View From a Deck: I remember taking this picture when I was maybe ten years old.
I woke up yesterday morning to the smell of my grandmother's house at the beach.
Since my grandmother's house was turned into condos more than 20 years ago - soon after cancer robbed her of countless years on earth - I knew within seconds that I had to be dreaming. But that unique, unmistakable smell ... the fresh ocean breeze, antique rattan, sand in the rugs no matter how well they were vacuumed ... it was as real as if I were sitting in her living room watching the sun come up over the horizon.
My grandfather was a captain in the Navy, and a few years before I was born, he was stationed in Norfolk for the rest of his tenure. He and my grandmother bought a beautiful old house on Oceanfront Drive in Virginia Beach, and even now, I could draw a blueprint of that place that wouldn't miss a nook or overlook a cranny.
When I was a kid, the house felt impossibly huge, and I'd spend hours exploring. The sea-level basement alone was filled with treasure - storage closets were home to (among other things) books, my mother's old stuffed animals, Halloween costumes, toys, discarded hats and clothes, and gaudy knick knacks my grandmother wanted out of sight. The basement also housed a rec room with a bar and a pool table, a workshop with a zillion tools, and the housekeeper's quarters (I'm not sure the housekeeper ever actually lived there, but it was one of my favorite hideaways. This was well before my crazy uncle Boon took over the basement and made it his bizarro lair).
There was a massive picture window in the living room - one that faced the sand dunes out front and the ocean just beyond - and beneath the cushioned bench seat that ran the the length of the window (and then some) were deep wooden cabinets. Untold goodies were stashed in there, too - including my uncle's deadly Bongo Board. Several years ago, I found a vintage Bongo Board on eBay exactly like the one that was at the beach.
My grandmother (I called her "Roosh" from an early age because I couldn't pronounce "Ruth" and she couldn't bear being called "Grandma") was not an easy woman. In addition to going every Christmas, I used to spend half my summer there, and we always battled (most memorably) over my penchant for leaving wet towels on the bed and my piss-poor attitude when I couldn't spend 24/7 with my summer friends.
She also wrestled with depression, some of it over the fact that her first husband (my mother's father) had been killed in World War II just months before my mother was born. She also had a tough time because the man I always knew as my grandfather (her second husband, my Uncle Boon's father) could be a bit of a pain in the ass. But mostly, my grandmother suffered because she was a woman born before her time. My grandmother was a feminist, an English professor, and a poet, but that all happened in her 40s and 50s. Roosh came of age during a time when women were steered toward marriage and child-rearing rather than lives as professors and poets. It wasn't until much later that she began to pursue her own dreams, and she never felt she'd truly achieved them.
Cancer made sure she never would. She was given a very short time to live when she was diagnosed in 1981, but fought hard for the next several years. She died in 1985, when I was living in England, and Mom didn't tell me until after the funeral (my grandmother hadn't wanted me to come home). It all felt surreal, and to this day, I don't think of my grandmother as dead. It just feels like I haven't seen her in a really long time. Roosh hosts a party back in the '70s. The window pictured looked at the house next door. It's nagged me for years that of the thousands of pictures I've taken to document my life, there are none of the beach house. I never once stood down by the beach and took a shot of the front, or walked through the halls and rooms I loved to create an interior travelogue. Mom doesn't seem to have any, either, and my Uncle Boon has done god knows what with my grandmother's photo albums.
I almost went back to the house 15 years ago, when Sophie and I were driving across country. At the last minute, though, I couldn't bear to see the place turned into condos.
As I've written before, I wish desperately that I could travel through time. If I did, you can bet I'd go back to the beach - back to those early mornings when the sun poured down the hall to my bedroom, to days spent lounging out on my raft (well, the days before Jaws, anyway), to afternoons lost exploring the house, the sand dunes, and the neighborhood ...
And even to those angry reminders to please stop leaving my wet towels on the bed. From Quartet: Four Virginia Poets, published 1985
It feels weird not to have to write the blog every day.
