Day 127: There's Always Room For ...

I've always liked Jell-O. It goes perfectly with whipped cream (even the cheap Reddi-Whip kind), you can push it through teeny gaps in your teeth, it tastes just as good when it's sugar-free, it makes great shots (okay, that was college), and even though it sounds kinda creepy to say, I like the way it jiggles.

I'm also fond of Jell-O because, just like the Marshmallow EQ Test (Day 126), it helps me understand how to tackle the whole "Nature vs. Nurture" thing. If the marshmallow test speaks largely to the way we're hard-wired, the Jell-O Theory is more concerned with the hand we're dealt once we start breathing.

So, here's my theory. We're all born as different kinds of
Jell-O: different colors, different flavors, different molds, some with fruit, some plain, etc. When we're born, we're in a liquid state, and we're placed in a refrigerator to set.

Now, for some people, that refrigerator is carefully tended. The temperature is just right, no one jostles it, the shelf is nice and even ... and the resulting bowl of Jell-O is something pretty and even with nice clean edges.

Unfortunately, most people don't set quite that happily. There might be attempts at careful tending, but shit just ... happens. Maybe Uncle Walter is over one night, and when he reaches in the fridge to grab a beer, he accidentally knocks the bowl and sends Jell-O sloshing up the sides. Or maybe kids are roughhousing in the kitchen when one of them slams into the refrigerator, and the bowl tips slightly to one side. Or maybe the power goes out for a while, and the setting process is interrupted.

From there, it's a question of degree. Just how badly is the refrigerator rocked while the Jell-O is trying to set?
In a worst case scenario, the whole thing falls - or gets pushed over - and the bowl spills everywhere (this would account for your serial killers, sociopaths, etc.). Luckily, it takes a lot of effort to down a refrigerator.

However we happen to set, though, the thing about Jell-O is that there's no such thing as a do-over. You can't re-dissolve Jell-O. Once we're firmed up, we only have two choices: we can either spend our lives hating the way we've set, desperate to cut away the parts that are uneven or out of place, or we can learn to appreciate the imperfections. (Note: This does not apply to worst-case scenarios, whose choices tend to be serious meds and/or imprisonment.)

As someone who's spent most of her life worrying about all the ways she didn't set right, the Imperfection Appreciation angle has been a tough sell. It's why change is so hard for
me - in order to truly ditch my need for emotional masking agents, I have to be happy with what lies beneath.

I may never be the kind of person who finds it easy to wait for the second marshmallow. In fact, I'm guessing that's pretty much a given by now. But I can be the kind of person who's at peace with the way her Jell-O set.

On some level, I guess that's what this experiment is all about.

Stay tuned for tomorrow's post: The Pixie Stix Polemic.

The Fun With Jell-O gallery:

The total Jell-O aquarium ..................................... Who's got Jell-O for brains?

One small section of artist Elizabeth Hickock's Jell-O-Vision of San Franscisco.

Day 126: The Marshmallow Flaw (196.0)

I suppose it could have been worse. I could have flatlined,
or - worse - gained.

But it's still disappointing to lose such small amounts of weight two weeks in a row.

I know, "slow and steady wins the race" is how the cliche goes. But as you already know (or might easily guess), I'm not so good at long-term, disciplined thinking. I like my gratification to be instant, and behaving otherwise has always been a challenge.

What this means, according the experts, is that my EQ (Emotional Intelligence) has a few blind spots.

What exactly is EQ? Well, the classic EQ study involves marshmallows and four-year-olds. A researcher sits with a child and puts a marshmallow on the table. "You can eat this marshmallow right now," he tells the kid, "and that's fine. But I have to go run an errand, and if you wait to eat it until I get back, I'll give you another one."

Some kids had the marshmallow in their grubby little fist before the door even closed. Others managed to last a few minutes before chowing down. And some did whatever it took to keep from eating it. They covered their eyes, kept their heads down, sang songs, and played games.

The children were then tracked through high school, and what the study found probably won't surprise you. The kids who held out for marshmallow #2 were (and I quote), "better adjusted, more popular, adventurous, confident and dependable." The kids who buckled were "lonelier, more easily frustrated, and far more stubborn." Adding insult to injury, the Hold Out Kids scored an average 210 points higher on their SAT exams.

