Caterwauling

No weight loss this week. Small gain. I was surprised. Like, I ate less this week than I normally do. The hell, man?

I noticed on two days that I didn’t drive all the way out to hell’s gate that I didn’t drink my usual ocean of water. I wonder if that made the difference.

I tried not to get too down about it — after all, I’m finding more things in my closet that fit so yay non-scale victory. But then I went to Kohl’s and found OMG THE PERFECT DRESS. And it FIT.

But I didn’t buy it.

Problem was, something ain’t right about me. And that’s been worrisome.

I guess when you’re a pudgy pork roast ass overall, you don’t zero in on your flaws because you’ve got so many of them. Like, when I was younger, I’d sit in the mirror for HOURS and obsess over earlobes and eyebrows and other silly things. But once you get fluffy, nobody’s looking at the fact that you have one green eye and one hazel eye. Or anything else.

So this dress was in my favorite color combination of cobalt blue and black. and it was a wrap dress. Also my favorite style.

But apparently fat rolls really aren’t like the rings of Saturn or else they’d dissipate evenly. I have a waist on one side of my body and a fat roll on the other side. I don’t get it at all. My spine seems to be straight and my hipbones feel like they’re in the right place.

So, terrific. Hello weird fat roll on my right-hand side. Maybe you could go reinflate the right boob a bit since it seems to have deflated quicker than the left one in this particular weight-loss odyssey?

The small gain didn’t bug me. But feeling kind of freakish totally is.

I remember Roseanne Barr (Arnold?) complaining two decades ago about losing weight. She said you have to gain weight again to pound out all the stretch marks. Me, I have to have even fat rolls instead of one swimming wing and one normal side of my waist!

I was just fast-blinking after receiving a personal-ad message that reads:

“Are you shy? You never responded to my e-mail (I can see that you read it) and I see that you viewed my profile.”

You know, this whole thing is about sparks, which I clearly did not feel. I don’t feel those altogether too often and it usually takes some alcohol for that phenomenon to become possible, anyway.

I give the guy credit for trying to land the deal. But the hell, man? Clearly I didn’t like what I saw. That and he lives on the other side of the state. I don’t have time to see people who live down the street. I ain’t driving my ass to Tampa when I could be disappointed locally!

“Now I’m off to the races, laces
Leather on my waist is tight and I am fallin’ down
I can see your face is shameless, Cipriani’s basement
Love you but I’m going down
God I’m so crazy, baby, I’m sorry that I’m misbehaving
I’m your little harlot, starlet, Queen of Coney Island
Raising hell all over town
Sorry ’bout it.”

— Lana Del Rey, “Off to the Races”

I’m obsessed with Lana Del Rey right now, and this song in particular. As if I needed a new theme song.

I got to thinking on the long drive home about “50 Shades of Grey.” Or as Mom says my book will be, “50 Shades of Rage.”

Anyway, I haven’t read the trilogy. I want to. I guess. It’s just that I was writing this shit when I was a teenager and I hate it that someone else is getting rich off of my storylines.

My deal was that I put the books down so I could get some life experience. And I wish I were getting more.

Anyway, on the drive, I realized I had a Christian Grey of sorts. Not Chris Hemsworth hot. But, you know, someone who got to me.

I find that I have the most fun when I’m not emotionally involved. Detachment apparently makes me more desirable. And I think that absolute lack of pressure helps me to enjoy a heightened sense of pleasure from every moment.

So I got to thinking about this wild affair, sneaking all over town and hooking up in theaters and museums and all kinds of other exhilarating (for me) places. Which, he was no dummy. He planned that shit. He knew what would do it for me.

What ended it was the usual — me running away. Not that I had reasons to stay, really. But I just couldn’t do what he was asking.

No, not those kinds of things. I’m pretty … ah, agreeable. I mean, like really raw, vulnerable, intimate things. Everyday things. Things you do effortlessly without people watching.

I’m not so good with that. I … just can’t even talk about it.

Recently I let one of my boys actually touch my hair. Twice. It was maddening, in a way, because I don’t let anybody near my hair. The trust it took, he’ll never actually know.

Even though it was a friend and we were just talking, I was hyper-aware that anything resembling having someone in my space without a cocktail or an agenda is relatively unchartered territory.

Anyway, Christian Grey. Maybe I need to look into this “reading something other than the Wall Street Journal” thing. All work and no play has made Goddess a bit of a dullard, even if she has an emerging market that needs to be tapped.

Hmm. New headline for my Match profile?

