Day 137: Messy and Non-Linear.

A picture, an introduction, a beginning, middle and end, a concluding line that wraps everything up with a neat and tidy observation ... this is the bread and butter of how I write. It always has been. I break my thoughts into bite-sized paragraphs as a way to bring order to chaos. To shape a reality I can wrap my head around. The problem is that not every feeling can be contained, not every story has an ending, not every thought can follow a comfortable, linear line. Tonight I wanted to write about a date I went on the other day - a very cool and bright and attractive and funny woman who's quite obviously interested in me. We met for coffee, spent two hours talking, had a very nice time - and then I got in my car and cried. I want to see her again because I do like her, but at the same time, I already feel an obligation to tell her that I feel a total lack of true emotional availablity. I could easily spend time with her, and I'm sure we'd have fun, and maybe we still will. Like I said, I like her. But the truth is that despite all these great qualities I see, she's not her. She's not the person I truly want to be spending time with. I tell myself these feelings will change as more time goes by, but all I really hear is my head talking. My heart knows the truth. My heart knows that certain connections are so rare they stand up and scream at you and you just can't hear anything else.

Day 136: Nickels in the Sun.

It's always fascinated me how some childhood memories are stubbornly fuzzy while others are so crystal-clear you can close your eyes and roll film on the backs of your eyelids.

I used to think it had to do with how important the experience was at the time, but if that were the case, why do I remember something as silly as rolling down the
front-yard hill one evening and then realizing I had to hurry inside or I'd miss The Sonny and Cher Comedy Hour? (don't laugh - I was nine years old and thought it was the funniest show ever made).

All of which brings me to one particular memory that's been popping into my mind pretty regularly these past few weeks. It's of the crystal-clear persuasion, and (coincidentally, I think) it happened the same summer as the Sonny and Cher hill-roll.

I lived in Denver (my parents both taught at Denver University), and there was a girl named Laura who lived up the street. I thought she was so the shit. She had two older brothers, whom we worshipped, and every once in a while they'd let us hang out with them. Their names were Steven and David, and they taught us how to do really cool things like put our thumbs in our mouths and blow really hard until we almost passed out. (I know. Retarded. Did I mention I was nine?)

One afternoon, I was walking up the street when I came across a big glass jar of nickels sitting in the middle of the sidewalk. The bright summer sun was bouncing off the coins to create a thousand-watt light show, and I was immediately entranced. They were just so ... beautiful.

After several minutes spent staring, I looked around to see who the jar belonged to. There wasn't a soul in sight. And so, I squatted down, looked around one last time, and plunged my fist into the nickels. I pulled out a massive handful, then reached my other hand in and did the same thing.

When I stood up to walk away, Steven and David burst out from where they'd been hiding. "Aha!" one of them yelled. "We put those nickels out to see who's been stealing stuff from houses on the street, and now we know it was you!"

To say that I was mortified would be an understatement. Other than taking change from my parents' pockets (okay, and my mother's purse), I'd never stolen anything from anyone, and now I'd been branded a house thief. I immediately opened my fists and dropped the nickels, and they clattered and rolled along the sidewalk.

I don't remember what happened next - I probably ran home and hid for a few days (weeks?). I don't think there was any fallout from the Nickels Incident, and I don't recall my friendship with Laura changing (it was always a rough friendship anyway - she had another friend named Debbie, who lived one street over, and I tended to feel left out when Debbie was around).

The question, then, is not why this memory is so clear (the whole thing obviously freaked me out), but why it's been so front and center as of late. My kneejerk pop psychology answer has to do with wanting something bright and beautiful that isn't mine - like, I don't know, a married woman - but perhaps that's too easy.

I was hoping that by telling the story, the answer would become as crystalline as the memory, but that's not happening. I guess I'll just have to keep thinking about it.

Unfortunately, I'm the kind of person who equates not knowing the "why" behind something with Chinese water torture. I love when things are neat and tidy and wrapped with a bow - the unknown, as you might imagine, is a control freak's worst nightmare.

I guess that means this is good for me ...

But I don't have to like it.


When Laura visited the set of "Bonanza" that summer, she got her picture taken on Little Joe's horse. I thought that was even cooler than "The Sonny and Cher" show.

Clearly, stealing was a theme that year. Interestingly, I have no memory of the "Carlose (sic) Chair Theft" other than this letter. In fact, I have no idea who Carlose even was. Only one thing's for sure - Laura couldn't spell for shit.

Day 132: Everyday People (and Their Dogs).

Did I mention Vaguely Hot Long-Haired Chick and her Bouncy Flouncy Poodle?

The thing about walking your dogs on the same trail every morning is that you keep running into the same people. You don't actually meet anybody (other than to nod hello, comment about one another's dog, or maybe dog-chat for a few paces until someone breaks free), but a familiarity begins to grow.