The Marshmallow Study pisses me off because I'm pretty sure I'd have eaten my marshmallow before the guy came back. Now, if the kids had been tested together, things might have gone down differently. In that scenario, I probably would have eaten mine and talked a few other kids out of theirs.
(I don't even want to know what that says about my EQ - or anything else, for that matter.)

But there is at least one thing I've done right. Throughout my life, I've instinctively surrounded myself with people who, without question, would have waited for that second marshmallow. It's almost like, in addition to trusting that personality type, I've been hoping some of their discipline might rub off on me.

Maybe (just maybe) it's finally starting to happen. When I saw that I hadn't even lost a full pound this week, my first instinct was to feel shitty, beat myself up, and go eat a big fat croissant.

Instead, I went home, made a 3-point breakfast (a frittata with scrambled egg whites, peppers, onions and fresh basil and a piece of whole grain toast) and reminded myself that there are still 239 days left in this experiment. I needed to lose 25 pounds in the first 121 days to have a chance at my goal, and despite a rocky start, I've pretty much done it.

I'll never be a master at delayed gratification, but I guess I can live with that. I just want it to be a skill that's within the realm of possibility when I need it to be.

After all, the marshmallow might taste great while you're eating it, but five minutes later, when the sugary sweetness wears off, the only taste that's left in your mouth is one of regret.

I hate that taste. Life's just too damn short.

Day 122: Puppet Masters of War.

The hairy chest is one detail too many, and while the gingham zipper rocks pretty damn hard, the tie-and-V-neck combination is just plain wrong. Then there's the part where he has no arms.

I know what you're thinking: "For fuck's sake - Karen's pushing kid art on us again?"

Wrong. You're looking at a soldier in the war against fat, and I made him.

I can't say as I've ever made a paper sack puppet in my life (or, if I have, I don't remember), but today, I had no choice. I was desperate. I was afraid.

I was hungry.

What happened was this. I've become close to one of the families whose kids I tutor, and their youngest turned five today. Now, when I was little, a birthday party meant your friends came over and you played games in the yard and then there was a cake and presents and everyone went home.

Today's birthday parties are far more complicated affairs. This one was at the Kidspace Children's Museum, an interactive educational spot where kids can dig for fossils, create earthquakes in a "Shake Zone," and climb these cool raindrop things. (Did I want to play on all the kid-sized stuff? You know I did.)

In a separate room sat the presents ... and the cake. Not just any cake, mind you, but my absolute favorite: white with white icing (don't even think about making fun of me for it). Granted, they can be disgusting if they're dry and yucky, but this cake had come from one of the best cakeries (is that a word?) in Los Angeles. It was a work of art. And, as if to further tempt me, Curious George could be seen swinging across the surface.

I love Curious George.

When the time finally came for the cake to be cut and served, I panicked. I looked around the room ... and saw salvation in the form of the arts and crafts table. There was only one kid sitting there, a 6-year-old girl who was almost finished with a paper sack puppet dog. I sat down across from her and got to work.

For the next twenty minutes, while everyone ate cake, I made a puppet. I'm not sure at which point my creation turned into a hairy-chested old man with bad fashion sense, but I guess what I made wasn't really the point.

The point was what I didn't eat. The war will continue, but in this battle, at least, I emerged victorious.

* And, in other Birthday Party news:

I was driving home from Pasadena when I noticed a party taking place in my part of the 'hood (on the next street, no less). It was just as big a deal as the one I'd just been to, but employed a slightly different approach.

Was I tempted to pet the blue-hoofed horsies and jump in the funhouse thingie?

You know I was.

Day 120: Finding the Funny if it Kills Me.

Mojo, Queen of the Jungle.

I said yesterday that I what I wrote tonight had better be funny.

If only the day had cooperated.

In fact, it wound up being the kind of day that makes you feel like things will never get any better. Even the dog walk was a bit of a chore. You tell yourself that the hopelessness is temporary - that you have no perspective, that the wrenching twist in your stomach will pass - but the words ring hollow at best.