“I fell for a dream; it was not what it seemed
By the time I woke up I had lost everything
Thought I’d die without you but I came to life without you

Yeah cause God has a way of working things out
If not for the music where would I be now
I’m gonna write about you
You bet I’m gonna write about you

Despite the obvious mistake
Thanks to you, I’ve got so much to say.”

— Connie Britton, “The Best Songs Come from Broken Hearts”

If I have ever struck you as the type of girl who gets overly nuts over a guy and can’t function because of his stupid shit, let me assure you that they know where the door is. And only on rare occasion have I been stupid enough to block it.

Yet one came to mind today as I had a mild anxiety attack about something else. And I remembered just not being able to breathe when it came to this situation.

I tend to pity girls who think every guy is going to hurt them because the last one was such a royal shit. After all, you can live without relationships. Jobs are another matter. Save your tears for lost income when those things don’t work out. Trust me on this.

Alas, every once in a while, a situation gets so far under my skin that the only thing you can do is scratch till it bleeds.

That’s the thing about an itch. You can scratch it and feel like you’re able to DO something.

But when you’ve raked your fingernails over it enough times and the patch of skin is destroyed, some of us find that’s our only freedom. When it’s out of our hands and we have to let it go because touching it is only going to send us through the roof.

I’m usually an “out of your hands” girl. It’s in God’s, I say. You want to cheat? Me being more of one quality or less of another quality isn’t going to change that. You’re bored? Guess what, if you asked, I’d probably say “Me too!” and mean it. You’re overwhelmed because I was a little drunk one night and looked at you a certain way? Trust me, I would have stabbed myself had I known I was going to feel something for three seconds out of my life and have you witness it.

(Oh, the stories behind each example here …)

And I will admit to having High Anxiety about Something in the not-too-distant past.

Because, there’s always something I think I should be doing more or less of. Even when there isn’t. Even when my heart may have taken a hike anyway. I found myself worrying about my World Crashing Down and not doing a damn thing to save myself from the wreckage.

And it occurred to me, as it does during these infrequent but memorable episodes, if you are SO worried about something terrible happening … if you haven’t protected yourself enough that you can’t recover from the (probably meager) amount of faith you’ve put into someone … what the hell are you doing there, sister?

I like to figure I’m kind, I’m generous, I’m loyal and I’m “all in” when I’m in. But just once, I really want to see the same and not question it from now till Doomsday.

They say relationships don’t work out for three reasons: kids, money or trust issues. And someone recently said to me that “we” (I’m thinking that means “I”) must work on my trust issues. But then Shit Happens that proves me right.

I’m not one of those girls who always has to be right, you know. Given how much thinking I do and how much pain is behind every decision and action, I’d give anything to be proven wrong.

Anything.

So what was the outcome, you ask?

There will be a book about it. One day. I can promise you that. …

Someone posed the question at my meeting yesterday: “Why do we immediately reach for food to feel happy? Why can’t we, I dunno, fill the void with bird-watching or something?”

An older lady in the back said, “I grew up in an Italian family, where food is love. When people are feeding you, and in turn when you are feeding others, it is an Event, where love is shared.”

And another lady said, “Feeding my kids was the only time we had the family together. I looked forward to every meal, every single day. I miss those times. But I have them back when I have food.”

I could have contributed, but I kind of make it a point not to talk during these meetings. Because I want to soak up everything I can from these people.

I grew up in a poor family. Two-bedroom rowhouse in the projects just outside Pittsburgh. Great-grandmother, grandmother, grandfather, mom and usually a wayward cousin with a kid. And whatever friend of my mom’s was in need of a hot meal. And my great-aunt and her daughter, too, were frequent guests.

All on my grandfather’s meager military pension. And my grandfather happily did without everything he ever needed to make sure his girls ate well and had a roof over our heads.

My grandmother is Italian and while I used to make fun of her cooking, I miss it. She could feed seven of us for pennies. Her “gravy” (red sauce, for those of you non-Italians) was the best in the country. Mom makes an incredible version herself and keeps the Italian side of our family alive. (It will die with her — I have no interest in cooking, unfortunately.)

Gram used to do roasts and “shit on the shingles” and other things that would make us all feel full. As I got older and saw how rich my friends were, I turned up my nose at pretty much everything. I hated being poor and I hated feeling poor. That my friends’ parents would spend $20 on a pizza (back in the ’80s) boggled my mind.

To this day, my mom cooks on a shoestring budget. It helps. We do big dinners out though, so it’s nice to have the balance between the cheap and the — well, I wouldn’t say lavish, but I’ll say the “full dining experience.”

And I will tell you, Mom does it better than any restaurant. Cheaper, healthier and I think more creatively, too.

