Woke--Meditated, prayed, affirmed
Met a friend in order to give her confidence for a presentation she's doing next week.
Went to Al-Anon. Told how I hired someone to motivate me to write, then rebel against her, thinking, “She can’t tell me what to do.” Everyone laughed.
Took call from a friend who's feeling ashamed for going off her diet. Calmed and encouraged her.
Fed cats.
Lunch.
Stepped in cat barf.
Cleaned up cat barf.
Started writng an Easy Reader.
Felt anxious so made some 5-minute ice cream
(see Posting 3-9-09)
Did another chapter of Easy Reader
Felt anxious so went ouside and pulled weeds. Thought how Shakespeare's lines "Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player who struts and frets his lone hour on stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing" match my life exactly.
Felt anxious re wasting time. Ate rice cakes
Turned on computer so I could write my blog. Instead looked at photos of Michael Jackson, Farah Fawcett, and Karl Malden
Thought I heard kids vandalizing the school behind our house. Got a ladder to spy on them, but couldn’t see past the trees lining our fence so pulled more weeds.
Came inside and tried to think of something to blog about. Turned off computer.
Went outside and pulled weeds. Thought how I should be writing.
Called husband to see what time he’d be home.
Pulled weeds and thought, “If I was a successful writer, what would that look like?”
Fed cats. Put cat outside so she can step in her own barf.
Journalled, mostly about how I can’t take it any more.
Wrote blog.
Husband came home.
Posted blog.
Dinner.
Wondered if anyone will read blog and whether they will find it interesting or boring.
Bed. Prayed, affirmed. Obsessed over not returning a call from someone I sponsor. Finally dropped off to sleep.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Sunday, July 5, 2009
More on Popeye
I got so homesick in college,I spent most of my first year hiding out in the library basement, eating bread, honey, and candy bars. By the end of Sophomore Year, I’d gained twenty pounds.
Thus I made the biggest mistake of my life—dieting. It made me utterly nuts. Every day I walked down the supermarket aisles, thinking, “When this diet is over I’m eating Duncan Hines and Sara Lee and Little Debbie and...” Sure enough, once I got down to my goal weight, I ate everything in sight, including foods I’d never even liked before.
Through long, miserable years I’ve learned that going on diets is like going to war—each one only brings about the next.
Here is Poe’s Famous Non-Diet
I have to treat food like it’s something holy. Sitting down in front of the TV and scarfing down a gallon of ice cream only prostitutes that which is meant to nourish.
So
Before eating, I clear the table--off comes the mail, the half-finished art projects, dirty dishes, crumbs. No more standing up, eating out of the pot I cooked the food in. I only eat sitting down and make heavy use of pretty centerpieces and candles. Placemats are a necessity, as well as napkins and good china--even for a snack.
I imagine the food is communion, the Catholic kind where every bite is literally the body of the Christ. Chewing slowly, I imagine love radiating into me. I focus on the tastes and textures. No books, no newspaper, TV is off, the radio is off, computer is off.
Doing this, I’ve lost 11 pounds in as many weeks.*
But do you realize what a royal pain this is? I’ve spent my life opening the frig and gobbling whatever I see. Munching on dinner while I fix dinner. Leaving the table while still chewing the last mouthful. Eating before work, to calm me down (also during work and after, ditto.)
Chew slowly? Sit down at a pretty table? Good God! I want food to be fun. I want my freedom! Forget all this spiritual garbage.
Only Popeye saves me from myself.
Consider: How do you think he feels about carrying that damned spinach around all day? Try it some time. A can of spinach bangs into your chest, falls out at inappropriate times. Not to mention looking really silly.
But you don’t see Popeye dissolving into self-pity: “Why me? Normal people don’t have to keep a can of spinach in their shirt all the time.” **
Just like my hero, I must do my duty, because without it I am at the mercy of every bully I meet.
But with it, I too am strong to the finich.