At that point, there's only one thing you can do: Find the funny if it kills you. Even if you're incapable of smiling (let alone laughing), the mere knowledge that a funny moment has occured seems to shed a ray of light - however dim - on the shadows covering your heart.

And so, without further ado, here are five amusing moments I managed to squeeze out of an otherwise sucky day:

1. Cat Chases Bug. I don't like cats, but I like my cat. Mojo is just too cool not to like. Early this morning, as the sun was consuming the kitchen, she decided that her sole purpose in life was to catch a moth. She crept. She pounced. She batted. She almost fell off the kitchen table. She never caught the moth, and in the end, she didn't seem to care. There's a lesson in there somewhere.

2. Bush Speech Montage on The Daily Show. I just can't believe that guy runs our country. A few days ago, The Daily Show pieced together a single Bush speech using bits of speeches from all of his years in office. Has W been relying on the same fear-based talking points ever since he wasn't elected in 2000? Of course he has - and this bit of Daily Show brilliance proves it. I watched it for a third time this morning, and it's still great. Laugh at W

3. Incensed Driver Looks Stupid. In a spot of slow traffic, I happened to glance over at the car next to me. The driver - who was alone - was pitching an absolute fit. Yelling, flipping off the driver ahead of him, hitting the wheel and dashboard, the works. Talk about looking like an idiot. I'll have to remember that the next time I act like an idiot in my car.

4. Dog Poo Delight: I've mentioned before that every time my students achieve a certain number of points, they get to take a trip to the Treasure Chest (literally, a full-sized treasure chest in the back of my car). One of the prizes today was a particularly realistic pile of fake dogshit, and the kid who chose it was extremely pleased with herself. She immediately began to make plans to fake out every single person she knew. Her enthisiasm was endearing.

5. A trailer for the movie "Basic Instinct 2." Enough said.

Day 117: Inventions of the Mind.

I'm actually kind of freaked out that I was ever affiliated with the NRA to begin with, but that's another topic altogether ...

There's a book I use with older kids called Freak the Mighty, by Rodman Philbrick, and they pretty much love it across the board. It's not even the best Philbrick book (that honor would go to The Last Book in the Universe), but it's a very good read that gets them thinking about stuff I want them thinking about ("we're smarter than we think we are," "being different can be cool," "imagination rules" ...).

One of my kids was reading Freak aloud in session today when she got to the following line:

Remembering is a great invention of the mind, and if you try hard enough, you can remember anything, whether it happened or not.

My student, who's 11, looked up at me. "What does that mean?" she asked.

Ten minutes later she sort of understood - and half of my brain was off thinking about the quality of my memories.

See, there's no easy way to say this, but when I was a kid, I was quite the little liar. I was pretty smooth, too - at least in the moment. My downfall (or salvation, depending on how you look at it), came with a crippling inability to remember my lies. I'd spin a beautiful doozy one day and then contradict myself by naturally spilling the truth the next. Over the years, my lies slowed to a trickle - largely because I busted myself 90% of the time. (This, by the way, is a true fact to this day. I can still be counted on to expose my own lies, and fairly quickly at that. Needless to say, this keeps my lying to a minimum.)

But, back to the Philbrick quote. You can remember anything, whether it happened or not.

I include a fair amount of memories in this blog, and I've noticed that before I publish posts along those lines, I run them through my Revisionist History Truth-O-Meter. Is what I'm saying the actual real-live truth ... or some long-ago fib that's simply become the truth over the years?

Here's an example. When I was a kid at camp, I shot .22 rifles (at targets) in riflery class one year. I was actually pretty good for a 9-year-old, but when I came home that summer, being "pretty good" wasn't nearly good enough. I started telling people I'd made Sharpshooter. For years, I retold my lie, and by the time I was in college, I truly thought I'd been a little Sharpshooter.

Cut to several years ago, when I started archiving all my old crap and found my NRA Certificate from the Summer of 1972. I'd qualified as a Pro-Marksman (the lowest certification) - not a Sharpshooter. I was truly shocked and a little bit bummed ... "Sharpshooter" definitely sounds way cooler.