In my mind, I start referring to the regulars by extended nicknames.

For instance, there's Studly Dark-Haired Guy and his Dopey Dalmation. Studly always offers up a cheerful hello as he goes by, and there's never any choice but to turn around and watch him disappear down the trail. He simply looks too good in the faded-out jeans he favors.

Then there's Frizzy-Haired Lady and her Really Old Black Dog. She's there without fail first thing every morning, and her dog is always game in spirit if not in body. He's friendly and happy and fragile and the woman clearly loves him to death. It breaks my heart a little.

One of the stranger Dog Trail People is Aging German Rocker and his Big Balls Airdale. Picture Gene Simmons in leather pants with a thick accent and you're not far off. His uncut dog wants nothing more than to mount any and all female takers, but Callie (my black & white collie) isn't interested. He's a very handsome Airdale ... I guess he's just not her type.

Now, Callie sings a very different tune when Quietly Cool Grey-Haired Woman and Scrappy Benji Boy come by. Callie wiggles and wags and practically throws herself at Benji (who's half her size). I, in turn, am actually a little intimidated in my brief interactions with Quietly Cool. Something about her is wise and down-to-earth and makes me want to appear, well, not stupid.

Then there are the hard nuts to crack, like Silent Black Guy with Two Corgi-Looking Dogs. I pass him twice every morning (he does two loops, which I guess I'll need to start doing soon), but he never says a word. He doesn't even nod. His eyes merely rise in silent acknowledgement as he passes. His dogs are much the same - they trot by without a second glance.

Sports Team Sweatshirt Guy and his Husky Shepherd Mix are also regulars, but as much as it pains me to say it, he comes off as the most boring guy on the planet. Oh, I don't know, maybe I'm being harsh - but just looking at him makes me want to take a nap. His dog has a far more interesting presence and might just have a better sense of humor.

I think my favorite Dog Trail Person, though, is Hispanic Woman Who Has No Dog and Never Stops Walking. She must make that loop three times, huffing and puffing along at a clipped pace, no canine in sight. I find myself hoping she gets lean and fit and healthy. I mean, even if she doesn't have a dog, she sure as hell works like one. I admire her drive to keep going.

There's only one person I ever have longer conversations with, but she's not there that often. Probably a Dyke with Two Happy Mutts tends to run into me right by the horses who live near the top of the trail. (There are neighborhoods that border the park, and the people who own the horses have the greatest spot in town.) Probably a Dyke is laid-back and washed-out, in her late 30s, and talks like she's still high from a few years back.

I could go on (Pretty Woman with the Prancy Rhodesian Ridgeback Mix, Stroller Mom and her Drooly Newfie, Stone Cut Jogger Man, Hipster Girl and her Designer Bogle [boxer/beagle cross] ...), but you get the idea.

I can't believe I ever thought going for walks was a grind. The people-watching alone is worth the price of admission. It does make me wonder, though, how someone else from the trail might refer to me ...

I think I'll go with "Friendly Chick Who's Getting Thinner Every Day and her Smart, Beautiful Dogs."

Day 130: Platero and Mom and I.

"Platero is a small donkey, a soft, hairy donkey, so soft to the touch that he might just be said to be made of cotton, with no bones. Only the jet mirrors of his eyes are hard like two black crystal scarabs." (Platero and I - Juan Ramon Jimenez)

Three shelves in my bookcase are dedicated to books I've had since I was a child, but not all of them are really mine. Some are my mother's.

Platero and I was given to Mom (according to the inscription) as a late birthday present on August 22, 1957. Along with the book, she received a stuffed donkey. Both the book and the donkey became favorites, and many years later, when she passed them on to me, they became my favorites, too.

Platero and I is a book of stories about a Spanish poet and his beloved donkey. The writing, elegant and heartbreaking, is of a caliber rarely invested in children's stories anymore. The Platero vignettes reveal fundamental truths about friendship and love and a whole lot more - it's no wonder author Juan Ramon Jimenez won the Pulitzer Prize for Literature.

Earlier, Mom was poring over the bookcase, one of my favorite spots in the house. I heard the emotion in her voice when she saw Platero, who lives on the top left shelf with a few of his stuffed buddies. Then, of course, she wanted to see her old book. As she read the opening lines, I could almost see her as a child, reading them for the first time.

I credit my mother for instilling in me my love of reading and my passion for writing. When I was growing up, she not only passed along her old books, she was constantly buying me new ones. She was also my first reader. It began with my first short story (written when I was six, a blatant Kipling
rip-off) and continues to this day (she'll be reading and offering ideas for The Falling Joys Day 87 Day 124 while she's here).

Having Mom in town right now (the trip was planned months ago) is a true case of good timing. Sure, I joked yesterday.
I decided to have fun with April Fools Day and make light of things. But as you know, it has been a tough few weeks.