Granted, it's a bit liberating ...
But overall, I miss it.
I'm also not sure why I'm insisting on continuing the whole numbered days thing (i.e., "Day 498") - it's not like there's a set goal date that I'm working toward anymore. All it really means is more math for me when I do write (and, therefore, more chances to get said math completely wrong).
Who knows ... maybe I want the opportunity for a goal to exist down the road. Maybe I'm a slave to tradition. Maybe I just like numbers more than I think.
Whatever. I'm rolling with it.
Anyway, this isn't a real post (you can tell by the fact that there's no art). It's just a brief missive to say "Hey."
Four hundred and ninety five days ... would it be too much of a cliche to say it's gone by quickly?
I said most of what I need to say in last night's Penultimate Post (In fact, now that I mention it, I suppose I should have saved last night's post for tonight, but oh well).
Tomorrow will be the start of a new chapter in "Cutting Through the Fat," a decision that has sat well since I made it yesterday.
Thank you again for all your support. Onward and upward!
The Chief Theater in Perris, California - 2007 (No, the picture has nothing to do with the post ... I just like it)
I've been thinking for days now (many, many days) about what I should do with the blog now that my 495 days are coming to an end. Seriously - I lie awake at night cycling through a myriad of thoughts.
Wow - it sucks I only reached half of my goal weight. Okay, well, at least I didn't smoke - not even once - in 495 days.
So ... will I ever smoke pot again? And if so, can it be limited to a recreational activity?
If I ever go back to smoking all the time I'll be horrified.
How will the blog readers know when I make it into the 70s ... and then the 60s and the 50s and finally, the 40s? (which I will).
There are still four publishers with the manuscript. Only two of six have passed. I want to be able to tell the good news when it sells! (Now that's some positive - if ego-ridden - thinking at work.)
The blog keeps me honest, even in failure. I'll miss it if I dismantle it.
How many days will it ultimately take to reach 145 pounds?
If I kill the blog, where will I rant?
Man, it sucks that I failed on the weight front.
It really fucking sucks.
It sucks, like ... a lot.
I think what I want to do is keep the blog ... but give it a face-life and relaunch with a fresh, more diverse approach.
I'm going to go through and hide all the entries that would freak me out if anyone found them, but leave the rest. I'll change the front page wording and debut an all-new "Cutting Through the Fat."
I will not, however, feel compelled to write every goddamn day. Not only does it kill me sometimes, I don't always have enough to say. (Along those lines, I would like to take this opportunity to apologize for all of the boring, repetitive and otherwise lame posts you've had to suffer through over the last year and four months.)
My plan is to keep attending Weight Watchers meetings, but only once a month - and then I'll post the results. For the rest of the entries, I'll write about me and my life (I mean, come on - I'm still my favorite subject), but I'll also write about random issues from the outside world.
I'll also continue to post photographs, which have often been a personal high point when it comes to the blog. I've loved figuring out the art almost as much (sometimes, maybe more than?) writing the entries.
I hope those of you who've been reading since the beginning (and it never fails to surprise me how many of you there are) will keep checking in.
Because when all is said and done - failures on the weight front aside - this blog has been one of the greatest things I've ever attempted.
Thank you.
More images from Perris, the town that time forgot:
I was never crazy about Barbie dolls. Even when I was a kid, I thought they were stupid. They all looked the same, the girls who played with them were mostly prissy, and on a deeper level, they represented a feminine ideal I somehow knew I could never live up to.
Maybe that's why, when I walked outside yesterday morning and found Sydney gaily tossing Barbie up in the air (she had no doubt come sailing over the neighbor's wall by accident), I merely smiled.
Anonymous wrote: My boyfriend is trying hard to lose weight, but (as you know) it ain't easy. Anything that a loving partner can do/not do to make it easier?
This seemed like a question worth answering.
Being involved with someone who's trying to lose weight is about walking a very fine line. You're meant to instinctively know when you should remind the dieter about the task at hand, be a partner in a momentary indulgence, or just remain quiet without judgment.