* P.S. I also do the Weight Watchers thing and have three "body buddies" I report to every day via email.
**Equal time—My daughter reminds us all, “Cartoons are not real.”
Thus I made the biggest mistake of my life—dieting. It made me utterly nuts. Every day I walked down the supermarket aisles, thinking, “When this diet is over I’m eating Duncan Hines and Sara Lee and Little Debbie and...” Sure enough, once I got down to my goal weight, I ate everything in sight, including foods I’d never even liked before.
Through long, miserable years I’ve learned that going on diets is like going to war—each one only brings about the next.
Here is Poe’s Famous Non-Diet
I have to treat food like it’s something holy. Sitting down in front of the TV and scarfing down a gallon of ice cream only prostitutes that which is meant to nourish.
So
Before eating, I clear the table--off comes the mail, the half-finished art projects, dirty dishes, crumbs. No more standing up, eating out of the pot I cooked the food in. I only eat sitting down and make heavy use of pretty centerpieces and candles. Placemats are a necessity, as well as napkins and good china--even for a snack.
I imagine the food is communion, the Catholic kind where every bite is literally the body of the Christ. Chewing slowly, I imagine love radiating into me. I focus on the tastes and textures. No books, no newspaper, TV is off, the radio is off, computer is off.
Doing this, I’ve lost 11 pounds in as many weeks.*
But do you realize what a royal pain this is? I’ve spent my life opening the frig and gobbling whatever I see. Munching on dinner while I fix dinner. Leaving the table while still chewing the last mouthful. Eating before work, to calm me down (also during work and after, ditto.)
Chew slowly? Sit down at a pretty table? Good God! I want food to be fun. I want my freedom! Forget all this spiritual garbage.
Only Popeye saves me from myself.
Consider: How do you think he feels about carrying that damned spinach around all day? Try it some time. A can of spinach bangs into your chest, falls out at inappropriate times. Not to mention looking really silly.
But you don’t see Popeye dissolving into self-pity: “Why me? Normal people don’t have to keep a can of spinach in their shirt all the time.” **
Just like my hero, I must do my duty, because without it I am at the mercy of every bully I meet.
But with it, I too am strong to the finich.
* P.S. I also do the Weight Watchers thing and have three "body buddies" I report to every day via email.
**Equal time—My daughter reminds us all, “Cartoons are not real.”
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
A Bit of Art by Poe
As promised, our contest winner on his all-expense-paid vacation. (Confused? See previous blog entries "We've Got a Winner" and "Something For My Literary Friends.")
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Is Poe Good or Just Obsessive-Compulsive? You Decide.
People who walk head-down tend to have depressive personalities.
But we also find things. As a kid I profited while walking home from school by picking up treasures: small rocks, bottle caps, a bit of broken mirror, the metal letter O that had fallen off a Ford , a rusty spring, half a comb. Once I found a $10 bill and considered myself the luckiest girl in the world.
Since my hands could only carry so much, I stuck everything in my knee socks. Mom still laughs, saying I came home every day looking like I had big tumors on my legs.
Those who know me well are aware that I have never really grown up. In short, I am drawn to junk like a alcoholic is drawn to scotch.
An observation: When normal people go to the beach they pick up shells. I pick up trash.
Have you read about the mass of plastic (some say it's the size of the United States) floating in the Pacific Ocean? The plastic reacts to sunlight and salt water by leaching BPA into the ocean, poisoning the fish. Marine animals eat it and it clogs their guts and kills them
In keeping with Equal Time Laws: my daughter tells me, “There are only so many things you can freak out about in this world;” my brother Aurelius says environmentalists "just want [him] to put on a hair shirt."
When I walk on the beach, I take a bag and pick up trash, especially the plastic variety. It is way more fun than collecting shells, which always end up stuck in a drawer someplace; I don’t even remember where they came from.
That ocean pile may be the size of the U.S, but its growth has just been slowed a square inch.
But it’s not all sacrifice, folks. Yesterday I also found a golf ball and an unopened can of Dos Equis Beer.