The truth is a slippery customer to begin with - sometimes it's black and white, but all too often, it's a matter of perception. As I move forward in this experiment, which is really just a search for my own truths, I sometimes run head-first into lies I've been telling myself for years. Most, like my shooting ability, are pretty innocent ... but others are much harder to face up to.

It's worth it, though. Remembering may be a great invention of the mind, but letting go of bullshit is a wonderful tonic for the soul.

Day 116: Missing Suzy.

So ...
So you think you can tell
Heaven from hell?
Blue skies from pain?
- "Wish You Were Here," Pink Floyd

The 1980 Junior Prom. Suzy is wearing the yellow corsage.

Everyone liked Suzy. It was hard not to. She was funny and beautiful and she radiated energy.

We lost touch after we graduated from college and stopped going home on breaks, but we knew what the other was doing thanks to a few mutual friends (the type who live to keep old groups connected). "Suzy and David broke up!" "Suzy married some Army guy!" "Suzy had a kid!" "Suzy had two more kids!"

I never expected to hear, "They found Suzy's body in a ditch."

It happened four years ago today. Of course, it was someone she knew. Her husband. A lieutenant colonel and former Sunday School teacher, one of those internally emasculated guys who represses everything and communicates nothing. The kind who snaps when his wife finds all the porn he's been hiding on their home computer. The kind who shoves her up against a wall, strangles her with his bare hands, picks up a metal pestle, bashes her head more than 20 times, and then strangles her again. This time with his computer cord.

His attack was so severe that the coroner was forced to name two causes of death.

When found, it appeared the body was that of a female because a bra strap was visible across an exposed shoulder. The body was naked from the waist down, floating against a rock. Bruising and lacerations were found all over the victim's face and head. Numerous bones in the skull and jaw had been broken, and the victims sexual organs showed signs of assault.

Suzy's husband eventually pled guilty. "In all the years I knew Suzanne, I never once threatened her," he said at his military trial. "I never took action against her in a physical way."

Well, not until the end.

He's serving 25 years in an Army prison now, and the kids live with Suzy's family back home. I think about those kids a lot. How would it feel to grow up knowing your father savagely murdered your mother?

I'll always remember my junior prom - and not just because my date's mother called me a "shiksa" and came very close to refusing to let her son take me. I'll remember it because we went as a gang of six, and Suzy was one of the six. It was as awkward and silly as any prom, with bad music, tacky decor and clumsy dancing, all of it capped by (in my case, anyway) a fumbling, largely innocent makeout session.

More than anything, though, I'll remember standing in the bathroom with Suzy, fixing each other's dresses, laughing, and gossiping about everyone out on the dance floor.

We had our entire lives in front of us.

Day 112: Head Like a Kite (197.8).

I got lost on the way to my weigh-in this morning. Literally and ridiculously lost.

Mind you, I've driven there six weeks in a row. Not only that, it's barely ten minutes from my house and less than a minute from my bank. And yet there I was, going the wrong way on the wrong expressway. Clueless. I finally had to pull over and close my eyes and force myself to focus.

Talk about not being present. My head was as lost as I was.

Of course, I was thinking about Maggie. I can't help it. I've read all the advice here (and listened to a lot more) and not only am I grateful for the support, I know everyone is right. I know it in my head ...

But I miss her so very much. I miss everything from the way she says hello, her geek side, and repeated bits of humor to exchanges I can't go into because nice girls don't talk about those sorts of things in public (fine, I'm not nice ... but my mother reads this blog). I miss the way she says darlin', and the way my voice changes when she talks to me.

If there's one thing I'm confident in, it's the rarity and power of the connection that exists between us. And that's something no one can truly understand except her and me.

At the end of the day, however, all of that means nothing as far as what's happening right now. I have to let go. I'm trying to remember to breathe, trying to remember I have no control over the situation, trying to remember that she's thinking about me whether we're talking or not.