Too bad. Mom has no patience for any of it. Repetitive angst bores her to tears, so wallowing in her presence is just not an option. Luckily, Mom is great fun to be around, which definitely helps. Tonight, for instance, Randy (Day 26, Day 38) came over and made dinner, and in addition to amazing food, the conversation was like verbal pinball. Funny verbal pinball.

I may have missed out on the whole Dad thing (Day 48), but I totally hit the jackpot when it came to Mom.

It's a gift for which I never stop being grateful.


The aforementioned bookcase. A few years ago, I just couldn't bear to put the lights from the Christmas tree away.


First short story. A spelling bee champ? Not so much..

Day 129: The Ultimate Stumble.

I guess it had to happen.

I managed to keep this going for 128 days, though, and that's what I need to be proud of. That's where my focus needs to be if I'm going to move forward.

My excuse, I suppose, if I'm allowed to have one, is that I've been through a lot these past few weeks. I can't even begin to describe the emotional toll of it all.

I guess tonight I just couldn't take it anymore.

The fact that I was where I was to begin with tonight was my first sign of trouble. I spent the evening with someone I used to have a more intimate relationship with. Someone who not only doesn't care about this experiment, but would be secretly pleased to see it fail. Okay, so calling her a friend is a bit of a misnomer - she probably never got over her anger at me for the way I ended things (despite her repeated promises to the contrary).

Like I said, I haven't been in a very good place lately.

Anyway, the longer the night went - the more I gave in to her - the more horrible I felt inside. And so I tried to make up for it the old-fashioned way: by drinking.

After a few too many shots of Patrone, I managed to rationalize myself into a place where smoking pot would actually be a good thing. "It would be cool to describe how it felt to be stoned after a hundred and twenty-whatever days without it," I told myself. "This way, I can do a whole
'getting back on the wagon' type of thing. No one will care. It will be better for the experiment. It will be better for me to have proved I can get back on track."

And so ... I did a bong hit.

No, strike that. I did six or seven bong hits.

I'm not sure I've ever felt such conflicting emotions in my life. I knew I would regret it, but at the same time, it felt so fucking good. Just to feel the smoke in my lungs, that familiar numbness sweeping over me almost instantaneously, the gentle ride of the long, slow, exhale ...

Oh, forget it. I can't even keep writing this.











April Fools.

Come on now, people - you didn't really think I'd fuck this whole thing up, did you? My mom is in town, and we had a lovely dinner and a very nice evening.

Heh.

I slay me.

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!

Day 94: Shooting Up with Self-Sabotage.

You can hide, but you can't run.

No, even if you've managed to pretend they were gone, your self-destructive tendencies are always right there, waiting, anxious for an opportunity to reemerge. Unfortunately, that opportunity goes hand in hand with feeling lonely (tough to avoid) and being happy ("potentially happy" will do in a pinch).

I've always considered myself to be a master of self-sabotage, a true aficionado who elevates the practice to an art form. It's not just that I've found so many different avenues to take, it's the way I make the whole process appear so effortless.

How have I managed to self-sabotage over the years? Well, let's see ... there's the whole weight thing (which is obviously still an issue), the daily pot smoking (on hiatus), being needy and controlling as a way to push people away (still struggle with that one), slutty behavior (has been largely dormant, but wants to make a comeback), alcohol (in the past, it paved the way for "slutty"), internet distractions (from online euchre to having a social life online), cocaine phases (also dormant, but like riding a bicycle), relationships that were wrong for me (where did those six years go?), television (which really cuts into the whole idea of reading a book), and spending beyond my means (an oldie but a goodie).

It's easy to see why I'm so ripe for self-sabotage these days. First of all, I've been trying to make two major (gasp, positive) changes in my life - quitting pot and losing weight - and that alone makes me my favorite target. Second, I've met Maggie, and even though our relationship has the one little catch (Day 21), it definitely brings out the best in me. She motivates me in all the right directions, and I like who I am when I'm with her or talking to her on the phone (anything that leads to the words "I like who I am" is just asking to be sabotaged). Third, I've just finished a rough draft of a book, and anything is possible (i.e., failure is possible). And finally, I feel bored and/or lonely sometimes, and for whatever reason, I tend to go with self-destructive as a first response.

You'd think that recognizing these triggers would help me avoid the reflexive instinct to be a sabateur, but I guess that would just be too easy. For instance, I was supposed to have the official first draft of the book ready by Sunday night, but I drank too much last night and therefore rendered today a washout. I felt shitty about myself, spent the day disliking me, and then canceled plans I was supposed to have tonight.