We always joked that she makes my food with love. It is always the No. 1 ingredient. Even when she thinks dinner is a flop, she tried her best to make it special.

We get on each other’s nerves a lot. She’s very sickly and getting worse and frankly weakness frustrates me. Because I have to be the strong one. I have to keep the job or we’re out on the streets. I have to buy all the groceries and fix all the things and carry everything, physically and mentally.

Basically I can’t wear out. And when I do, the edges start to fray and guess who gets the brunt of it. Yes, poor mom.

But then, food. We get a nice dinner in front of us and everything changes in an instant. No tension, no scrapping, no anything but savoring every bite, every moment.

Food transforms.

So it’s only natural to want extra portions, or extra courses, or to eat more frequently. Food becomes the most-important thing, not the petty crap that can be put on hold and eventually forgotten.

So naturally it’s easy to get fat when we seek love and food is the fastest way to get it.

I hit a little milestone this week on the scale, getting below a point that’s been a bit of resistance for me. Mostly because that’s the area when I go down a bra size (sigh). But I figure I can get plastic surgery to fix that problem right up so down we go.

I still have about 20 pounds to go to hit my all-time low weight. Which for many is still too much, but this isn’t their journey. I gave up there for various reasons, not the least of which that I have a wonderful wardrobe that fits me at that weight.

That, and the way I got there was by giving up love of every kind, food and otherwise. This time, I’m hoping more love in my diet, food and otherwise, will be what gets me back there.

I just hope I can continue being gentle and forgiving with myself in the meantime, and continuing to find love in lower-calorie places.

Down 2 pounds this week. If I can just take off another three, I’ll be at my 10% goal.

I was due for my “good” week on the scale, so I’m glad for the loss. I’ve been in such a weird mood all week that it was going to be a toss-up.

Like, I always stay within my points. But my stress level always determines the weight outcome. When I’m stressed, I gain. But apparently now when I’m apathetic and out-of-it, I lose. Go, me.

One of my friends at work came over on Thursday to give me a hug and to say congratulations on my anniversary. And she said the swear word: vacation. As in, whatever happened with it.

I said our colleague who told me I’m not special really put a dent in my morale. And that my boss promises to make it up to me somehow.

This week I haven’t done anything special. I worked at a normal capacity. And I’m so far behind, it isn’t funny. This company counts on me to bust my ass. When I don’t, sure I’m the only one who suffers. But I’m going to be suffering next week because I was too sad this week to know that I’m not special there.

She said she understands, that she busts her butt and there is no special dispensation or acknowledgment of it.

And it occurred to me.

EVERYBODY THINKS THEY’RE SPECIAL.

That’s why you can’t treat the special as actually being special. Because everyone else is either sacrificing as much as they can, or they think they are.

So when you put somebody truly extraordinary next to them, they don’t even realize it.

WHAT A REVELATION.

Makes me think of my 12th-grade A.P. literature teacher who told us all point-blank, “You’re not special.”

Words to live by. Especially when everyone has their own definition of it. Maybe there are truly extraordinary people who look at me like, pfft, who do you think you are?

At least I’ll always be goddess of my own world.

My line of work is good for those of us who don’t have extended family or friends. That’s because, in my particular role, you’re den mother/warden/cat wrangler/therapist/fluffer/bodyguard to the anchor creatures on your own personal Island of Misfit Toys.

In other words, “Other Duties as Assigned” IS my job description.

I learned from a dear friend and one of my top 3 favorite colleagues of all time that one of our boys passed away this week. And given that he’s probably only about 10 or so years older than me, it’s made me sadder than usual when these sorts of things happen.

Everyone always says that I do well with the weird ones … the stranger they are, the more I understand them and can get the best out of them. I like to think it’s a compliment but I never can tell with the people I meet these days.

I figure, we’re all broken and recovering from something. We all find our ways to cope. Or we embrace our inner goofball and make a character or a career out of it. I don’t care. If I find a good heart beneath all of it, then I commit to enjoying the experience.

Anyway, RIP J.L. You were such a life force, and you seemed like you enjoyed the stuffing out of every day you were here.

You were difficult and defiant and you wanted everything your way. So the fact that you trusted me and helped me to help you means that I must have gotten through to you on a deeper level, too.

I know we haven’t talked in a while but you were always someone special to me. I hope there’s good coffee and a wall of trading screens in heaven waiting for you. Those overnight markets aren’t going to trade themselves, you know. Now you’ll have sunshine all the time. Cheers, old friend.

Lately I’ve been caught up in this feeling of everything being OK.

