Day 189: The Best Keychain Ever (192.4).

There's something about receiving an award in front of a crowd that always makes me feel like a 12-year-old. I get slightly embarrassed, my stomach churns a little, my pulse quickens ...

And then I feel happy.

That's pretty much how it went down this morning. The 1.4 pounds I dropped this week pushed me to the point where I've lost 10 percent of my body weight, and I was rewarded with a keychain. (I have to say, it's a pretty nice keychain. I'm actually surprised I like it - I assumed it would be tacky and lame.)

"This is a very important milestone, Karen," my extremely perky meeting leader chirruped as I walked up and collected my prize. "Tell us how you did it! I'm sure we'd all like to know!"

The 30 or so people in the room nodded, murmured in agreement, and stared at me. I felt like some kind of zoopet. I hurried back to my seat, which, as usual, was the one nearest to the door (I rarely stay for the entire meeting, but today, if I wanted my keychain, I had no choice).

"Uhm ... well ... " I wasn't sure what to say. Should I mention the last-ditch Leek Fast, or maybe my reliably delicious 2-point peppers, onions, basil and egg whites breakfast scramble? Or perhaps I should go bigger, and talk about the public accountability that comes with writing a blog. Or the fact that I don't smoke pot anymore.

I finally said something about the points thing really working and daily dogwalks and friends who keep me honest .. and then I shut up.

So, all's well that ends well as far as this week's goal ...

This week's weight goal, anyway.

I wish I could pretend that I don't remember another goal that was set for today - one to do with finishing my edit of The Falling Joys.

I made good progress this week, and as of Sunday, I thought for sure I'd make it. Then I decided to change one thing and redo another and turn one character into someone else and ... well, you get the picture.

My new deadline is Sunday.

I'll bet I could make it if someone would just offer me a keychain ...

Day 187: A Temptation Meditation.

A close-up look at one of Stinky's ever-burgeoning buds.

When it comes to the subject of temptation, I've always been partial to the Oscar Wilde take:

The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it ... I can resist everything except temptation.

I guess that's why I'm so proud of my relationship with Stinky.

She started out as a seed, was sprouted in a wet paper towel, and then, under my careful tutelage, quickly grew into a seedling. She continued to grow but remained relatively harmless - for months, I couldn't even determine her gender, let alone, say, dry her out in the microwave in a moment of weakness and smoke her.

In fact, for the longest time, my references to Stinky as a "she" were just wishful thinking (female pot plants produce the thick, sticky buds that one smokes; males produce seeds but are no good for smoking).

Even before Stinky revealed herself as a female, people were advising me to either kill her or give her away. I understood their point - after all, having an aromatic pot plant in your home over the course of a year-long break from pot definitely seems kind of retarded. I did think about giving her away - I really did - but the last time I took that route, things didn't work out so well. Right after this experiment began, I gave a young female I'd been raising to a certain person who shall remain nameless, and he allowed her to die in a cold snap. I couldn't bear the idea that Stinky would meet the same fate.

And so, I kept her. And then, about a month ago, our relationship suddenly became much more complicated. I'd moved Stinky to a new home outside, and she really took to her new location. She grew by leaps and bounds, and her feminine side began to truly assert itself.

The pictures say it all - Stinky could now be harvested on a moment's notice. If, at any time, I decided to give in to temptation, I could turn an apple into a makeshift pipe, speed-dry one of Stinky's fat little buds, and have that puppy fired up in fifteen minutes.

I can't say as I've once been truly tempted. I water her faithfully, I trim her dead leaves, I even smell her buds every so often ... but I've never once considered smoking her. It's funny how someone can go from getting stoned several times a day to not at all without really missing a beat, but that's exactly what's happened.

Everyone always says that removing temptation is the best way to avoid giving in to it, but I'm not so sure. Sometimes, being out of sight allows something to grow in power, and pretty soon, its hold on your psyche is even stronger than it was when it was right in front of you.

The fact that I can live in harmony with Stinky - especially when times are tough, and I could really use a dose of her numbed-out bliss - makes me feel very powerful, indeed.