In the olden days, when I took my godchildren camping, we’d see how much trash we could pick up. I’d tell them, “See? This is why Good is more powerful than Evil—one person with a plastic bag can undo the evil of hundreds of people.” And yes, some people would say, “And one person with a bag of trash can undo the good of hundreds of people.” To which I say, then more good people need to discover the joy of picking up trash. Join me, minions! Join me!
When I become Queen of the World, the aristocracy will be those who pick up trash. There will be no unemployment or bored teenagers--they'll all be cleaning up the beaches and parks. Best of all, you'll see beautiful billboards everywhere showing Queen Me saying, Liberty, Equality, Dos Equis.
But we also find things. As a kid I profited while walking home from school by picking up treasures: small rocks, bottle caps, a bit of broken mirror, the metal letter O that had fallen off a Ford , a rusty spring, half a comb. Once I found a $10 bill and considered myself the luckiest girl in the world.
Since my hands could only carry so much, I stuck everything in my knee socks. Mom still laughs, saying I came home every day looking like I had big tumors on my legs.
Those who know me well are aware that I have never really grown up. In short, I am drawn to junk like a alcoholic is drawn to scotch.
An observation: When normal people go to the beach they pick up shells. I pick up trash.
Have you read about the mass of plastic (some say it's the size of the United States) floating in the Pacific Ocean? The plastic reacts to sunlight and salt water by leaching BPA into the ocean, poisoning the fish. Marine animals eat it and it clogs their guts and kills them
In keeping with Equal Time Laws: my daughter tells me, “There are only so many things you can freak out about in this world;” my brother Aurelius says environmentalists "just want [him] to put on a hair shirt."
When I walk on the beach, I take a bag and pick up trash, especially the plastic variety. It is way more fun than collecting shells, which always end up stuck in a drawer someplace; I don’t even remember where they came from.
That ocean pile may be the size of the U.S, but its growth has just been slowed a square inch.
But it’s not all sacrifice, folks. Yesterday I also found a golf ball and an unopened can of Dos Equis Beer.
In the olden days, when I took my godchildren camping, we’d see how much trash we could pick up. I’d tell them, “See? This is why Good is more powerful than Evil—one person with a plastic bag can undo the evil of hundreds of people.” And yes, some people would say, “And one person with a bag of trash can undo the good of hundreds of people.” To which I say, then more good people need to discover the joy of picking up trash. Join me, minions! Join me!
When I become Queen of the World, the aristocracy will be those who pick up trash. There will be no unemployment or bored teenagers--they'll all be cleaning up the beaches and parks. Best of all, you'll see beautiful billboards everywhere showing Queen Me saying, Liberty, Equality, Dos Equis.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
"Make a Mental Picture"
Shortly after my grandpa turned seventeen, he got mad, socked his teacher, and took off out of town. For the next twenty years he lived the life of a hobo, riding the rods, taking odd jobs here and there, never staying in one place long. In 1918 he’d found good work as a machine operator for Standard Oil in California, but that had gotten dull. He and a friend decided to go to Alaska and pan for gold.
But in one of those bizarre quirks of fate, on his last workday a piece of heavy machinery fell on him. Severely injured, he had the misfortune to be born before Disability Payments or Worker’s Comp. The only solution was to send him back to Pennsylvania, to the family he hadn’t contacted for 18 years.
A tragedy, for sure. A man in the prime of his life, forced to return to the family he’d never gotten along with, reduced to their charity and care.
Over his year-long recovery, he took a closer look at a former school mate. Like him she was 35 and unmarried, though she had led the quietest of lives, going to church and caring for her elderly parents. When Grandpa had recovered, he asked her if she’d leave her comfortable world for marriage and a hard-scrabble life in California. She didn’t even think twice. Five years later my mother was born.