When I spoke to Maggie this morning, and told her I was afraid I was going to slip back into old, self-destructive patterns, she said, "Well, that's the nature of addiction, right?" It's funny - I'd never thought of self-sabotage as something "addictive," but I guess it is. Being your own worst enemy is most defininitely an addiction.

I just need to figure out how to kick the habit before it drags me back down.

Day 93: Friday, Day of Rest.

"Oh, What a Not-Tangled Web She Weaves" (backyard wildlife)

For some reason, I seem to have chosen Friday as a day of rest.

Be back tomorrow with something all-new and (hopefully) interesting ...

Day 92: Kids ... They Have Their Moments.

Cullinary Artist: Tammy, age 6

As usual, I wasn't in the mood to go tutor today. And, as usual, my kids cracked me up and made me happy once I did.

Today's moment of joy came when I saw "The Cocoa Puff Piece." How could a person look at that and not laugh? (Side Note: She created the piece on her own, at home, to celebrate her 100th day as a First Grader ...)

The ticket (see photo below) was issued in the aftermath of assuredly extreme "torture" I recently inflicted on Henry and Tommy (my original two - the first boys I ever tutored). Seriously - Abu Gharib has nothing on me. After not finishing their homework two weeks in a row, I warned them that if they didn't get in done a third time, there would be repercussions. There were. I took away 20 of their team points (I believe their team name that week was "The Hamburger Barf Boys"), and that meant it would take longer for them to accumulate enough points to visit The Treasure Chest (a literal treasure chest - it's huge - in the back of my car that's kept filled with little toys and weird prizes).

And then there's the short story that was dictated by Eleanor (age 3-1/2). She's not even one of my official students - I work with her older sisters. But she's outside waiting for me every time I come, and wants desperately to read and write. For now, she dictates. This is her most recent story:

Martin Luther King was a pig. The girl was named Alex and she dreamed that her family was gone. She dreamed her family was killed. Then she woke up and had new cereal. For dinner she had sausages and oranges. The pig went out to get his mom and dad in the woods. Then Alex ate the pig. But there was a whole family of pigs, and Martin Luther King popped out of Alex's mouth. The end.

I really can't complain about the way I make a living. I just can't.


Issuing Officers: Henry and Tommy, both age 8

Day 87: Finishing The Falling Joys.

On January 3rd, I started turning a script of mine that I've always liked into a young adult novel.

I've never written a novel before - for readers of any age - so I can't say as I knew what I was doing. I just followed the script, expanding on various scenes when it felt right, and turned it into something that felt like a book.

Now that it's finished (well, a rough draft, anyway), I feel very strange. My first reaction was to cry, which really makes no sense unless you consider the whole "risk and rejection" thing.

I used to be fearless when it came to my writing. I used to think there was nothing I couldn't accomplish, nothing I couldn't do. When I wanted to be a music critic, I made it happen. Ditto with being a columnist. When I wanted to go to film school, I went. When I wanted to sell a script, I did. When I wanted to write for television, I did.

I'm not saying there wasn't insecurity along the way - of course there was. But beneath the surface (and generally on the surface), I believed in myself. I might have beat myself up for being overweight, or not being beautiful enough, but nobody and nothing could shake my belief in my writing.

Then, after several years of success, came the rejections. One after another, brutal and relentless. What had changed? All kinds of things. I'd gotten older, my work hadn't always been good enough, I'd turned down several things to try and make my own movie, I'd been arrogantly telling people what I really thought instead of playing the game, I'd gained weight (yes, in Hollywood, that matters, even for a writer), I'd decided to write with George and my (our) agent wasn't entirely suportive, there was the onslaught of reality television, some bad luck, and, finally, a return to my solo roots that went nowhere ...

Finally (as I've said here before), I just walked away. I couldn't bear to be one of those laughable Hollywood types who clings, reeking of desperation, so I walked.

Now that I've finished the rough draft, I guess I'm scared. Writing it has been this amazing, pure process, and I guess, in addition to worrying about its future, I'm sad it's over.

I wrote the book in 1,700-word chapters (26 of them), and I emailed Maggie every chapter after I finished it. She didn't respond as an editor, really - more as a reading enthusiast (have I ever mentioned that Maggie might read more books than anyone else I know? And that list would include some pretty voracious readers). After every chapter, she wanted more - she truly enjoyed it. She always wanted to know what was going to happen next. She prodded, she pushed, and she wouldn't let me go back and obsessively rewrite.

It was incredibly cool, not to mention motivating (thus the completed rough draft in record time). I know it's silly, but I'm sad to see this thing we've shared come to an end.

So ... what's the book about? I don't want to give it away, but the picture is a clue - the script was initially inspired by an old movie that I love. My story resembles that film in almost no way whatsoever, but the film is what first got me thinking. Many years ago, a friend of mine named Zoe (okay, it was a more complicated relationship than the "friends" tag implies) encouraged me to watch this movie - knowing I would love it - but I resisted. Why? Because I'm a dumbass. Anyway, I finally watched it one afternoon (we're talking years later), and I loved it. More than anything, I was swept away by its unabashedly romanticized belief in true love.