Temptation of some kind haunts every person I've ever known. Hell - I can think of five or six that plague me on a daily basis. But for all the temptations one can possibly think of - lying, stealing, running up credit, being a coward, doing drugs, drinking, procrastinating (the list is endless) - there's another quote I love that sums up the worst one of all:

The biggest human temptation is to settle for too little.
Trappist Monk Thomas Merton

That's the one that truly scares me, and the reason I started this experiment in the first place. I don't want to go through life knowing I settled for less - not anymore.

Maybe that's why I like having Stinky around. You know you're not settling when you stare temptation in the eye every day and still choose not to indulge.

Portrait of Stinky - 5.29.06

Day 184: Day of Rest.

"Shoulders to Lean On"
(Sophie Day 78 and daughter Anna visit Los Angeles: 5-26-06)

Day 183: Succeed and Slacken. (193.8)

Doing well two weeks in a row would apparently be just a little too much joy for me to handle. I thought I would at least break even today ...

I was wrong.

The thing is, I know why things didn't go my way this week. It wasn't just the Food Roll, the dinner out last weekend, and the fact that I only walked four days instead of six.

No, it actually boils down to a lack of accountability. Ever since returning from Hawaii, I haven't been writing down what I eat. Instead of keeping track of my points on a daily basis, I've been "guesstimating" in my head. After last week's success I thought I was in control, but today's results would indicate otherwise.

This speaks to a deeper issue driving today's results - a phenomenon I call "Succeed and Slacken." I've been afflicted by this behavioral pattern for as long as I can remember, and it goes something like this:

Every time I do well at something, reach a goal or achieve a success, I follow it up with ... nothing. I literally bask in the glow of whatever good thing has happened, and all forward progression comes to a halt. If "resting on your laurels" can be elevated to some kind of pathology, I am most certainly diagnosable.

The book is a good example. I finished the Rough Draft in record time, and was so pleased with myself that I promptly stopped working on it altogether. In similar fashion, I lost 3.2 pounds last week (completely making up for Birthday Week) and then proceeded to slack off to the point where I managed to gain a half a pound.

I'm not being coy when I tell you I have no idea why I do this. My kneejerk (and perhaps unkind) response is that I'm lazy and intermittently self-destructive, but that feels a little too easy.

As usual, I now have two choices. Continue whining, get angry and make things worse ... or remind myself to accept a minor setback for what it is and keep my eyes on the road.

Of course I'll be aiming for the latter, but figuring out what drives that "Succeed and Slacken" pattern might really move things along. Not just with the weight loss ... but with everything.

Day 176: Before and After.

Before ...

After:

Transformation. It's my all-time favorite theme, one I return to again and again in my writing. I suppose that's because I find personal transformation to be as noble as it is difficult. Sticking with the status quo might nibble away at your soul little by little (yep - been there, done that), but transformation requires a seachange of pain.

Luckily, transforming a kitchen offers many of the pros and none of the cons (well, unless you count the expense).

My redesigned kitchen was this year's birthday present from my mother and stepfather, and I guess it proves something once and for all: I'm old (youngsters don't dream about remodeled kitchens). It also proves I'm spoiled. And lucky.

Initially, it looked like the whole thing wasn't going to happen. Randy had begun the work (he's ridiculously handy and knows how to do everything), and after he knocked the initial hole in the wall (to create the space where the refrigerator would move), he discovered several huge beams that he worried might be "load bearing." All work stopped. The future of the project did not look good.

I had only one thought: "Screw that." I could already see my refrigerator in its new home, and I wasn't about to let a few sticks of wood get in my way. It was time to call in the big guns.

You might remember "Mack" - he's the guy who organized the NCAA college basketball pool that I won a while back. Well, when he's not trying to give me money, Mack is a contractor, and a very good one at that. He's one of those guys who backs up his formidable skills with honesty and a good eye. Mack came over, looked at the hole in the wall, stuck his hand inside, tapped a few spots ...

And proclaimed us good to go. I was thrilled.

Now, just five days later, it's all done. I still need to find a cool shelving unit to stick over the new butcher block table next to the stove (the one the plants used to sit on proved too big), but other than that, Phase I of Kitchen Redesign 2006 is over. (Yes, there is a Phase II, but there's no need to get into it right now. All I'll say is that it involves a dishwasher.)