I remember Grandpa as a man who wore high-top shoes and long underwear year round. (He said it kept the cold out in winter and the heat out in summer.) He was given to strange pronouncement such as “Every tub has to stand on its own bottom” and “The masses will crucify you every time.” When he visited the redwoods he’d pat the trees and talk to them: “Hello, you magnificent old giant.” (Most embarassing to my mom as a kid. Now she does the same thing. So do I.)
He’d worked for Standard Oil for thirty years and retired with a tidy sum of money. But he was a notorious tightwad. He quit cigarettes (after his doctor told him he’d be dead in six months if he didn’t.) But first Grandpa finished the pack he’d already bought. He didn’t want to waste his money.
I was a little afraid of his eccentric ways. But I loved that he thought me the most beautiful of girls. I never got tired of hearing him exclaim over my olive skin and curly hair at a time when popular girls had straight hair and rosy complexions.
At the end of my thirteenth summer, he and I stood Santa Fe depot as we waited for the train that would take me back to Kentucky. He faced me under one of the mission-style arches and said, “Now Pody, you never know; you might never see me again, so I want you to make a mental picture.”
I sighed. Another strange pronouncement. What did it mean?
Gently he said, “Look at me.”
I studied his whiskery old face, his suspenders, his long underwear shirt.
“Now close your eyes,” he said. “Can you see me in your mind?”
I nodded patiently.
“That’s good,” was all he said.
I still didn’t get it. But my train came and I hopped on. I never saw him again.
Forty years later, I live in the town where my grandpa lived and I travel from that same train station (now Amtrak) .Today, as always, I stopped a moment under the arches in his memory. Suddenly I was twelve years old, getting ready to go on an exciting train ride, saying good-bye to my strange but sweet grandpa who thought I was the most beautiful of girls.
All at once I got what he’d been talking about. My eyes filled with tears as I said, ”Grandpa, I made a mental picture.”
But in one of those bizarre quirks of fate, on his last workday a piece of heavy machinery fell on him. Severely injured, he had the misfortune to be born before Disability Payments or Worker’s Comp. The only solution was to send him back to Pennsylvania, to the family he hadn’t contacted for 18 years.
A tragedy, for sure. A man in the prime of his life, forced to return to the family he’d never gotten along with, reduced to their charity and care.
Over his year-long recovery, he took a closer look at a former school mate. Like him she was 35 and unmarried, though she had led the quietest of lives, going to church and caring for her elderly parents. When Grandpa had recovered, he asked her if she’d leave her comfortable world for marriage and a hard-scrabble life in California. She didn’t even think twice. Five years later my mother was born.
I remember Grandpa as a man who wore high-top shoes and long underwear year round. (He said it kept the cold out in winter and the heat out in summer.) He was given to strange pronouncement such as “Every tub has to stand on its own bottom” and “The masses will crucify you every time.” When he visited the redwoods he’d pat the trees and talk to them: “Hello, you magnificent old giant.” (Most embarassing to my mom as a kid. Now she does the same thing. So do I.)
He’d worked for Standard Oil for thirty years and retired with a tidy sum of money. But he was a notorious tightwad. He quit cigarettes (after his doctor told him he’d be dead in six months if he didn’t.) But first Grandpa finished the pack he’d already bought. He didn’t want to waste his money.
I was a little afraid of his eccentric ways. But I loved that he thought me the most beautiful of girls. I never got tired of hearing him exclaim over my olive skin and curly hair at a time when popular girls had straight hair and rosy complexions.
At the end of my thirteenth summer, he and I stood Santa Fe depot as we waited for the train that would take me back to Kentucky. He faced me under one of the mission-style arches and said, “Now Pody, you never know; you might never see me again, so I want you to make a mental picture.”
I sighed. Another strange pronouncement. What did it mean?
Gently he said, “Look at me.”
I studied his whiskery old face, his suspenders, his long underwear shirt.
“Now close your eyes,” he said. “Can you see me in your mind?”
I nodded patiently.
“That’s good,” was all he said.
