Day 37: Focus, Karen ... Focus.

For the last three years, I've been a writer who hasn't written.

With the exception of an anonymous blog (an exercise I highly recommend), I just stopped cold. Instead, I buried myself in a ridiculously co-dependent relationship, smoked an insane amount of pot, felt sorry for myself, and gained 30 pounds on top of the 20 I'd already acquired (and that was above and beyond the extra 25 I carried to begin with).

Why did I stop writing? Well, I've always liked to blame a certain music television network, one that bought the concept for a show George and I created, greenlit the pilot, and then fired us when they sold our show to some company in Canada (in Canada, there are no rules about paying the minimum wage demanded by the Screen Actors Guild). For many months before the firing, when the project was in limbo, we turned down (and didn't look for) work - we were loyal to people who knew better than to make loyalty part of the picture. We kept trying for a while after losing the show, but when all was said and done, we were no longer "hot." We were no longer even warm. We were simply invisible.

I went back to pitching projects solo, but if my ever-thinning wallet was engaged, my heart wasn't. For the next year, I absorbed rejection after rejection like an aging boxer taking body blows in the 10th round - no matter how impressive the stamina, everyone knows what's coming. I pretended I was indifferent to the constant setbacks, but each lost job cut just a little bit deeper. For a long time, I'd been golden; I'd accomplished things no one thought I could. I'd gotten into a tough film school (thus quitting a very cool career as a music critic), sold my first script soon after graduation, staffed on television shows, made a good deal of money doing rewrite work, penned a few terrible TV movies, combined forces with George to successfully pitch our own show (along with other projects we worked on as a duo) ...

And now, finally, it had all trickled to a dead end.

I know, I know ... typical Hollywood story. But it's funny how stereotypes seem less obvious - and more unique - when you're the one living them.

One day, I just stopped. I never even broke with my agent of eight years - I simply quit talking to him. I moved across town, changed my number and disappeared. To this day, he must wonder what ever happened to me. I began marinating in a bitter stew of regret and self-pity, and no one could talk me out of it. I went on unemployment for the first time in my life, and when that ran out, I went on disability (my wrists were shot). I stopped seeing my friends, stopped leaving the house unless I had to, stopped writing, and stopped caring.

The relationship I was in had begun the same week the TV show was lost, and while her support was unflagging during the dark days, she had serious problems that conveniently allowed me to ignore my own.

And so it went, until finally, eight months ago, I became single again. Shortly thereafter, at the insistence of a woman I met on the internet (but never in real life, at least not yet), I started the anonymous blog. But focusing on real writing - a new screenplay or book - remained problematic. Instead, I focused on obsessions that would help me avoid any path that might lead to more literary rejection. Pot, romantic drama, wasting time online, watching television, managing my time poorly as a tutor - you name it.

Forty days ago, I decided I'd had enough. I admitted once and for all that if I ever wanted my life back as a writer, I had to stop smoking pot. I had to stop using romantic obsessions as timesucks, had to lose weight so I could feel better about myself, had to stop finding excuses to hide.

I've known for months now what I want to work on. It's a book based on the last screenplay I wrote - a book aimed at the adolescent market I've always written for. I know in my bones it will sell; I have that familiar feeling I used to get when I knew a pitch was going to work.

And yet, I haven't really started working on it. Every time I try, I find myself shying away.

I know what I need to do. I need to focus. I need to set aside 9 a.m.-noon every day as writing time - time when I unplug the phone, disconnect the internet, turn off the television and turn on my brain. I need to ignore my fears and depend on my arrogance - the same ego that always allowed me to believe I could accomplish anything I wanted to. I need to risk failure, which really shouldn't be such a big deal.

After all, living out my life in the shadow of failures I've already created isn't such a great alternative.

Day 35: A Baby Kangaroo, an Ox & Five Hounds.

Before I get to anything else, it should be noted that the weekly weigh-in will be delayed until I get home tomorrow. I can't bear to use Mom's scale - a new mechanism might report a false weight and freak me out. Since I'm already neurotic about the fact that there WILL be a major increase in poundage this week, more grist for that particular mill is just a bad idea.

Now the good new ... I am victorious! That's right folks, you heard it here first: I won last night's final scrabble game. Mom and Isabelle tied for second, and Bob, well, I'll just repeat for the record that he doesn't really try very hard. I couldn't have done it without managing to drop both "jo" and "ox" on triple word scores, so I guess I owe a debt of thanks to my animal friends.

The animals that live here in the house, however, are another matter. To them I merely owe credit for the fact that I've gotten less than four hours of sleep every night I've been here.

Have I mentioned that my parents have five dogs that weigh a collective 415 pounds? That's not five pets - that's a pack. And when one hears a noise outside, or sees a jackrabbit go by, he or she sets up a howl and races for the kitchen dog door. The others, no matter what they're doing or where they are, instantly drop everything and streak out to help protect the homestead (barking all the way). Unfortunately, this ballistic reaction can be counted on regardless of the time, and believe me, there's nothing like being jolted out of a 3:00 a.m. sleep by the incessant baying of five hell hounds. (In case anyone's worried about untimely wild animal deaths outside, the dog door leads to a fenced-in quarter-acre of land.)

The fact that my mother has acquired this many dogs is actually kind of ironic. When I was growing up, I was all about wanting a dog. One I could play with, who'd chase balls and roughhouse and pull me on my skateboard.