One of the hardest parts in all this is feeling so adrift. As tonight's post might be making painfully obvious, I'm a little bit all over the place. My daily conversations with Maggie were like a kite string that kept me feeling tethered, and now, with it suddenly cut, I feel aimless. I know that's just a perception, but it's a strong one.

Salvation lies in my ability to fight that perception and continue my forward motion. Regardless of when - or if - I speak to Maggie again (damn, the "if" part of that sentence was hard to write), my goals need to remain the same: Keep getting healthier (and smaller), keep writing, keep attacking my baggage, keep focusing, keep trying.

That said, I wish I were feeling more celebratory about saying goodbye to the Deuces today. I mean, I'm pleased - and I'd be truly miserable if it hadn't happened - but for right now, anyway, happiness is a bit of a stretch.

Faith, focus and moving forward - those are the keys. Otherwise, I'll just keep getting lost.

Day 111: Just in Time.

Before

After

When I woke up this morning, there were two issues weighing heavily on my mind:

1. Tomorrow's weigh-in. Would I have to have to write yet another post about being stuck in the Deuces? I wasn't sure I could bear it. I wasn't sure you could bear it.

2. The State of the Front Yard. It sounds silly, but it's been a huge source of stress. For several months I've been ignoring an already-ignored yard, and thanks to recent rains, the carpet of weeds had become (I kid you not) waist-high. Not only was I worried about neighbor complaints (and in this neighborhood, that's saying something), my mother is visiting in two weeks. I knew something had to be done, but couldn't bring myself to deal with it.

Well, as I sit down to write this, I can breathe a sigh of relief. Not only has the front yard been cleared out, I'll bet all the money I don't have that I'll be waving goodbye to the Deuces tomorrow.

All it took was a phone call from Maggie this morning - one in which she said she just couldn't do it anymore (yes ... "it" means us). The guilt's been ripping her up and she's been miserable. (I knew she'd been unhappy the last few weeks, but I didn't realize I was the cause.)

Anyway, talk about incentive. First I couldn't eat all day (I still haven't managed to get anything down), and second, when my tear ducts finally paused for a refill (just after noon), I took a weed whacker to the front yard like a woman possessed. If any of you find yourselves choking on emotional fallout any time soon, I can't recommend it highly enough.

I'm actually pretty confident Maggie didn't really break up with me at all. She only pretended to dump me as a way to help out. She'd heard me agitate about the lawn, and she knew I was nervous about the weigh-in. She had a "two birds with one stone" moment and figured all I needed was a little boost.

Unfortunately, I didn't throw up the way I usually do when something hurts this much. That totally would've been good for another pound.

If only she'd said she didn't care about me anymore ...

Day 104: Cages No More.

As I may have mentioned once or twice before, exercise is not my favorite pursuit on the planet ... unless I don't really know I'm doing it.

That's one reason I love going to the batting cages. I can swing the bat for 45 minutes and feel like I'm at least moving a little bit. I realize it's not a truly cardiovascular workout or anything, but hey ... I'll take it.

Beyond the movement angle, there's another reason I love the cages: George. Our trips are a tradition, from the way we split time in separate cages at the beginning to the final segment in which we play a game that we made up for points. After we're done playing (okay, after he wins), we generally hit up the Goodwill or Salvation Army store (both are nearby) - or get something to eat - before finally heading home.

When we went to hit balls this afternoon, though, the news was not good. We found out that the batting cages are closing down - something about how the landlord isn't renewing their lease after all these years. Since it's a prime piece of real estate on Colorado Street in Glendale, I guess it's not surprising ... but it was still a shock (if that makes sense).

And the worst part of all? Tomorrow is the last day the place is open. That means today was my last visit.

Sure, there are other cages in Los Angeles, but not 10 minutes away, and not with old-fashioned metal arms that make every pitch just a little bit different. There are no other cages where we've gotten to know the staff, where "Don Sutton" is the pitcher listed on the 52-mph cage door, or where I have a special card (given to me by the owner) that gives me 45 minutes for $12.00.

I know I'm whining, but I'm sad. First the bowling alley in Eagle Rock went all high-tech (effectively killing its once-cool atmosphere), and now the cages are going away. It's just not right.

Maybe George and I can start a miniature golf tradition?