The first step is communication, which I'm already failing at with Tea. I'm trying so hard to keep my weight issues out of the equation that I'm not giving her the chance to help in the first place. All that leads to is me overeating and feeling badly about it. The core emotion at work here is vanity - I don't want to admit that I'm someone who needs to focus on weight. I want to be the person who "owns it" and has no issues with it.
That said, here are my tips for being a supportive significant other (and please, commenters, point out all the tips I'm not remembering right now):
1. Don't bring tempting foods into the house.
2. Even if the diet food being prepared is bland, act enthusiastic.
3. Don't be silently (or vocally) judgmental when the dieter falls off the wagon.
4. Suggest physical activity, but don't push it.
5. Be complimentary when the dieter makes progress (even if it's minuscule).
6. Pretend to break up with the dieter so he/she will be miserable and lose weight. (Do I need to add that I'm kidding?)
7. Let the dieter talk about how he/she feels about the weight one minute and then pretend the conversation didn't happen the next.
8. When going out to eat, suggest places that have good low-fat/low-cal options (and don't order dessert!)
9. Go easy on the alcohol.
10. Bone up on the art of mind-reading in general.
No that's not me ... not yet, anyway. (Just kidding, Mom).
I have a new idea.
What if, in an all-new attempt at super-subtle self-sabotage, I'm staying off my diet as a way to test Tea's attraction to me? I mean, if I were to gain weight and start feeling really crappy about myself, I could drive her away and blame her for it at the same time, right?
To read that (let alone write it) is so terribly pathetic that I can't quite believe it ...
But it just might be true.
Tea and I had an excellent time in the desert. She's easy to be around, and we have fun. On the way home, we stopped at a used book store, a few thrift stores and a massive motorcycle store, and then had a late lunch.
On the motorcycling front, I gained an all-new level of confidence on the bike, shifting smoothly (for the most part) and attacking corners as I graduated from the Pee Wee Track to the Vet Track.
It feels good to try and conquer a fear - I've been freaked out by my motorcycle accident for 22 years, but it loses power over me every time I ride. A little bit of fear is a good thing ... a lot of fear is just plain annoying.
I'd like to apply that same logic to my love life. There's no reason why I shouldn't be able to date Tea and make my weight loss a priority. This kid couldn't have been more than five years old - I couldn't help taping him:
I'm headed out for a quick getaway to the motocross track ... hopefully, I can get to the point where I shift gears without spluttering to a near stop.
If I'm lucky, I'll even manage to avoid wiping out (I haven't crashed yet, but I'd imagine that eating it on packed dirt has its advantages).
Two of these three boxes have already left the house.
It's that time of year again, when the kids I work with con me into buying Girl Scout cookies. I'm in for six boxes this year, all of which I will give away.
I know I shouldn't buy any to begin with - they're way too tempting - but I guess I'm just a sucker. It's definitely not rooted in my nostalgic love for the Girl Scout organization - in fact, the Girl Scouts and I did not exactly see eye-to-eye back in the day.
Truth be told, I never even made it to Girl Scouts. My story begins and ends with the Brownies.
We were living in Denver, Colorado, at the time, and I joined the Brownies for one very special reason. It wasn't the camaraderie, the badges, the meetings, or even the highly fashionable brown uniform.
It was the Frito Lay factory.
I'd somehow found out that an upcoming Brownies field trip was to Denver's Frito Lay factory, and I was totally in. I joined that week.
I don't remember much about my short tenure as a Brownie, but I believe my tendency to talk when I wasn't supposed to was poorly received. And I can't say as I remember the Frito Lay tour, either ... I have no way of fact-checking this one, but there's a distinct possibility that I didn't last long enough to actually go.
What I remember more than anything is the light brown outfit, my desire to go to the factory, and an inexplicable awareness that I would never, ever make it to Girl Scouts.
I don't blame the Scouts, though - it's not their fault I was more interested in free chip samples than getting a badge in bird watching (or that I couldn't shut the hell up during meetings).