Imagine my joy when Mom and Stepfather #1 (StepOne) brought home ... a poodle. Mom didn't really want a dog to begin with (she quite rightly hates it when people get dogs only to leave them home alone all day), but StepOne was desperate for a chocolate-brown miniature poodle (yes, the thought that he might be gay deep down HAS crossed my mind.) I spent years begging for another dog, but Mom always said one was more than enough.

You can understand, then, why I find it kind of bizarre that Mom now has a French Mastiff (105 pounds), two rescued Collies (70 and 60, respectively), a mental St, Bernard mix (110) and a German Shepherd mix (70). To be fair, they're all wonderful dogs - sweet and loyal and loving and filled with personality. I actually adore them, especially the blonde collie and the mastiff. Like Mom says, you get used to the occassional din. They're worth it.

Still, I'm looking forward to sleeping in my own quiet bed tomorrow night. Plus, I miss my two dogs something awful, even though I know they've been having a great time with Jackie and George (and yes, don't worry, I'll continue the walks. I have to do something to re-lose the four or more pounds I'm guessing I've packed back on over the holidays).

Okay ... it's 11:50 p.m., and I since I have to get up at 4:00 a.m. so Bob can take Isabelle and me to the airport, I guess I should hit the sack.

I can only pray that the critters outside keep their distance.

Day 23: Controlled Substances.

And it came to me then
That every plan
Is a tiny prayer to Father Time.
- "What Sarah Said," Death Cab For Cutie

Here's a question for you ... If the term "control freak" suggests a person who needs to be in control, why would that person smoke pot all the time? Wouldn't that person avoid mind and body-altering substances like the plague?

Maybe an actual definition of "control freak" will help. Wikipedia, the online volunteer encyclopedia that was recently deemed as reliable as the venerable Encyclopedia Britannica, offers several defintions, but the one that screams "Karen!" is as follows:

"A person who attempts to impose excessive predictability and direction on others or on events. Often associated with a lack of trust or insecurity."

Bingo. Now the whole pot thing makes sense, because there's nothing more predictable than getting stoned. Pot creates a level surface where there was once rocky emotional terrain, thus imposing a false sense of order. Even better, it numbs you to uncomfortable emotions by allowing you to analyze instead of feel. When you're stoned, you can rationalize away the fact that your career is going down the tubes ... and then go watch SpongeBob SquarePants instead. You can justify the reasons you're sticking out a bad relationship ... and then order a pizza.

For 29 years, I've found the "excessive predictability" my fearful, insecure heart desires at the bottom of a bong. I may not have been able to control or predict other peoples' actions (I certainly keep trying), but I could sure as hell flatten out my own.

Problem is, controlling events, emotions and people is a war we can never win. And while a person might be able to numb herself to pain, the reason for the pain is always festering somewhere close by.

All of which brings me back to Maggie. Ever since Wednesday, when I tried to control the moment by pushing her away before she could break up wth me, I've been fighting the urge to try and make everything better. To fix it. To make sure I don't lose her. But without pot to soften my focus, such attempts to guarantee the outcome I want seem, well ... ridiculous. Maybe I'll lose her, maybe I won't ... but either way, I can't control the future and I can't ignore the present.

This may seem like common sense to you, but for me, it's like learning to ride a bike without training wheels.

George says the best thing to come out of Wednesday is that he now gets to punch me in the arm whenever I pull my control freak bullshit on him. "It's the most annoying thing about you," he said yesterday, somehow managing to sound affectionate. "I've been bringing it up for years, but it never gets through. Now, when you try and tell me how I feel - that I'm too busy or tired to go do something, or that I'm probably not in the mood to go eat - I get to hit you." He added that he'd hit me hard so he (hopefully) wouldn't have to do it very often. Thanks, buddy.

This has been a hard week, A really hard week. But if I can emerge with a few slain demons at my feet, at least all those tears won't have fallen in vain.

Day 22: The Upside of Agony.

"Silver Lining" ... Photograph by Ron Holle

Okay, so yesterday's entry was a bit of a bummer. Getting dumped*, crying a lot, beating myself up for being such a dumbass when Maggie called ...

Imagine my surprise when I realized there was a bright side to all that sturm und drang.

Thanks to the liquidation of my tear ducts, an inability to eat, and two stress-induced puke sessions, I went to bed three pounds lighter than I'd been in the morning. Even better, since I had to blog the weight my housemate Jackie verified before she left for work, I can ride those three pounds into next week's weigh-in (if I play my cards right). All I need is just a few more gloriously miserable days.

That's right, I've learned an important lesson: Gut-wrenching pain is extremely beneficial to the whole diet thing.

When I mentioned my silver lining to Jackie this morning (you'd be surprised at the overall quality of our 6:45 a.m. conversations), she was totally on board. Now, if you remember Day 17, you already know that Jackie, despite being thin by anyone's standards, is convinced she should drop another five pounds. I suppose it's part of being an actor, since we all know the camera adds ten pounds. Anyway, not only did Jackie know what I meant, she added her own heartwarming tale.

As my Day 1 entry detailed, I went to Thanksgiving dinner at a fancy L.A. restaurant this year with Jackie, George, and Jackie's mother, brother, and brother's girlfriend. Jackie didn't eat much because (it turns out) she'd just started The Pill and it was making her nauseous.