I still didn’t get it. But my train came and I hopped on. I never saw him again.
Forty years later, I live in the town where my grandpa lived and I travel from that same train station (now Amtrak) .Today, as always, I stopped a moment under the arches in his memory. Suddenly I was twelve years old, getting ready to go on an exciting train ride, saying good-bye to my strange but sweet grandpa who thought I was the most beautiful of girls.
All at once I got what he’d been talking about. My eyes filled with tears as I said, ”Grandpa, I made a mental picture.”
We've Got a Winner!
Congratulations, Steb I. of Egosuperego, ID for your winning entry in last week's "Name Those Books Contest."
Steb I, you win a free portrait of yourself, in beautiful contruction paper and Scotch tape,mailed to your home address and displayed on the Internet(Please allow 7-10 working days for delivery)
Again, congratulations, Steb I, on your superior knowledge of books and googling!
Here are the winning answers!
1. The Secret Garden
2. Wind in the Willows
3. The Grapes of Wrath
4. Alice in Wonderland
5. Watership Down
6. Little House in the Big Woods
7. The Great Gatsby
8. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
9. Great Expectations
10. Jane Eyre
Steb I, you win a free portrait of yourself, in beautiful contruction paper and Scotch tape,mailed to your home address and displayed on the Internet(Please allow 7-10 working days for delivery)
Again, congratulations, Steb I, on your superior knowledge of books and googling!
Here are the winning answers!
1. The Secret Garden
2. Wind in the Willows
3. The Grapes of Wrath
4. Alice in Wonderland
5. Watership Down
6. Little House in the Big Woods
7. The Great Gatsby
8. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
9. Great Expectations
10. Jane Eyre
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Something for My Literary Friends
My daughter, an aspiring writer, and I were discussing what makes a good opening line for a novel. LPR says, “You’ve got to hook ‘em and make them want to read the next sentence.” I say it’s like the Supreme Court’s definition of pornography: "I know it when I see it.”
So, instead of writing something intelligent this week, I will list the opening lines to ten of my favorite books, all of them classics. You might want to see how many you know.(I'll post the answers next week)
But, more important, Do any of them make you want to read the next sentence? Also, which ones can you identify? All the people who respond will win a very special prize selected especially for them.
THE LINES:
1. “When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her uncle everybody said she was the most disagreeable–looking child ever seen.”
2. “The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home.”
3. “To the red country and part of the gray country of Oklahoma, the last rains came gently, and they did not cut the scarred earth.”
4. “Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do; once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures of conversations in it, ‘and what is the use of a book,” thought Alice ‘without pictures of conversations?’ “
5. “The primroses were over.”
6. “Once upon a time, many years ago, a little girl lived in the Big Woods of Wisconsin, in a little gray house made of logs.”
7. “In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.”
8. “These two very old people are the father and mother of Mr. Bucket.”
9. ”My father’s family name being Pirrip, and my christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit than Pip.”
10. “There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.”
So, instead of writing something intelligent this week, I will list the opening lines to ten of my favorite books, all of them classics. You might want to see how many you know.(I'll post the answers next week)
But, more important, Do any of them make you want to read the next sentence? Also, which ones can you identify? All the people who respond will win a very special prize selected especially for them.
THE LINES:
1. “When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her uncle everybody said she was the most disagreeable–looking child ever seen.”
2. “The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home.”
3. “To the red country and part of the gray country of Oklahoma, the last rains came gently, and they did not cut the scarred earth.”
4. “Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do; once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures of conversations in it, ‘and what is the use of a book,” thought Alice ‘without pictures of conversations?’ “
5. “The primroses were over.”
6. “Once upon a time, many years ago, a little girl lived in the Big Woods of Wisconsin, in a little gray house made of logs.”
7. “In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.”
8. “These two very old people are the father and mother of Mr. Bucket.”
9. ”My father’s family name being Pirrip, and my christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing longer or more explicit than Pip.”
10. “There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.”
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