I don't blame the kids I tutor for pushing their cookies on me, either. I mean, it's not their fault I can't eat just one.
I haven't been bowling with anyone other than George in a long time, and ever since the lanes we always bowled at went all modern, I haven't been at all.
So, when Tea and I decided to go bowling tonight, I was hoping she'd lead me to some old-school lanes with charmingly seedy decor, cheap beer, and (most importantly) hand-scoring.
Well, two out of three ain't bad.
The decor was seedy and the drinks were cheap at Shatto Lanes, where the motto (posted all over the place) is "Bowl For Fun and Health!" (I feel compelled to mention that for a place staking half its claim on health, they sure do offer the most exhaustive bar menu I've ever seen at a bowling alley ...)
All in all, it was a great place - and I'll go back again - but come on .. why has hand-scoring gone the way of the dinosaur? I know I've ranted on this before, but it's just not the same game if you can't color in your own strikes and spares. Anyway, I was hoping that a steady flow of beer would keep Tea's game at loose ends (while serving to strengthen mine), and for a while there, everything was going according to plan. I lost the first game 117-103, but came back strong with two decisive wins (121-99 and 123-92). I was sitting pretty going into the fourth game - visions of a 3-1 rout dancing in my head - when Tea decided the only way to save face was to get the high score of the night. "Sure," I shrugged, and I think I came pretty close to yawning. "You go ahead and do that."
Well, you can pretty much tell where this one is going. Not only did Tea manage to pull out a 139, I crashed and burned with an 87. So, even though we tied-2-2, she got both the high score and the most total points (447-434). How frustrating is that? How annoying? How totally wrong?
For me, it's a no-brainer: fire would be the worst way to go.
Since many of the 6th and 7th grade kids I tutor have a state-mandated writing test this week - in the form of a timed narrative essay - I've been sharpening their chops with some in-class assignments.
First, I put together a page with five essay options:
1) Write about something that disgusts you. 2) Describe what you think would be the worst way to die ... and why. 3) Write about an item you once lost that you still wish you could find. 4) Write something about yourself that is embarrassing. 5) What is the biggest lie you've ever told? Why did you tell it?
I thought the first two would probably be the most popular, and threw the fourth one in just for fun (I wanted to see how fast they'd run from it, and I was right. Only one kid chose it, writing about the time he wore his older brother's jeans to school and they fell down to reveal his bunny rabbit boxers). They had 30 seconds to make their choice and 10 minutes to write a descriptive, detailed answer that drew on as many of the five senses as were applicable.
I was surprised at how overwhelmingly the kids were drawn to the death option (more than 80%).
"I think being burned to death would be the worst way to die," wrote 11-year-old Jack. "I would not want to feel the pain because it probably feels like your soul being sucked into the sky. Being burned would also be the slowest way to die, and I say that if you're going to die, GET IT OVER WITH!!!"
Amen, Jack.
12-year-old Jonas chose old age as the worst way to expire. "Years would pass by faster and death would always be trying to grasp your life. I think old age would be the worst because every time it was my birthday I would think of death."
Clearly, Jonas was listening to my thoughts on my last birthday.
The response that threw me for the biggest loop, however, came from a 13-year-old named Alice. "What if you died in front of your friends and none of them tried to help you? If you died in front of your friends and none of them really cared, I think that would be the worst way to die."
I can honestly say I never would have thought to answer the question that way. Every once in a while (okay, pretty regularly) I learn something in these sessions.
So ... what do you think would be the worst way to die?
There will always be another bowl of lobster bisque. There will always be another snickerdoodle, another creme brulee, another eggs florentine, and another Dorito.
This is why I don't need to eat these things now.
When I reach my goal weight, all of these foods - and the many, many others I wish I could eat - will still be in existence. I'll be able to sample them in moderation.
But for now (never start sentences with "But"), it's okay to pass them up.
They're not going anywhere.
They'll all still be there.
(Note: Keep repeating the above sentiments until they finally sink in.)