What's next for The Falling Joys? Well, first I need to get it into First Draft shape, and then I'll give it to a few people to read.

After that, I guess I just need to believe in it ... and in me.

It's like riding a bicycle, right?

Day 86: Taking the Night Off.

Be back tomorrow with my regularly scheduled post.

(The photo has nothing to do with anything ... just took it a while back and liked it ...)

Day 84: Okay, So Weight Watchers Works (205.2).

What's weird is that I lost more weight last week, when I thought I was a nursing mother (Day 76).

Who knows? Maybe it was a water thing, maybe it was beginner's luck, maybe the Weight Gods just chose last week to smile down a little bit brighter. But, for whatever reason, this week's dieting efforts sliced one less pound less off of my frame. I'm not saying I'm upset over the 3.8 pounds I did lose, I just wish I understood the human body a little bit better.

This week was definitely harder than last week, partly because the sheen of newness has worn off just a little bit. It's still fun to keep track of everything I eat and calculate exactly how many points I'm using, but it's not quite as much fun as it was at first. I imagine it will become even less thrilling as the weeks continue.

What is thrilling is losing weight.

I'll need to keep that in mind as I become increasingly prone to what one woman at today's meeting called "Weight Watcher's Amnesia."

"I was at a party last night and suddenly I'd never even heard of Weight Watchers," she said with a laugh. "I ate everything in sight."

I can so see that happening to me. After all, I've been known to come down with other forms of the same malady, such as "Writing Amnesia," "Housecleaning Amnesia," and "Financial Budget Amnesia."

At least I don't have Exercise Amnesia. You need to actually do something before you can forget to do it, right?

At the end of the meeting, the leader looked down at her notes and said, "What's this? No one is getting any awards today? Oh, no! It must have been a tough week out there!"

I wanted to raise my hand and say, "No -it wasn't! I mean, it was, but I've lost more than five pounds in two weeks! I deserve my red bookmark thingie!" ... but I didn't. A new girl had been training at the station I weighed in at, and I'm guessing she neglected to turn in my stats.

Oh well. I hear there's a 10 pound bookmark thingie, too. Hopefully, I'm a shoo-in for that one next week ...

Unless, of course, I get a case of Weight Watcher's Amnesia.

Day 78: Sophie Was My First Choice.

It's weird to see the first man you ever loved (Day 43) and the first woman you ever loved within 35 days of each other ... especially when you haven't seen either one of them for a combined 16 years.

Sophie is in town interviewing for some hotshot academic job, so she came over for dinner last night. It was both completely normal and totally surreal. It's not everyday you have dinner with someone you used to wake up with every morning, someone you haven't seen in several years but were once in deeply love with.

I met Sophie back in the spring of 1991, almost 15 years ago. She'd come to this country from England to get her Master's Degree at a college in upstate New York, and was working as a personal trainer to make ends meet while she finished her degree.

Oh yeah - and she was in a serious, long-term relationship with another woman. (Which, for those of you keeping count, makes Maggie the second already-attached person I've ever fallen for.)

But I didn't know Sophie was attached when I met her at the tennis club. I didn't even know if she was a lesbian. I just knew that every time I saw her, I looked twice. I'd never dated a woman before, but there was something about Sophie that brought every long-standing desire I'd ever had for women to the surface. Finally, I broke down and booked her as my personal trainer as a way to get to know her.

I know. Lame. What can I say?

Within a few months, we were a couple. Within six months, we were living together. And within a year, I was applying to film school in Los Angeles.

Looking back on it, my relationship with Sophie definitely influenced my decision to head West. My job was high profile (music critic for the city's daily newspaper and weekly guest entertainment critic on a top-rated morning radio show), and I was finding it hard to come out of the public closet. I'd told my family and friends right away, but I lived in dread of someone calling in to the radio show and outing me to the world (well, my world, anyway). I was happy with Sophie, but I was also scared.

When I was accepted to graduate school in Los Angeles for screenwriting, there was never a question in my mind - I was going. Sohpie, who had finished her degree, was running out of ways to stay in the country, so she decided to move back to England until we could figure out a way for her to legally return. And so, after an unforgettable two-week road trip across the country, we separated.

Sophie's ticket back into the country was to go back to school for a new degree. She moved back to attend USC in the fall of 1993, when I was starting my second year of film school.

Two years later, we were finished. Sophie's life had grown to revolve around her school - and all the work she had - and mine revolved around trying to get my career going as a screenwriter. There was also the small detail that I'd fallen for someone else, but that's another story for another day. It was a tough breakup, but we came out the other end still caring for one another.