BOY did I let my brain get away from me for a few days there.

Tomorrow is my work anniversary. Read: so long, 168 hours of vacation. Yes I’ll get more. But that’s not the point.

And now with my new project load, either I cancel my December getaway or be prepared to work through it. Because wouldn’t that be anyone’s Christmas wish?

In surprising news, I just got two soft job offers and I promise, I haven’t been looking. (Who has time?)

One from an old colleague who says hey I have an opening if you know anybody HINT HINT. Another from an old colleague who changed industries and said, hey, if you’re serious about making money and not killing yourself for every dime, I’m about to post this job and you should CALL ME.

With both, I thought, nah. I’m good. But then after I smashed my glasses and my farsighted ass had to keep editing and doing layout because the buck stops here baybee, I had visions … of, I dunno, something … dancing through my head.

And here I’ve just been trying to get up the nerve to ask the Alligator Farm to allow me to do freelance so I can afford to get Mom some healthcare. Since, making decisions about how you spend your free time is clearly beyond your feeble little-girl brain.

Oh, spirit guides? I thank you for the dream I’ll have tonight to help me process all this new information. …

By all accounts, it was an extraordinary day.

Got an amazing message from an old friend to start the day off right, received my gold iPhone (it’s syncing now. Thank you Evil Landlady for showing up at work today since you missed the delivery attempt yesterday), got out of work early at 6:30 p.m., got to Publix and finally found my beloved Weight Watchers Triple Chocolate Brownie Bliss bars (and bought five boxes), had time to stop at CVS before it closed and basically just had a Good Day overall.

But even before that …

That familiar voice half-roused me in the middle of the night. “Goddess, there’s something you should know. Let me show you what you didn’t see.”

And so the dream began, taking me to this set of conversations, and I went into fly-on-the-wall mode.

I saw the same person I’ve been questioning. And they were talking about me to everyone they saw. But … listening closely … it wasn’t as bad as the first go-’round.

Oh I heard my words repeated all right. But it wasn’t with embellishment this time. Rather, the thoughts were incomplete … out-of-context. Making me look like an idiot, yes, but making the speaker look like an idiot, too.

I wouldn’t say I was smug about it, but I realized I was in the clear with the people whose opinions I was worried about.

I didn’t sleep much after that, just letting my imagination go a little further than normal on unrelated issues.

I had asked myself yesterday during the loooong drive whether it’s better to squash certain thoughts or to simply let them run their course. I think the creative writer in me longs for the latter, while the right-brain-controlled part of me puts up the roadblocks.

Creative me won today. After all, I do have more books to write. Sometimes a girl’s gotta let the characters explore and develop and feel more alive than the person who will be writing about them.

And my little mind wandering led me to this: Aside from people I have to train myself not to trust with everything, what if there are others whom I haven’t been trusting enough who might very well be worth the risk?

I’m starting to think I’ve picked the wrong everything down here.

I have friends I haven’t talked to in months or even years. And others … I wonder about.

I have been talking a lot about boys lately and that’s just ridiculous, frankly. They don’t take up all that much real estate in my head or in my limited free time.

Mostly they’re imaginary figments in my phone, thinking it’s OK to text me when they have a drink (or something else) in their hand.

It isn’t.

And now that it’s “out there” that it is, let me stuff that genie back in its bottle.

I have too much self-respect. And too many other problems.

I think we all know I do as little to tempt fate as possible. And if I am going to take a risk, it has better be worth it.

I assure you, it usually isn’t and therefore I’m saving all this goddess-y goodness for what is.

I’ve often mentioned being the child of a psychic. It’s mostly only resulted in me having a killer sense of intuition. I don’t see the future and I don’t talk to dead people. But when my spirit guides tap me on the shoulder, I feel it. I may IGNORE it for a while, but I’m hyper-aware.

Had an interesting series of dreams these last few nights. Mostly fun and good. But last night I said to my guides to please reveal to me whether someone is true to me or not.

I admit I was hoping for another good dream.

I didn’t get one.

Oh I dreamed of that person all right. And in the dream, different people came to me, repeating things that person had said. Lies built out of wisps of truths to make them believable.

And to what end, really? I could never figure that out. I expected to have things I’d said repeated, but not quite so embellished. It led me to shouting at a closing elevator door.

I did see X at the end of the dream, looking guilty. In the dream I said, “I will forgive you because that is what I do. What you choose to do with that is up to you.”

I don’t know the resolution. I do know that I am unsettled. And I don’t quite know what to do with it other than continue being a good person and doing a better job of vetting kindred spirits.