(Quick Tangent: Since George - who's Jackie's boyfriend in addition to being one of El Cinco Grande - is frighteningly adamant that he'll never, never, ever want children, why should Jackie have to go on the pill? I went on the pill once in my mid-20s for maybe a year (before I jumped the fence), and it totally fucked me over by causing hairs to sprout on my face. I was horrified. To this day, I'm forced to include Tweezerman as one of my best friends. So if George is all "I hate babies" (which he is) then why doesn't he just bite the bullet and tie himself off? He could always freeze a big ole' vat of his seed beforehand - you know, just in case. I can only assume there are reasons I don't know about. I need to investigate further. But in the meantime, I digress ...)

So there we are at Thanksgiving dinner, and I thought (at the time) that Jackie's peckish approach was due to dietary restraints. But no, it was the nausea, and even though it was a very pricey meal that she didn't have to pay for (thanks again, Jackie's mom!) she was secretly pleased. The fact that she didn't want to eat, she told me this morning, was what made her most thankful. "How fucked up is that?" she added, laughing. But she didn't backpedal, not even a little.

So, if any of you reading can think of a way to hurt me - make me cry, screw me over, mess with my life - bring it on.

I can totally use it as inspiration.

* Dumping Update (Dumpdate): Maggie and I have been talking about the situation. I don't know what will happen, and for now, I'm okay with that. I'll keep you posted (so to speak).

Day 21: Defining Moments. (206)

Her voice was all wrong from the start. Something was out of sync. And so, when she asked if she could come over, I immediately went to a very dark place. I could feel the fear rushing up my body, wiping out the happiness I'd felt just seconds earlier. When I spoke, my voice was suddenly flat and cold.

"You're going to end it, aren't you?"

There was a brief pause before she answered.

"Well, I'd like to talk to you."

Now, what I should have said next (hindsight is such a bitch) was something like, "Sure. Come on over." Even a simple "Okay" would have worked. Instead, as a control freak with a pathological aversion to pain (another reason a person might smoke pot all the time), I did that thing I do. Sensing that someone might be about to hurt me, I responded by pushing them away as hard as humanly possibly.

I was right, of course - Maggie was about to hurt me. It seems her husband's new job (he works freelance) happens to be in town instead of out. This meant Maggie and I wouldn't be spending any real time together for the next few months - not unless she began actively lying about where she was going and what she was doing, which she refuses to do. Already consumed by the guilt she'd been keeping from me, she felt she had two choices: 1) Become an expert sneak and liar, a path to self-loathing that would put her marriage at risk, or, 2) End it with me. (I suppose there's also a third choice - to continue as we have been - but I guess that's pretty stressful, too. As she said in a much better phone call later today, "There's nothing casual about our relationship, Karen.") Anyway, she was up most of last night thinking about it, and when she called at 7:00 this morning, she wanted to come over and talk about it.

I said no. I was angry and felt blindsided and told her I didn't see what good talking in person woud do. Why get together to break up? I said she obviously didn't care about me, at least not enough. I told her I didn't want to see or talk to her ... and that was that. (Well, that was that until I called her back an hour later. After we resolved nothing, she launched into a meeting-filled day and I promptly began crying.)

As the morning wore on, I realized I wasn't crying just because Maggie wanted to end things, but because of the way I'd handled the situation when she called. She'd wanted to come talk, and I should have let her. Besides, it was what I actually wanted beneath my fear. Instead, I went all cold-bitch mental. An hour later, I desperately wanted a do-over, but that just wasn't gonna happen. Roy "Tin Cup" McAvoy said it best: There are defining moments in life, and when one comes along, either you define the moment or it defines you.

Unfortunately, when it comes to this morning, I consider myself defined.

When I called Mom today and told her Maggie was ending things, she paused for a moment, then said, "So. I guess she really fell for you."

Yeah. She did. We both did. And now, despite what's on the table as far as a solution, I'm not sure either one of us really knows what the hell to do about it.

Day 19: Protecting the Innocent

As some of you may have noticed, I recently decided that everyone who appears in the blog should have an alias. It just seemed like the right thing to do. I mean, if I'm gonna write that ________ and I have gotten stoned some 2,000 times together, or that ________ has webbed feet, or that ________ and I once knocked over a liquor store, well, that might not be the sort of information a person wants floating around the world wide web.

Okay, so I made those last two up. You get the idea.

To add spice to the proceedings, I offered people the option of choosing their own names. I sent emails with at least one possibility, but the choice was theirs. Some, like Maggie, cycled through 276 nom de guerres before finally settling. Others, like Samantha, didn't really care, and were happy to accept whatever name I'd suggested (her husband, however, whom I love dearly despite the fact that he voted for W not once but twice, will be no doubt annoyed by my fittingly unilateral choice of "Bill," in honor of our former president. This also makes my point better than dope, duck feet, or armed robbery. I mean, talk about information you'd never want in the public domain.)

And then there's Bambi.

I never imagined I'd know a "Bambi" ... once I gave up my childhood dream of becoming a stripper, such possibilities kinda flew out the window. And yet, here I sit, slowly coming to terms with the fact that one of my five closest friends is now known to the world as Bambi. (My favorite response to Bambi's name came from Grace, who asked, completely deadpan, if it was because her mother had died.) Downright ironic, however, is that the person in question is as far from being a "Bambi" as you could possibly imagine, which, I assume, is exactly why she chose it. Either that, or she's trying to torture me (okay, so both reasons are no doubt working for her).