Day 101: Burning Questions.

I think I wrote this once before, but I promised myself early on that I wouldn't respond to what was written in the comments section. I figured it was a lose-lose proposition - if I disagreed with a negative comment I'd look defensive, and if I agreed with a positive comment I'd look like I was kissing ass.

I'll be honest, though - sometimes the comments gut me, sometimes they frustrate me, and sometimes they just piss me off (I'd get into specifics - and I'm dying to - but that brings us back to the lose-lose thing). People tell me I shouldn't even read them if I'm going to let them get to me (shya, right, like that's possible), and I suppose I could just disable the forum, but that seems silly. Most of the time, people leave comments that are thoughtful, funny, kind, or otherwise interesting.

I just have to accept that every so often, being able to leave a comment anonymously brings out, well ... let's just say it doesn't always bring out the best in people. With a shield of anonymity to hide behind, people will say anything - and they do. It's a free pass to be mean. I take what little solace I can in the fact that those comments tend to say more about the person who's left them than they do about me.

All of that said, someone left a comment on yesterday's blog that I thought posed a few interesting questions. It read, in part:

If you have 265 days to go, does that mean you'll smoke pot on day 266? You've only said you'll quit for a year. Everything seems a little packaged and timed. Maybe you haven't decided yet?

Will I smoke pot on Day 366? I guess the honest answer - if I had to answer today - is yes, I probably will. I mean, I'm still growing my plant, right? I'm not exactly sure why I'm doing that, but I have two theories. The first is that I feel empowered by the fact that there's pot (at least potentially) close by, and yet I choose not to smoke it. The second theory is that I want to make sure I have something to smoke when the time finally comes.

Either way, I can't really know how I'll feel 265 days from now. Maybe I'll realize that I don't want or need pot in my life anymore, and that will be that. Or maybe I'll realize it's something I can do recreationally.

Or maybe I'm fooling myself with both of those scenarios, and, when the time comes, I'll have to admit that I love the ritual and the routine of pot just a little bit too much to ever not want it. If that's the case, pot will continue to be an "all or nothing" choice. For now, though, it's almost a relief that I don't have to think about it. I definitely miss pot - I miss it a lot. But right now, and for the next nine months, it's an option that's simply not on the table.

The second part of the comment that intrigued me was about everything being "packaged and timed." It's true - the "365 Days" element is all about time, and the "no-pot-lose-weight" thing is definitely a package. Why? Well, as far as the packaging, I knew the overeating and the pot were related, and to attempt one without the other would be either futile (trying to lose weight without quitting pot) or a missed opportunity (quitting pot and ignoring the weight).

As far as making this a timed experiment, there were a few reasons. First, I needed a deadline, or else I wouldn't be held accountable. Putting a one-year marker on things gave me a tangible goal. Second, I knew it would take at least a year to lose the weight I wanted to lose. Third, quitting pot for just a few months didn't seem like a long enough period to truly see if I'd change as a person without it. And finally, I'm a creature of habit and routine, and knowing this will be my path for at least a year has allowed me to settle in and find my groove.

Not to veer off-track, but while I was writing this, another comment came in about yesterday's post. And so, while I'm at it, I just have to say, I really don't understand why-

Uhm ... I mean ... "no comment."


Back when I was small ...

Day 100: Shouldn't There Be a Cake?

Whenever a TV show marks its 100th episode, there's always a cake. This is not a sentimental celebration, of course - it's because 100 episodes is the magic number that means everyone's going to make a shitload of money in syndication.

I can't say as I'm gaining anything monetary by reaching 100 posts, but hey - at least I'm still here. I haven't smoked any pot in 100 days, and I've lost either 18 pounds (if you go by the books) or 22 (if you go by my estimate based on the screwed-up scale).

Either way, I'm clear-headed and one size smaller. I've rediscovered my love of writing and I'm almost done with an official First Draft of a book. I've reconnected with old friends and made a few new ones.

All in all, I'm very pleased I embarked on this experiment.

Thanks for reading ... it's keeping me honest. Only 265 days and 55 pounds (ish) left to go!