Sophie's life has done nothing but blossom since we ended. She's now a tenured professor at a New York college, she's been with Christina for almost ten years, and together, they have a baby daughter.

I kept a detailed journal over the months that I was falling in love with Sophie, and last night, I pulled it out and read through it. While it's embarrassing to see what a goober I was (yes, I actually wrote a song for her), it's also very sweet. I feel very fortunate that the first woman I ever chose to be in a relationship with was someone I had such deep feelings for, not to mention someone I still get to count among my friends. I've made a lot of dumb decisions in my life, but Sophie sure wasn't one of them.

Day 77: Ounces From Glory (209).

So close ... and yet so very far.

Five pounds would have gotten me the elusive red bookmark, but thanks to my Nursing Mothers Mishap (Day 76), I only managed to lose 4.8 pounds. (So, does that mean I was only two ounces away? Or, since there are 16 ounces in a pound, was I eight ounces away? I just tried to call George - I go to him with all my math and measurement questions - but he didn't pick up. Oh well.)

Anyway, when I saw the 4.8 number show up on the scale, I was very tempted to start shedding clothes until I reached five pounds. After all, there was only one guy in the room, a 60something Weight Watcher's employee working one of the room's two weigh stations. I restrained myself, though ... Not only would stripping have shocked the blue hairs in the room, it would have been cheating, since I was wearing the same outfit I was weighed in last week.

Yet another illusion was smashed when the Weigh-In Woman told me to keep up the good work so I'd get a red bookmark next week. That's when I realized you get one for losing five pounds period, not for losing five pounds in a single week. When I told Jackie, she said that made sense - Weight Watchers would never encourage people to lose five pounds in a single week. I guess that's true, but getting one for losing five pounds in one week seems way cooler somehow.

The meeting itself was largely uneventful. The theme this week was "Be the Master of Your Fate," and that got people talking about their weight-loss goals. One woman looked up from her knitting (she was one of four - count 'em four - people knitting) long enough to throw in her 25 cents:

"I used to think that my goal was perfection," she said. "Achieving my ideal weight. But that's not it. It's an ongoing thing. It's a very existential philosophy."

The room twittered with good-natured laughter, at which point the woman added, to no one in particular, "I'm sorry honey - I've got a lot of degrees" ... and promptly went back to her knitting.

Another woman spoke of how she'd been sick that week, and instead of planning her meals, she'd relied on the Trader Joe's pizzas in her freezer. She'd felt guilty all week, and didn't want to come to the meeting. Imagine her suprise, then, to discover that she'd managed to lose a pound anyway.

This set the entire room buzzing. One of the women behind me (another knitter, this one a little hard of hearing) leaned over to her friend.

"Did she say she lost weight during the pizza?"
Her friend nodded. "Yep."
Knitter #2 shook her head in disbelief. "Wow - she lost weight during the pizza."
Her friend again nodded. "I know. During the pizza."

And so it went. When one woman said she had a big birthday event coming up, and wanted to lose 10 pounds before it happened, the room erupted in a chorus of "You can do it!" sentiments. When another woman said how her granddaughter had hugged her and said she loved her the way she was, there was a similarly loud chorus of "Awwwww." Pretty queer, to be sure, but everyone's heart was certainly in the right place.

Surprisingly, I haven't said a word yet. I'm not sure why - maybe it's because I'm not quite ready to have all those eyes looking at me. I'm not ready to hear a chorus of anything just yet.

Maybe next week.

Day 76: Unfortunately, I'm Not Lactating.

Two days ago, I made a startling discovery.

I realized I'd been mistakenly restricting my Weight Watchers daily food points total to 26, when in fact, I was allowed 36. I'd been flipping through the handbook when suddenly, it jumped out at me like a neon sign: "Daily Points Target ... 200 to 224 pounds ... 36." I saw nothing else. I read nothing else. I absorbed this singular piece of information and ran with it. Phone calls were made. Blog entries were written. Food and drink were consumed.

Cut to this morning, when Jackie came home after a few days over at George's. I told her of my 36-point discovery (she hadn't read the blog in a few days), and she was skeptical. I kept right on babbling, talking about how I couldn't believe I'd been dumb enough to think it was 26 points, and how 36 points was so much more reasonable. All the while, Jackie looked dubious. I just kept on talking. I was going to get my red bookmark thingie. I hadn't even broken into my 35 bonus points yet. This wasn't so hard after all.

Finally, she couldn't take it any more. She wanted to see the chart. I immediately went and got the handbook, anxious to prove my point. She looked at it for maybe 5 seconds before bursting into laughter.

"Karen - this chart is for nursing mothers!"

My stomach sank. My mouth ran dry. A chill swept through my body. I grabbed the book ... Sure enough, there it was in plain English. Not only did it say "for nursing mothers" over on the left page, it told you (right under the chart) what to do when your baby started relying more on formula or solids.