What's true across the board, however, is how people accept or dismiss names based on personal associations. Grace, for instance, wouldn't go for "Jo" because it was the name of a former lover's strap-on (so much for Little Women). My own reasons for rejection were far more mundane: I turned down, among many others, "Penny" (a girl who tried to beat me up in 7th grade), "Diana" (too dead princess), "Suzanne" (too Somers) and "Cousin" (sorry, but you're stuck with "Mom," although I did appreciate someone's smart-aleck suggestion that you try spelling it backwards).

I have to admit I already miss the real names, and not just because it was a satisfying way to "out" people who've pissed me off (that's right, "Heather" - I'm talking to you). I guess I feel that no matter how necessary, it's one small step away from the truth, and telling the truth is the crux of this entire experiment. Plus, it gave me comfort to see my friends' real names.

But hey, if I can finally hang out with a Bambi, who am I to complain?

Day 16: A Poem from Before.

I wrote a secret blog last summer, one that I told no one (or almost no one) about. It was my first foray into writing after nearly two years spent sulking over my lost screenwriting career.

The beauty of writing something anonymous - something no one but strangers will read - is that you can be brutally honest. You don't hold back. You don't worry about looking stupid, hurting someone's feelings, or being judged. You just say whatever the hell you want.

On June 23rd, I was feeling particularly lonely and hopeless (not to mention stoned) when I logged on to my secret blog and wrote what turned out to be a poem. Afterwards, I took the ugliest, tawdriest picture of my bong I could manage.

If I ever need to be reminded why this experiment is important, I don't need to look much further than "bingo."

bingo
the myth of transformation
is that it can happen without pain.
we wish
it were a journey of flight
but rather
it is one of submission.

I've known for so long
years upon years
but haven’t wanted to stop

I still don’t.

I love the ritual
the smell
the taste
the silence of the chatter
the gentle wash of calm
the series of little hits
sprinkled throughout the day.

but over time
I’m battered senseless
too washed out to write
too adrift to care

numb.

Day 15: El Cinco Grande.

They say that when you make major changes in your life, a support network is crucial. If that's true, then I'll be kicking this experiment's ass, because I have the greatest friends on Earth (and I'm not even counting my dogs).

I know, I know - everyone thinks they have the best friends in the world. The difference is, I'm right.

A few years ago, I realized there were five people in particular who formed my foundation. I count on them regularly, and they're stuck with me for life. I nicknamed them The Big Five, but when a friend of mine started calling them "El Cinco Grande," that was that. And so, without further ado ...

Numero Uno - Mom: My mother is my best friend, and not in that annoying way that makes people puke. We weren't best friends when I was younger, we never braided each other's hair, we never wore each other's clothes. It was quite the opposite: Without being overly strict, she had me believing that she knew everything and I could get away with nothing. She wasn't a friend - she was just Mom.

It wasn't until after college that I realized she was also a person, and a very interesting person at that. Our adult bond solidified when we both worked at the daily newspaper; she was the editor of the editorial page and I was the music critic. It was a rare and special few years.

Here's one of my favorite stories about my mother. When I was a junior in high school, I had a serious crush on a boy named Peter. Peter was a freshman at St. Lawrence University - a seven-hour bus ride away - and I was desperate to visit him. I slyly asked Mom if I could go visit Linda (the one who'd introduced me to God, now a freshman at Cortland), but I instead went to Peter's. The only thing Mom had demanded was that I call when I get there and give her a phone number. Even though this was before cell phones and caller I.D., Cortland and St. Lawrence have different area codes, and I didn't want to get busted. So, when she asked for Linda's number, I told her there was just the hall phone, and that the number had been rubbed off. She asked if anyone in the dorm knew, and I said no one did. (The only phone on the dorm floor and no one knew the number? Oy. What was I thinking?) She let it go. The weekend went well, and Mom seemed fine when I got home.

Cut to a few months later, when, for the 34th time, I lost the key to my house and had to clamber up a tree and break in through my bedroom screen window. We'd already been through several screens (even though I made tiny incisions, I always got caught), and I'd been warned not to cut the new one. When Mom found out, she grounded me for a month. "A whole month??," I protested. "Just for breaking in through my window?" Mom looked me in the eye and said, without missing a beat: "Yes. For that ... and for going to visit Karl instead of Laurie." Maybe because I can't, I love the way Mom can sit on information. She would have made a great lawyer.

Numero Dos - Samantha: I couldn't stand her at first. She was too beautiful and too popular, and her laugh was so robust you could hear it clear across the room (hell, you could - and can - hear it across a crowded stadium. Now it's my favorite laugh of all time). She was the homecoming queen four years running, and her boyfriend (now husband) was not only the quarterback, he spent half the year at some ski academy prepping for an Olympic run (he of course succeeded).

My first real exposure to Samantha was when she and I were in the same math class. I sat in the back row and doodled, and she sat in the front row and asked complicated questions like, 12 seconds before the bell rang. She drove me nuts. And then, one day, we wound up talking, and a friendship began despite the fact that we were very different and had no friends in common (hers thought I was weird and I had none). A rarity in the cliquish world of high school.

