you've never read any creative or social truisms by Macleod, I suggest you check out his blog gapingvoid.com or buy one of his books.

Because anyone with a creative inclination is in the same boat. If you've EVER had the tiniest desire to create something, ANYTHING - be it a doodle, a crafty object, novel, painting, or an inventive leftover meal - you soon realize there's something addictive about the need to express yourself.

What's more, that feeling NEVER GOES AWAY no matter how much you ignore it or try and tell yourself that life would be easier if it just didn't matter.

Because the truth is, it does.

And even when you manage to leave it behind for a few days, weeks, months or even years, (like I did for sixteen years while I was in a very difficult marriage) it still finds its way back. Like a recurring zit. Or eczema. Or a recurring dream. Or winter in the 'Peg.

So for the last few days, (okay more like weeks), I've been what I call 'gearing up' for the big push where I get to put all my other obligations aside emotionally and devote my energy solely to my writing.

My golden child. The chalice of truth. My raison d'etre.

So much for balance. And yet, without it, I feel the scales tip towards a life of mediocrity and the stagnation that comes with adhering to the status quo.

But am I to assume that life will suddenly be on hold for me? At least long enough to get that one Jack Kerouac acid-induced spurt where I will spew out the entire contents of one novel in a single sitting? Or maybe I can do it on coke like King. (Except King could do it with or without drugs or alcohol, I'll give him that).

For me? I figure all I need is a little peace and quiet. A break from the guilt of parenting kids I really don't need to parent anymore but use as a crutch to excuse my lack of resolve. (Discipline I have. Habit, I do not).

Or if I just had a break from the emotional drain that comes with teaching (when really I've gotten pretty good at using all of my spare time during the day to hammer most of the work I need to do while I'm in the building).

But I don't want YOU to know that.

Or if I just had a little vacation first - say in BALI - then I could write the damn thing no problem because what I really am is burned out from years of responsibilities.

'Cuz I'm the only one with SO MANY of those.

(And what's more I don't want you to know that a couple of days at home watching the travel channel while doodling and drinking wine works just as well).

ahem

Then again, I might be feeling the fluctuations of motivation and self-pity because I'm hormonal. That's legitimate, but not insurmountable. And it's certainly not because I'm lacking any one thing on Maslow's hierarchy of basic needs (that being the only legitimate excuse to a suffocating creative output).

Nosirree.

It's high time I admit it. Creating comes with doing. And I'm not doing enough of it.

Sometimes there's a bit of foreplay. A precursor to the act. Legitimate planning if you will. Buying paints. Setting up a work station. Thinking about an idea born of inspiration until it becomes clear enough to work with... but none of the aforementioned activities takes very long.

Inspiration comes in an instant.

Certainly not weeks. Or even days.

So what's left?

Taking a good, hard, honest, no-holds-barred look at what I want - if I really want it badly enough that is - maybe every ounce of procrastination is really just a testament to my unconscious desire not to work at it?

Maybe just maybe it overrides my need to produce creatively.

Something. Anything.

But I know that's not true.

The question is, what am I willing to do about it...