I love it when I see something in my head and then, when it becomes a reality, it either matches my vision or exceeds it. It's truly one of the most satisfying feelings a person can have (well, if you're me). I guess that's why I like this whole blog experiment so much - if I can come even close to my vision of the person I can be, it might be even more exciting than the refrigerator move.

And that's saying something.


Randy rips my wall a new one. Load-bearing beams were meant to be broken! The picture is 'soft' because the room is filled with plaster dust.

Day 172: When Did You Know?

Me (left) and Laura actually sitting above Cabin 1 (1972).

"When did you know you liked girls?"

People love to ask that question, but it never bothers me (I guess because it's the sort of information I like to know, too). I've always had a stock answer - but I'm not sure it's totally correct.

I realized this on Friday night, when Leslie and I had the conversation in which we swapped stories about when we first realized we liked girls. She said she'd always known, from as far back as she could remember. I in turn offered up my same old story, about how I was chastely drawn to "big sister" types as I was growing up (Day 81) but didn't kiss a woman until I was 28 years old. I added (as I always do) that for the first 27 years, I never felt overtly repressed or anything.

Maybe because this was the first time I've talked about the subject (out loud) since I began this experiment, I found myself listening to my words with a more critical ear. Were those really just "big sister" crushes? Was I truly never repressed? And finally ...

Do the kisses with Laura count?

Laura was in Cabin 1 with me at sleep-away camp when we were nine years old. For four weeks we were great friends and just a little bit more.

Every cabin at camp had a huge crawl space underneath, a place for everyone to store the footlockers they'd brought. It was big enough that two nine year olds could sit facing each other on an empty locker. We began with "hand-to-hand" kissing, which meant that I'd put the back of my hand over my mouth, she'd put the back of her hand over her mouth, and we'd press our palms together and pretend we were kissing.

And then, over the weeks, we started kissing for real.

I don't remember much else about our time beneath the cabin, and I can't honestly say I remember what I felt. I certainly don't remember thinking, "Oh wow - I like girls!" ... but then again, I wasn't kissing a boy under the cabin, was I?

For years, I chalked my experience with Laura up to "one of those things" kids do - the equivalent of a young boy who explores his sexuality at boarding school. But as I was telling Leslie my story the other night, I kept flashing on Laura. I flashed on some of those supposedly chaste crushes, and tried to remember how I'd felt deep-down during college and my early '20s. Clearly, being gay didn't just come out of nowhere at the age of 28 ... so when did I know?

I'm still not entirely sure of the answer, but I'm moving closer to understanding that I probably desired women all along. I wanted boys to like me, I wanted to be accepted, I wanted a normal life and a normal future ...

But I wanted to impress, dazzle and bond with girls.

I noticed which boys were cute ...

But I noticed which girls were cool. And smart. And pretty.

I'm going to keep thinking about this one, and in the meantime, I hope no one asks me "when I knew" any time soon. For the first time in a long time, I'm just not sure what I'd say.

Day 171: Day of Rest.

Succumb.
April, 2006.


Be back tomorrow.

Day 170: A Kiss I Wish I Could Forget.

When I was but a tweener, I absolutely adored the band Kiss. I thought the LPs Destroyer and Rock and Roll Over were true masterpieces, and remember listening to songs like Detroit Rock City, Flaming Youth, and (more than any other) Take Me until I wore out the needle on my junky old record player. I'll never forget the night my mother refused to buy me Kiss Alive II. As we left the store, she was telling me how awful she thought they were. I sat slumped in the passenger seat, sulking and furious, muttering that she didn't understand.

(It pains me to see myself as such a teen cliche.)

Couple this rabid phase of Kiss-love with the irrational degree to which dwarfs midgets the vertically challenged Little People both fascinate and unsettle me, and you'll understand why I was so profoundly riveted to last night's Daily Show segment on the feud between tribute bands "miniKiss" and "Tiny Kiss."

It was disturbing to me in a way I can't possibly begin to explain.

