The Detox Diet

OK, so as I'm kicking off my "Living Well Through Acquiring Less" project (and I'm feeling like the project maybe deserves its own blog, maybe a collective kind of thing, if anyone else is interested in simplifying and experimenting and all that!), I have decided to do a two-week cleansing, detox thing. And I'm excited about it. Basically, I'm eating this really basic, vegan-like diet. No dairy, no meat, no animal products at all. Lots of fruits and veggies. And only very simple grains and such--I'm planning brown basmati (my fav!) and an Indian-inspired lentil / daal kind of soup. It's all kinda exciting. Lately, I don't necessarily feel sick, but I too often just feel not good. So my plan is to cut my diet way back to really basic, healthy stuff, just to see how it makes me feel. And from there, I want to slowly add in dairy and maybe just seafood.

I'm also taking a program of detox herbal supplements.

Here's the thing: detox plans that I've read about all recommend that one give up caffeine. And really, I'm just not willing to do it. I could even give up coffee for a while (BTW I anticipate that cream in my coffee is the thing I'll miss most during this whole detox period), but I'm just not willing to let go of tea. It provides so much comfort and fun and whatever. I guess that it seems like keeping tea around is an OK tradeoff.

Anyway, that's it--my detox plan! I'll let you know how it goes.

Living More, Buying Less--July: Eating Out

I know that this isn't any new kind of concept. But I have decided that for this month (and depending on how it all goes, next month and the month after) to give up one thing. I've been reading a book by Mary Carlomagno titled Give It Up!: My Year of Learning to Live Better with Less. And it's not an especially well written book. However, I'm borrowing Carlomagno's idea here. Each month for a year she gives up something that "has a personal and significant 'ouch' factor." She writes that her "selections were designed to push [her] out of [her] traditional comfort zone, where a change in habits would force uneasiness, questions, and finally scrutiny." After discussing consumerism and her need to acquire "stuff," Carlomagno writes "This year of living without forced me to put my habits of accumulation on hold, ultimately giving way to an awareness and enjoyment of the things in life that I was bledded to have and be part of. . . [T]he biggest lesson of all was not about what I had given up, but what I had gained."

And so, with the idea of performing an experiment, I have decided to give up one thing this month, and I've chosen eating out. I'm a little bit nervous about it really. I mean, what will happen when on a Sunday afternoon, I decide that I NEED Chinese take-out? Or what will happen when I miss out on a fun social event because I'm not eating out. But it's only a month, right? I can do this. Well, we'll see how it goes.

Emotional Eating

Sometimes, I feel like all I do is eat. And I don't know. It's like I feel crappy or lonely or deprived in some way, and of course the obvious answer is to eat. Now those of you who aren't emotional eaters probably don't get this, I know. And once I eat, you know for emotional reasons, I feel even worse, although in the middle of it all, it feels pretty good. But it's a cycle, a habit that I want to break. I don't think I'm quite to the point of needing Overeaters Anonymous (not quite yet anyway) but I'm so frustrated and ashamed, really. I mean, not only do I feel crappy about my weight lately, but more significantly, I feel crappy about myself, about who I am as a person. And I do believe that part of the problem here is that I keep trying to change my outside, when what I maybe need to work on is changing myself from the inside out. I'm sorry if this isn't so coherent; I'm really just working through all this in my own head.

I do (and this is the good news) have an action plan. At least, I'm working on an action plan, reading and writing and thinking about how I'm going to work through not the emotional eating necessarily but whatever the deeper issue is. I mean, I believe that emotional eating comes from somewhere, that it happens because I'm not dealing with stress or worry or whatever in a healthy way. And I'm working on finding that healthy way. In fact (wow, I feel a little funny saying this) I've started Emotions Anonymous. EA is like AA in that it's the same kind of 12-step program, but clearly, it has a different focus. I've been reading up on it and all, and I believe that this is at least part of the solution, a step in the right direction. But it's somehow a painful step to make.

Schizophrenia--What's This Blog All About?

This is maybe silly of me, possibly evidence of ever-so-slight OCD. However, I spend far too much time thinking about the identity of this blog: I think, "Hey, I want this hip blog where I say really smart things about serious literature." And then I think, "Wouldn't it be cool to have a blog where all I do is provide commentary on pop culture, notably all those really bad so-called reality programs on E! and BRAVO." And then, "Oh, since I'm all committed to my emotional wellness, wouldn't it be perfect to have a blog where I can really hash out all that." And so on. I'm convinced I need a more collective-oriented kind of blog where we can all post pics of our latest crafts. And then we need a space devoted just to cooking and great food finds.