I had to sit down. I couldn't believe it. I really was retarded.

Jackie took the book back and found the real points chart. "Daily Points Target ... 200 to 224 pounds ... 26."

As soon as I could stand up again - and Jackie's cackles from the other side of the house had subsided - I went to my Quick Trak points book and assessed the damage. I carefully (very, very carefully) did the math: 7 days at 26 points per day, plus 35 bonus points, equaled 217 weekly points. Luckily, I hadn't gone nuts after thinking I had 36 dailies, so I was still on reasonable ground with 202 points consumed so far. If I could make it through today on 15 points, I could still go to my Wednesday morning weigh-in on track. (Side note: Thank you, Jackie - thank you, thank you, thank you. If not for our conversation, I'd be truly screwed. Who knows how long my 36-point delusion might have continued?)

So - 15 points. That's all I had left. The only problem was that I was having lunch with Maggie, and there was no way I was going to cancel. I'd already told her in an earlier phone call about my points travesty, and while she agreed that I might truly be mentally challenged, she was also very supportive. She even relayed a story about her own tendency to rush through things and miss key information (Okay, so she was 16 years old in her story - at least she tried)

At lunch, I managed to get by on 5 points (lettuce with very plain chunks of grilled chicken), and afterwards, Maggie and I took a brief drive to be alone and have a more serious conversation. (Okay, to make out.)

Since we took longer than we should have, I offered to be dropped off a block or so from my car so she'd be pointed towards work. She'd been gone maybe a minute when I realized I'd left my keys in her car. I quickly called her, and was surprised at how well she took it. She came back ... but instead of just handing the keys over, she looked up and told me to get in the car. There was an urgency to her voice - and so, even though I was confused, I listened. I got in.

And then she started driving ... in the opposite direction of my car. The blocks flew past, and my eyes widened (she later told me I gripped the sides of my seat in sheer panic at the thought of such a long walk). I knew what she was doing - she was having fun ... and she was teaching me a lesson. A lesson in mindfulness. Had I left my keys in her car on purpose? I would say no, I had not. No way.

Then again, I'm also the person who managed to miss the words "nursing mothers" in fairly large, dark blue print. I've clearly demonstrated my tendency to see only what I want to see - to focus on that which benefits me (or pains me) to the exclusion of all else.

Maybe eight blocks from my car, Maggie finally pulled over and dropped me in front of a parking garage, where several of society's less fortunate were loitering. She was still laughing as she drove away (and, to be honest, so was I).

As I hiked back to my car (Maggie's primary interest, she told me later, was in jump-starting my exercise regimen), I thought about how my habit of not paying attention might be one of the core issues I should be examining. My mother's been calling me "oblivious" since I was a kid. George has been complaining about how I don't listen for years. I can't even begin to tell you how many things I've lost, forgotten, missed and willfully ignored over the years.

When Maggie called a few minutes later to check on me, I was still smiling. My mood, which had been good all day (despite the whole points thing), had gotten even better.

Just because something is embarrassing (okay, humiliating), that doesn't mean it can't be funny and thought-provoking.

Today, well ... today was most definitely all three.

Day 74: I'm Just So Retarded Sometimes.

Okay, repeat after me: "Karen is a dumbass."

(Jackie and George are not allowed to participate in this little exercise, as they will enjoy it far too much.)

So now you might be wondering, "Why is Karen offering up this self-deprecating little mantra?" Well, I'll tell you why.

At the inaugural Weight Watchers meeting last week, I felt I was too cool to actually attend the new members after-meeting. The regular meeting was, as you may have ascertained, surreal enough - "the cats love to nibble my bun" story was just one of many I could have relayed.

And so, instead of sitting with the other newbies to hear the Day One Weight Watchers spiel, I got in line to purchase a QuikTrak book (where one records daily intakes) and followed the Day One meeting from across the room.

The oh-so-perky meeting leader was using a huge, 3'-high flip-chart to run through the basics, and the page I remember paying close attention to was the one that listed how many food points one was alloted, per day, according to his or her weight. There was a list, and I remember squinting ... it said that anyone weighing 200-225 pounds was allowed 26 points per day.

For the next four days, I labored - as my blog entries attest - under the 26 points per day rule. I fought the temptation to ditch the 26-point range and used very few of my 35 "weekly bonus points." I was ridiculously hungry - like, my stomach was making noises no human body part should make - but I persevered (I want a red bookmark thingie on Wednesday, remember?).