One of my favorite Samantha stories? When I was a senior and she was a junior, I was in love with a boy named Mark. Mark was an absolutely gorgeous star hockey player and had no romantic interest in me whatsoever. At some point that year I had to get an operation to remove two benign tumors, and while I was in the hospital, Mark (coincidentally) asked her out. I think Samantha and Bill (quarterback ski boy) were broken up at the time, but she still said no without hesitation. She said she'd never do that to me; our friendship meant far more to her than a date with some guy. (Okay, so she wasn't all that interested. Still ... she never would have anyway.) Twenty-seven years after I met her, Samantha's intelligence, loyalty, sense of humor and insight continue to amaze me. She's one of the most unusual people I've ever met.

Numero Tres - George: I met George on the first day of film school (a graduate program) in 1992. He was wearing Vuarnets that looked like Ray Bans and had a striking white smile - seeing him for the first time, I remember thinking of a blonde Tom Cruise circa "Risky Business" (he will so not enjoy that comment). We hit it off immediately, and he's been my best friend in Los Angeles (not to mention my on-and-off screenwriting partner) ever since. George is wicked smart, bitingly funny, sentimental in a way few people realize, intimidatingly well-read and musically voracious. We've probably smoked 2,000 times together, but he laid off the pot years ago. He gets the discipline thing way better than I do.

Here's a favorite George story: A few days after I got my dog, Sydney (this was eight years ago), I took her over to George's to hang out and play with Hawk (his dog). We decided to go to a movie and leave the dogs, and since George has a fenced-in yard, it seemed like a decent plan. When we got back, Sydney - who was extremely skittish at the time - had jumped the fence and gotten out. She was lurking nearby, but when she saw us, she bolted. George chased her on foot ... for like, two miles. George is tall and lean and always has been, but at the time, he was also quite the slacker. I'd never seen him run two feet. The fact that he would do that touches me to this day. George never lacks heart - never.

Numero Quatro - Bambi: I met Bambi when her band came through upstate NY in 1990; her girlfriend at the time, also a musician, was an acquaintance who'd called me and asked me to look after Bambi because she was sick. Bambi was the first cool lesbian I'd ever known. Before meeting her, I'd always thought lesbians were either butchy, lipsticky, sports preppy or militant (none of which I identified with). Bambi's the kind of person who makes you feel grounded just being in her presence - she's incredibly bright and curious but also low-key and spiritual. If it wasn't for Bambi, I might still be languishing in a closet somewhere. Her example opened my eyes to possibilities beyond the cliches.

My Bambi story is as follows. On a later tour that brought her band back to town, I was all hopped up for her to see this unknown 19-year-old musician I was excited about - a fiery little waif from nearby Buffalo named Ani DiFranco. I'd arranged for Ani to open for Bambi's band, partly because Ani drew a decent local crowd, and I wanted as many people as possible to hear Bambi's band. As Ani began her set, I looked around and realized Bambi and the band were MIA. Someone said they were probably sleeping at the hotel, and I immediately began to seethe. I couldn't believe it. The nerve! Not only was Bambi blowing off the act that was gifting her band an audience, I'd been hoping she and her girlfriend (who was well known) would help Ani out. Over the next hour, I grew increasingly furious, and after Ani's set, when I saw Bambi and realized she'd arrived, I went over and took her head off. I'm serious - I really let her have it. She let me finish, remained calm, and pointed to a chair in the corner (a corner I couldn't see from where I'd been standing). "I've been here the whole time," she said quietly. "That's my drink."

Oh. I felt like a total loser, but all Bambi said was that she admired the way I stuck up for my friend (well, my friend's career). She let it go just like that.

I learn from her to this day. Not just sometimes ... but every time I talk to her.

Numero Cinco - Grace: I was infatuated with Grace from the moment we met (in 1997), and she was equally smitten. There's a whole lot more to our beginnings (another day, another entry), but because we're way too much alike - as in, we're both stubbornly opinionated and prefer to be the center of attention - it wasn't long before we became the just-friends we were always destined to be. We wound up living together for a year, had a blast, and then took a break from each other when she moved (I loathed her choice of a girlfriend). We reconnected when she and the loathsome girlfriend finally broke up, and I doubt anything (or anyone) could separate us like that again. Grace is one of my rocks - during the Heather Debacle, for instance, she listened to my crap non-stop and never complained. I mean, yeah, everyone had to hear the basics, but Grace had to hear every last detail. Her advice is always sound, her love and support unwavering.

My Grace story? Early on, when we were crushy with each other but still refusing to act on it (again, a story for another day), I thought we should go on an adventure, so I took her to the Santa Anita racetrack. I made a big deal out of it, talking it up for days and days ... but when we got there, not a single horse was in sight. Just a few drunk diehards watching races on TV and placing bets. It never occurred to me that the horses traveled to other tracks, and that I needed to check before I drove out there. Grace thought this was hysterical, and pretty soon we were both laughing so hard I may have even pe... well, you get the idea. To this day, Grace loves to torture me by telling people about the day I took her to the races, but I don't really mind. When Grace and I hang out, we have fun no matter what we do.

SO ... there you have it: an unfortunately long introduction to El Cinco Grande. If they have anything to say about it, I'll thin down and remain pot-free for at least the next 350 days ...

And believe me, they definitely have something to say about it.

Day 14: Close Encounters. (207)

I found pot in the house tonight.