In fact, I wasted far too much time today trying to make a link to the segment available in this post. I scoured the internet, searched through Kazaa and Limewire, checked www.youtube.com, burned a DVD (my computer wouldn't read it), and even Bittorrented (is that a verb?) the entire Daily Show episode in question (only to realize that, a) I have no clue how to edit out a single segment and, and b) wouldn't know how to upload or house streaming video even if I did. But hey - now I can watch it on my computer, too!)

Alas, a few photos and a brief summary will have to do.

Apparently, miniKiss was the sole Little People Kiss tribute band (I still can't believe there's even one) until mini-Peter Criss broke off and (in a "mini-dick" move, so sayeth the The Daily Show) formed Tiny Kiss. His big twist (I kid you not) was to add an extremely large woman as Paul Stanley. One of my favorite moments in the Daily Show piece is when this woman says, with an utter lack of self-awareness: "I think that adding me was really just the final pizzazz that the tribute band needed to not be a freak show or a side show."

I'm telling you, I watched this thing three times, cringing, wincing, and drawing my knees up to my chest with each viewing. It was deliciously horrifying - and hilarious. I feel quite sure I will have nightmares.


NOTE: Thank you to the anonymous commenter who found the following link! Now you can all watch and enjoy ...

Watch the Daily Show Kiss-Off

LATE-BREAKING NEWS: Apparently, mini-Peter Criss has just been kicked out of Tiny Kiss ... read all about it here:

Mini Dick Gets the Boot

Day 166: The Pain of Choice.

If I hadn't done what I did, I'd have a 16-year-old child right now. That's how I serve out my long-term penance, by marking the years that would have been.

My short-term penance was to hurt in an entirely different way.

I'd been on vacation in the Cayman Islands, staying with a good friend whose grandparents owned a beach house there. It was my last night, and I had to stay in a nearby hotel because more company was coming. Grandparent company.

We went out that night to celebrate what had been a relaxing, indulgent ten days. We went to a crowded beach bar, and for whatever reason, decided to pretend I was visiting from Ireland (What can I say? My accent is very convincing, provided you're not Irish). I drank too much and started flirting with a tall, good-looking boy from the East Coast (his name was either Chip or Skip ... I can't for the life of me remember which, so let's just go with "Ip").

I'm fuzzy on the inbetween, but I clearly remember the hotel a few hours later. Like every one-night stand I've ever had, I have a mental polaroid of the experience, as if I'd left my body to snap the one shot that would capture the essence of what I'd done.

When I woke up, Ip was gone. I flew home later that morning.

Six weeks later, I knew. I didn't even bother getting a pregnancy test ... I just knew. And, similarly, I didn't think much about what I was going to do - I was going to get rid of it. And not just because I was young and single and just starting my career. Shame stepped in. I couldn't bear anyone knowing I'd been knocked up by a one-night stand. A guy whose name I couldn't even remember. In my mind, only girls with boyfriends were allowed to get pregnant. Period. I told one person: Samantha. She was living in Chicago at the time and wanted to fly home and be with me. I said no. I wasn't kidding.

I called the place to get it done, and the receptionist asked who would be driving me home from "the procedure."

"No one."

Pause.

"Hon," she finally said, "Are you sure?"

Silence.

"Alright." Then, more softly: "But at least take a cab."

"No. I'll drive myself."

After a sigh: "You do realize that if no one drives you home, we can't give you any painkillers. None."

"Fine."

Maybe I did it that way because I knew I deserved it - because I wanted the pain to be so all-consuming that I'd never let it happen again (I haven't). Maybe I was just being proud. Maybe my shame was more important to me than my well-being. I'm not sure. But I'm here to tell you it was no fun. I just laid there, trying not to scream, trying not to stare at the machine that was literally sucking the life out of me. I swear I could feel it deep inside, clinging to the walls before finally giving in and letting go. I focused on a framed museum print hanging on the wall: a ballerina. The image seemed so wrong somehow.

I drove myself home an hour later and went to work later that afternoon. I was a journalist at the time, and had to visit a new photography exhibit and write an article. The exhibit? A new collection of mother and daughter prints for a Mother's Day show. (Seriously. I could make this stuff up, but I'm not. Anyone who says fate doesn't have a sense of humor really isn't paying attention.)

That was 17 years ago today - the Monday before Mother's Day.