Fast forward to this morning. I'm sitting there staring at a block of reggiano-parmesan cheese, which weighs .68 pounds, and I'm trying to figure out how much I should cut off to equal one ounce. I think I've mentioned I'm retarded when it comes to math, weights and measures (geography too, while we're at it ... oh - and directions), so it shouldn't surprise you that I couldn't remember whether there were 16 or 32 ounces in a pound. I was pretty sure it was 16, but I wasn't positive, so I got the bright idea to check the Weight Watchers book they'd given me. Surely, I assumed, there would be a list of measurements in the back.

So I'm flipping through the book when I stumble across the page that details how many food points are allowed for the various weight classes. Next to 200-225 it says, quite clearly, 36.

That's THIRTY-SIX.

I'd been toiling under the misconception that I only had 26 points per day when in fact I had 36. For fuck's sake. What a goddamn retard.

And this brings us back to the aforementioned mantra that started this entry: "Karen is a dumbass."

I called a few people this morning to tell them of my latest humiliation, and Grace was among them. After laughing (for a bit too long, as far as I was concerned) her first comment was, "Well, don't go using this to eat too much today."

Thanks, friend :)

After that, she reminded me for the fiftieth fucking time that I won't lose weight unless I exercise.

Again, thank you, my love. And to think there was a time when I was infatuated with you.

Anyway, the point here is pretty obvious: Read the fucking instructions. Pay attention. Put "need to know" above "being cool." You know, advanced thinking. The stuff you don't get to figure out unless you visit the guy on the mountaintop.

The good news is, it was a "Bank Error in Your Favor" type of mistake. Unlike last week's gut-wrenching "you're way heavier than you thought" moment, this was a "you've been doing better than you needed to" moment.

Now, like Grace says (though I still don't care for her at all) I just need to remain focused and dedicated.

After all, it's not about losing weight or the blog or my health or looking better or even being a 'tard ... it's about that stupid red bookmark thingie.

Mark my words, I'll be getting one.

Day 70: If You Can't Beat It, Join Them. (213.8)

I knew there was something wrong with Jackie's scale. I just didn't know how wrong.

Turns out her scale is seven pounds wrong - seven pounds in the wrong direction. Seven pounds too light. I found this out today when I went to my first Weight Watcher's meeting. After seeing my digital weight readout of 213.8 (and fighting the urge to gut myself on the spot with the pen I was holding), I said "No way!" (far too loudly) and asked perhaps the stupidest question of my life:

"Is that scale right?"

No, Karen - the scale at the fucking Weight Watchers meeting is wrong. Like the 30 or so rabidly obsessed women in the room would ever allow for that.

However, instead of laughing in my face, the woman conducting the weigh-in merely smiled. "We're monitored by the county of Los Angeles," she told me. "We're required to be correct within two ounces."

The repercussions of this are massive. It's like messing with the fabric of time or something. Bottom line? My initial Day #1 weight was totally wrong. The 219 I thought I weighed 70 days ago was probably more like 225 (harey carey, anyone?), meaning I've been deluded right from the start. I suppose I could go back and change everything - adding seven pounds to every weight recording on the blog - but those would be the actions of a disturbed woman.

No, I just have to suck this new information up and let it ride. On paper, whether I like it or not, I've only lost 5.2 pounds since this experiment began. End of story.

Okay, can I please flay myself now?

The meeting itself - once I got past the fact that I could no longer breathe - was vaguely surreal. I was the youngest person in the room (60 seemed to be the median age), and a typical exchange went something like this:

Meeting Leader: "Okay, would anyone else like to share a menu tip?"
Woman in Front: "I've been making couscous a lot. It's fast."
Meeting Leader: Yes! I love couscous!"
Another Woman: "Fast matters sometimes. Has anyone else ever tried that chicken thing at Burger King?"
Woman in Back: "I have! But I like the McDonald's chicken sandwich better. I order it without anything on it, and I never eat the bun, or course. Well, sometimes I eat the bun, but only if my cats let me. They like to nibble at the bread."

No, I'm not making this up (how could I?). That's what I get for going at 9:30 a.m. ... next week I might have to hit the 6 p.m. meeting, which I assume will be attended by people who, while owning cats, still work for a living.

But perhaps I've neglected to cover a basic point here, such as ... Why was I at a Weight Watcher's meeting to begin with? I'm not a joiner. I hate joining. And yet I joined.

Well, I've been thinking about it for a while - something had to be done. There's nothing worse than embarking on a public experiment and then forcing readers to suffer when the experiment stalls. No one wants to read about someone who isn't succeeding at something, and I don't particularly want to write about it.

Okay, and there's also the fact that I actually kind of want to succeed. Call me crazy.

And so, I decided to try Weight Watchers for a month. Just to check it out and see how I like it ("Consumer Reports" recently rated it the only diet that works long-term, if that helps any). I didn't expect the seven-pound fist to the stomach on my first day, but, what the hell ... they're only numbers.

All I know is, those numbers better be a lot different by Day #100.