Well, not pot, exactly, but this stuff a former friend of mine called "rebound" - what's left in the bowl after you smoke pot through a vaporizer. It's not nearly as strong as good sticky bud (or even ditch weed), but it'll get you high in a pinch. (A vaporizer, by the way, is this nifty little contraption that sucks the THC out of the leaves without actually burning them, meaning you inhale no smoke whatsoever. I'd never heard of one before, but after I tried it, I couldn't understand why every smoker on the planet doesn't use one. It leaves your mouth tasting like Autumn. In fact, if I hadn't quit smoking, a vaporizer was on my wish list.)

Anyway, I stumbled across this little film canister of rebound in my living room, hidden away where I'd forgotten about it. I'd stashed it about a month ago, soon after the former friend in question turned out to be, well ...

I should start at the beginning.

Back in July, Heather had posted an ad on Craig's List (www.craigslist.com), a very cool bulletin board site where you can find everything from a box of 100 eight-track tapes (the "Free Stuff" section) to an "ex-porn star with a huge package" (Casual Encounters). Heather's post, in Women Seeking Women, was long but unusually intelligent, and I replied with something that was (I'm sure) devastatingly witty. There was only one part of her ad that was a Red Flag: "Size 6." I moved forward anyway.

After several banter-filled emails and a few promising phone calls, we decided to meet, and I have to say, her looks pretty much blew me away. Blonde, blue-eyed and (as forewarned) slender, she was a casual-cotton and linen girl with an earthy edge. I loved the way she moved, the way she talked, the way she laughed ...

I was instantly infatuated.

I had no idea how Heather felt, but that first night we met, we stayed up until five in the morning talking, and she wound up sleeping on the couch. We polished off a bottle of wine, smoked way too much reefer (which would become a pattern) and fell into one effortless conversation after another.

The next few weeks were all about Heather. We spent four or five nights a week together, and I drove my friends insane talking about her and wondering if she liked me "that way." I obsessed over everything. When she said I was unlike anyone she'd ever met, did that mean she was into me? When she touched my arm, was that a signal? When she said she didn't find skinny girls attractive, was that a message? When she emailed me a song in which the narrator encourages the listener to "lay your body down/ listen to my voice, the only sound/ let me lullaby you down," was she talking to me?

And so it went, until finally, one night, I couldn't take another minute. It was 3:30 a.m., we were standing out by the cars in my driveway, and I just went for it. I kissed her. She responded, and the next five minutes were sheer bliss.

And then I didn't hear from her for three days. Like all obsessed people, I figured she had to have been injured in a car accident, or, barring vehicular misfortune, mugged. Either way, she was in the hospital, and, quite clearly, unable to reach me. My housemate, meanwhile, was brutally honest ("Sorry Karen, she's not into you"). I refused to believe it.

Sure enough, Heather surfaced with an email (the first real sign, other than disappearing, that she was fucked up) saying she didn't want to take our relationship to the "next level," at least not "right now." I was crushed, but somehow managed to remain optimistic. We pushed through the awkwardness and continued to grow closer over the next six weeks. We even went away for the weekend together (to her family's cabin in the mountains), and, after mutually agreeing that all lesbian films sucked, began working on a screenplay idea.

I suppose the end was inevitable. I was stuffing my romantic feelings in the hope that whatever was behind that makeout session would return, and Heather, well ... who knows what the hell Heather was doing. Part of me thinks she was interested in me romantically but couldn't get past my weight. Part of me thinks she was smitten by my disarming intellect (yes, I'm laughing) and couldn't tear herself away. Another part thinks she was using me (at least a little) to learn the screenwriting ropes. Maybe it was some combination of the three.

Anyway, after three months and a ridiculous amount of time together, the entire relationship collapsed over the course of a one-hour phone call. What went wrong? Put simply, she'd chosen to go out of town on the spur of the moment at a time when she knew I needed her, and then she blew off meeting two very close friends of mine who (separately) visited town. My feelings were hurt, and so, when she blew off meeting the second friend, I called her on it.

It didn't go well. My voice trembled with truth as the floodgates fell, and she had no idea how to respond. She reflexively went on the defensive, but once I'd decided to stop holding back, it was like shooting a slow-moving fish in a very small barrel.

I knew it was over before we hung up. I'd known Heather was a narcissist for weeks and ignored it (the sentence "Every guy I meet hits on me" had come out of her mouth not once but twice), and now, that was no longer possible. She wasn't a bad person, but even though she was fun and sincere and truly cared about me as well as she knew how, she was completely self-involved. There were a few emails after that phone call, but when I said I wanted to step back from the screenwriting project, her true colors bled through. She wrote that we could no longer be friends because I wasn't a rational or caring person. I haven't heard from her since.

I doubt I'll ever speak to Heather again, but I suppose that's what happens when you're shallow enough to focus on physicality and turn a blind eye to Red Flags. Like so many people who battle low self-esteem, I was willing to stifle it if someone as attractive as Heather was (or could be) romantically interested in me. If people saw me with Heather, it would cancel out my weight. Cancel out my perceived lack of graceful femininity. Cancel out any and all self-loathing.

It wouldn't have, of course, and I should have known better. My behavior wasn't fair to me or to her.

Oh, and as for the rebound? I dumped it in the garbage ... which felt good on more than one level.

Day 13: The Myth of Transformation.

Can people really change? I must think so, or I wouldn't be doing this.

Unfortunately, a letter to my mother - written by a Trunchbullian* former camp counselor (top row, middle) - would argue otherwise.