I'll always be fiercely pro-choice. But I would never look a pregnant woman in the eye and tell her an abortion is the easy way out.

No, it sticks with you, as if there were some tiny part of the experience the machine couldn't quite reach.

Day 165: Uccchhhh ... I'm Repulsed!

Taken in 1982, just before we left our upstate NY campus for a 24-hour bus ride to Spring Break in Daytona Beach. I'm the one behind the camera.

When I was a freshman in college, there were two things we loved to do above all else: eat and drink.

We felt great about the drinking. We actually kept track of how many nights in a row we got wasted the way a sports team keeps track of its consecutive wins (my personal best? 28).

The eating was another story. While we (and by "we" I mean the core group of girls) all looked forward to food - obsessing about when we would eat and what we would eat and how much we would eat - there was quite a bit of guilt involved. The fact that Katherine, Paula, Nadine and Ellen were all thin wasn't really the point - the point was that they never thought they were thin enough (to be fair, Katherine worried about such things far less than the others). I don't remember a single dining hall meal that didn't involve a running commentary about how many calories were in this, or how fattening that was, or why "I can't believe I'm about to put this in my mouth," or - my personal favorite, uttered on a daily basis as a half-eaten plate of food was shoved aside - "Uccchhhh, I'm repulsed." (The uccchhhh is actually the sound made when the back of the tongue is used to block most of the airway, and then air is forced out anyway.)

Of course, no one who said they were repulsed ever really was, and picking at the shunned food would begin moments later. That's why Paula and Nadine came up with a way to make sure they truly were repulsed - they'd destroy whatever remained of the meal by pouring soda all over it. Suddenly, french fries or a sandwich or even a salad was swimming in - what else - Tab, the era's diet drink of choice.

The only time we ever reveled in our food without complaining (or sabotaging it) was when we stopped for 1:30 a.m. pizza on the way to catch the last bus back up to campus. It was (and still is) the best pizza I've ever eaten. Twenty-four years later, I can still taste it - and I still crave it. I'm not kidding. It was that good.

Before going to college, my self-esteem had already screwed with my body image (or the other way around, maybe) to the point where I felt bulky and ungraceful. But it wasn't until my freshman year that I really understood the concept of "dieting." It was all about counting calories back then, and Paula in particular was a pro. I watched and I learned. I came to understand once and for all that being a woman would mean a lifetime of watching your weight (at best) and hardcore dieting (at worst).

I have a soft spot in my heart for my college friends, and I still keep in touch with Katherine. I have a warehouse full of memories about our four years together (we rented the most disgusting house you can imagine our senior year), but images of eating and drinking pop up again and again (and again).

In fact, just thinking about it makes me want to go have a glass of wine and eat something, but the idea of eating this late, well, you know... uccchhhh. I'm just a little bit repulsed.

But not really. Pass the soda.

Day 164: Point of Origin.

Mom sitting above the Koi pond, part of her garden when she lived in upstate New York.
She landscaped, planted and maintained the entire property herself.

When I read my mother's Guest Blog entry (Day 147), I was (as SNL's Linda Richman used to say) a little bit verklempt.

I thought to myself, "Everyone should have a blog so that their mother can write in it. They should be able to read things that they might never otherwise know."

Then I remembered a crucial point: Not everyone's mother writes the way mine does. In fact, I'll bet almost no one's does.

She's really pretty spectacular.

My birthday has always been about me, and it no doubt always will be. But if I turn away from my self-absorption long enough to truly think about it, my birthday is actually about Mom. After all, she's the reason I'm here.

She started walking and talking very early and never looked back.

I see her thinking about herself and her life in new ways, always pushing, pushing, until things make more sense. I like that about her.

Those lines in the Guest Blog, more than any others, gutted me. There was something about them that made me feel like she was proud of me, and at the end of the day, is there anything more we really want from our parents?

I've written before about how my mother instilled a belief in me that anything was (is) possible (Day 5). I've written about how close we are (Day 15), and even how she's turned into the patron saint of dog rescue (Day 35).

What I may not have spelled out is how much I love her, and how glad I am to be her daughter. On this day above all others, I appreciate that I get to be hers.

Back when birthdays were still a novelty ...