Good thing I like a challenge. (Well, sometimes, anyway.)

Now, if I could just ignore the fact that I'm still the type to have holes in her sneakers ...



*See "Matilda," by Roald Dahl

Day 12: Suits of Armor.

We tend to wear suits of armor, one over the other.... and we hope we will not have to completely undress.
- Chogyam Trungpa

As the days go by, one thing is becoming clear ... the food thing is gonna be way harder than the pot thing. Pot is all or nothing, which makes the decision somewhat easy: Just say no. But the food thing ...

So perhaps it's worth examining why I've always been, ahh ... heavy. (Well, okay, I was thin until I was 11, and then, in 1989, after hitting a high of 170, I came close when I lost 32 pounds in a bet with Samantha's mom. I looked great, but all I saw were the 13 pounds I thought I still needed to lose.)

There are plenty of theories out there about why women who claim to want to lose weight stay fat, but the one that's always felt like a fit with my psyche is the "Suit of Armor" approach. The layers are seen as protection; they keep the boys at bay. But the question remains: Why would a woman want to do such a thing? (I'm sorely tempted to say, "Why wouldn't she," but far be it from me to go for the cheap one-liner.)

In my case, the analysis is Psych 101: Even though I grew up desperate for attention from boys, I was far more drawn to girls. I may have wanted boys to like me, but I wanted girls to truly know me. I never acknowledged this as a sexual leaning, though; I instead articulated my chastely obsessive crushes (always on older girls) as wanting a big sister.

My first "big sister" was Carrie, a 19-year-old clerk at the local drugstore. I was 13, and I'd sit on the soda pop chest near her register and talk to her for hours at a time. I thought Carrie was the most beautiful, elegant and kindest person I'd ever met, and I wanted to be the most important person in her life. I'm sure she thought I was a sweet kid, but the entire thing ended badly when I found out she was quitting her job and getting married. She told me on Easter Sunday, and when she said "Happy Easter," I snarled back, "Fuck Easter!" and stormed out.

It was not my finest hour. It's also when I started eating in earnest.

When I was a sophomore in high school (and 20 pounds overweight), I wanted a senior named Linda to be my big sister, and in fact, we actually became quite close. I think Linda actually did see me as a little sister ... albeit a sister in Christ. (Long story, but to Reader's Digest it, I met her when we were in the school's production of "Fiddler on the Roof." I thought she was the most beautiful, elegant and kindest person I'd ever met, and I wanted to be the most important person in her life. I used my charm to ingratiate myself, and Laurie promptly invited me to her Christian Youth Group. I'd never been religious, but I followed like a puppy and went born-again within a few months. Anything to sit next to Linda during group prayer. My mother was mortified, and much to her relief, my love of the Lord pretty much flew out the window when I went to college.)

After Linda, I had an inkling there might be more to my feelings than just the big sister thing, but I stubbornly stuffed such thoughts and continued on as I had been. (What that meant was, I kept on sleeping with boys I didn't care about - and who didn't care about me - as a way to prove to myself that girls weren't really a "thing" at all.)

This is where the Suit of Armor really kicked in. After college, my weight started creeping up, and by the time I was 26, I'd hit the aforementioned 170. I moaned and whined about wanting a boyfriend all the time, but made sure to focus solely on one-night stands and unattainables. I also moaned and whined about wanting to be thin - usually while shoving a pizza down my throat.

It's too bad, because my twenties were an otherwise heady time. My job - syndicated music critic for the daily newspaper - was high-profile and fun. I had a weekly gig on the city's top rated morning radio show, my apartment rocked, I had wonderful friends, and my summers were spent drinking margaritas and grilling at my parents' pool. But instead of enjoying my life, I kept gaining weight and clinging to my "I do SO like boys!" denial. I was privately miserable.

Then came that bet with Samantha's mother. I lost 31 pounds and became an exercise freak. (Well, okay, "freak" is pushing it, but I did join a tennis club and work out a lot.) By this time, thanks in part to my exposure to new friend Bambi (who chooses "Bambi" as her blog alias??) and her then-girlfriend Sally (Bambi is still just about the coolest lesbian, not to mention person, I've ever known) I knew full well that I preferred women. I even graduated to calling myself "Bisexual in Theory" (yes, I thought I was very covert). And then, when I was 28, I met Sophie at the club, and all bets were off. She became my personal trainer, and I finally kissed a woman for the first time (the first kiss wasn't actually with Sophie, although she later became my first girlfriend. I'll elaborate in another post). After that, there was no turning back.

Unfortunately, there was also no turning back as far as my eating habits were concerned. My newfound love of the Stairmaster faded quickly, and my Suit of Armor (which had been reduced to, say, a suit of chain mail) again reared its ugly head. When I moved to L.A. the next year to attend graduate school (for screenwriting), the pounds continued their slow march back into power, and the rest is history. I fought the pounds and the pounds won.

Am I finally ready to let go of the suit's protective powers? I sure as hell hope so. I mean, the girl thing isn't an issue any more (it's no secret to anyone who knows me), so I hope I'm only wearing the suit out of habit (and because I really do love food).

If I'm wearing it because I still need protection, well ... enough, already. It's time to get myself a talisman and move the fuck on.

Day 5: Rock On.

Jane and I in the summer of '76, taken the first day I ever smoked pot. For those of you who might wonder, the photo-illustration was made several months ago for another project. There is no pot currently residing in the house ... but damn that looks good.

My mother has always been my rock. From as far back as I can remember, she made it a matter of fact that there was nothing I couldn't do or be. She's been proud of me when I've done well and supportive when I haven't. And believe me, there have been a lot of "haven'ts" over the years. Especially these last few.

You can understand, then, why it might have been difficult to inform her that, a) her only child has been stoned for seven years running, and b) the rest of the world was about to know it, too.

In typical Mom fashion, she took the news in stride. As far as the whole world knowing, her only request was that she be identified solely as "Mom." And as far as the pot, her only question was, "Why?"

It's a good one. One that deserves an answer. So I'll give it a shot.

In the beginning, when I was 13, I smoked because, well, my best friend Jane's cousin Carol did, and Carol was the coolest girl I'd ever met. It didn't help that I cared about being popular more than just about anything else on the planet. I was already wishing for things that, despite my mother's input, I couldn't be, like petite and small-boned with straight hair and a talent for flirting with boys.

Contrary to other people's experience, I did indeed get stoned the first time I tried it. Carol rolled a joint from her "dime bag," we smoked it, and I spent the remainder of the afternoon laughing my ass off. I distinctly remember standing in Jane's bathroom trying to read my "Wizard of Id" T-shirt backwards in their huge mirror ("Sire, the peasants are revolting!" says the Wizard. "I know," the King replies). I remember tasting her toothpaste and thinking what I considered to be very deep thoughts (I clearly recall my inability to get the toothpaste back in the tube, and comparing it to telling a lie and being unable to undo it). Right off the bat, pot made my insecurities feel vague and far away.

I smoked off and on from that day forward, throughout high school and college, generally under control. In my mind, I smoked because it was fun. It was something to bond over. I'll never forget, for instance, sitting up late with my best friend from college, smoking out of my cigarette-styled one-hitter and having marathon conversations (again, we thought we were quite deep). I loved the ritual of it, loved the floaty feeling of warm detachment. And it didn't hurt that it made everyday moments supremely funny.

I continued on as a recreational smoker for the next 15 years ... but it wasn't until seven years ago that it turned into an everyday thing. Why? Two reasons. First and foremost, I was completely fucking up my very cool career as a screenwriter. It took a few years to fade, but I knew what was coming. I was devastated, terrified and furious at myself, and the more I smoked, the less I had to think about it. Second, I was in a long-term relationship that required more coping skills than I had at my disposal. It was a lot easier to remain stoned than figure out what to do about it.

In general, I took the coward's way out.

Sometimes I think it's amazing that I've smoked as much pot as I have and functioned as highly as I have. Truth be told, that's something I've always been stubbornly proud of. But beneath the surface, I've also wondered what I might be capable of if I quit. I've wondered what might happen if I ever managed to live up to my potential (something that, according to every teacher and professor I've ever had and just about all of my employers, I've never done).

Thanks to this experiment, I might finally find out. But no matter how things go, there's one person I know will always be there to catch me if I fall.

Thanks, Mom ... you rock.

Day 1: Fed Up.

This is the first and last time I'll write in here stoned. It's also the first and last time I'll write weighing 219 pounds. And if I ever feel feel this disgustingly full again, it will be too soon.

I know, big words. And believe me, if you knew how ridiculously afraid I am, you'd put your money on a fast collapse. You'd have every right, and I wouldn't blame you.

Unfortunately, you'd lose. See, a person can only hide behind multiple layers of fat and repeated bong hits for so many years. (My personal limit has turned out to be 29.)

I've been smoking pot off and on (mostly on) since I was 13, and every day for the last seven years. Over those same seven years, I packed an additional 50 pounds on top of the 25 or so extra I carried to begin with.

Three days ago, I was talking with a friend when I jokingly suggested quitting pot for a year and writing a daily blog about the experience. Then it dawned on me that 75 pounds would have to go, too. You know, as long as I was keeping the blog and all.

What's weird is how quickly it went from a larkish comment to some out-of-control thing snowballing towards my ability to have any real say in the matter. Sure, the idea terrified me, but it was also kind of ... exciting. Then came the piece de resistance: My 365-day experiment would begin on Thanksgiving. A day of unrepentant, uniquely American gluttony, followed by the #1 consumer spending day of the year. Consumption at its finest.

It was too deliciously perfect to ignore. It worked on every level. If I actually did this, I could lose weight. I could become a reasonably healthy person. I could be happy. I could get my life back.

I found myself calling my closest friends, telling them my idea, backing myself further into a corner. If I shrank from the challenge now, I'd be the hugest pussy on earth. I'd regret it forever. I'd have to wait another year to even try again. I could be dead by then.

Well, it's 11:55 p.m., and I've saved enough pot for a final bong hit.
*
There. Done. Nothing left. And yeah, I pretty much savored that last hit. I took my time rolling a little ball of weed between my thumb and forefinger, carefully dropped it in the bowl, fired up the lighter and pulled the smoke deep inside my lungs. I held it as long as I could, slowly exhaled ... and almost immediately felt that familiar wave of numb comfort wash over my body. Such a warm feeling. So quiet. So peaceful.

So safe.

It's funny, though. Every time I smoke pot, this experiment seems like a really bad idea. Which, I guess, makes it a really good idea.

But ... wow. No pot for a year. Steady weight loss. Change.

This is going to SUCK in a huge way.