So all this to say that I realize that my blog rather lacks any sort of definite identity, beyond, "Oh, here's what I'm thinking today." And so, I've considered having, like, six different blogs, you know, one for each of the separate, fun, smart (?) categories that I'm interested in. But that's not very practical. I mean, it seems like it will only be all this pressure to blog about all these different things every day or once a week or whatever. I mean, how's a girl to keep up? And then it dawned on me: maybe this blog is my own Golden Notebook. This seems empowering somehow. I mean, isn't it great if this blog can encompass all the things, some serious, some silly that interest me. Isn't it OK to post one day about anxiety and insomnia and the next about Hef and "The Girls Next Door." (OK, it's time for an admission. I am embarrassed to admit this, but it's true. Although I object to it on so many, many levels, I am completely sucked in by E!'s _The Girls Next Door_. If you don't know what that is, it's really just as well.) But really isn't that how life and personality and existence is? We think about our TV guilty pleasures (Oh, A&E's _Confessions of a Matchmaker_ is great!) and about our emotional struggles and about great literature and about the risotto we've been craving and about our next home improvement project and whatever else we carry around, both positive and negative. And the more I sort of reflect on it, the more I think that I want my blog to reflect all these things, because all these things really are me. And I don't need a red and a green and a blue notebook, blogstyle. Golden note books are the way to go!

So, posts to look for in the new future:

1. Drennan and the 12-step journey

2. My thoughts on E!, especially Sunset Tan

3. Why I can't seem to say anything smart about Harry Potter

4. Risotto (What is going on with me and risotto lately???)

5. Crafts and more crafts

Today's Topic: Why I Believe in Cooking

Although I like to cook and generally consider myself a good cook, I haven't been cooking much at all for the past six weeks. And today as I've been considering my predicament, it occurs to me that, for me, this not cooking (and I've certainly been eating) is both a symptom of and a contributing factor to my recent emotional "funk." It's both symptom and contributing in that weird, icky vicious-cycle sort of way.

Earlier today, I was listening to a podcast I enjoy, and the guest, a holistic health dietitian kind of woman, was talking about cooking, preparing a meal and both a meditative and a creative activity. And it's true that cooking for me is not just about consuming the meal and nourishing myself physically. The act of cooking can be so much more, even when I'm cooking only for myself. It's relaxing; it's creative. It's somehow an affirmation that I'm a worth more than settling for whatever at a fast food place, although I confess to a weakness for Taco Bell. Still, cooking is this engaging, rewarding, meaningful activity. And cooking for someone else, someone who appreciates it becomes even more than that: it's this act of affection, of caring. I have to say that some of my favorite memories with friends, C. especially, involve cooking together. That's one thing I miss now that I'm here and she's on the Left Coast, when she's not all jet-setting!

Today, I read this quote from Julia Child: "I was 32 when I started cooking; up until then I just ate." And it strikes me that a really wonderful meal prepared by someone else can be this really wonderful experience. But it's still "just" eating. Engaging in the process, both physical and emotional, of preparing a meal, even when it's glorious comfort food or Nachos at 11:20 while I'm waiting for SNL, is a different experience entirely.

I miss cooking. And as part of my newfound resolve to be more at peace with myself, I think that cooking more often, even simple things (like maybe barley risotto!) is part of my path to being more content and more at peace.

So happy dining to all. Does anyone know how to say that in Italian?

And Just One More Pic of Guinnie, Because She's Just So Beautiful. . .

Alan and Guinn

Just because I think it's too cute, here's a pic of A. and Guinnie.

A New Craft Project!

Ok, so my craft of the moment is these great crocheted, beaded chokers. They are super fun to make. And I really like how they look. Pictured at the right are three that I've made recently. The picture below is one of them on my neck. I guess I think that we'd all be happier if we'd take more time to indulge in and then celebrate our creativity. So that's what I'm trying to do here.

I'm BAAAAAAACK

I'm back. By popular demand. Well, I suppose that's a tiny bit of an overstatement. But I'm here and I'm posting, maybe not by popular demand, but because C.'s been encouraging. She even told me earlier today that she misses my posts. And of course, I wouldn't want to deprive her or the rest of you of good reading or at least of some sort of voyeuristic insight into my life and my emotional health. Or maybe you're just interested in what I've been reading and eating.

First, maybe a word about my silence (since 15 May) is in order. I've been really busy, at least for the two weeks that my family was visiting. And I've been pretty depressed--I'm finally admitting it--for the rest of the time. What's really kinda bugging me about this particular bout is that I cannot figure out why I'm depressed. But I do recognize the symptoms. Possibly most frustrating, at least at the moment, is my sense that I just cannot seem to get anything done. There's just no motivation there. Even things that I want to do, things I enjoy, fun things seem to elude me somehow. I know that it's not rational, and I cannot really figure out what to do about it. I'm teaching summer school--the one thing I can seem to get done each day--but when I get home, around 1:00 each afternoon, I seem to just sit. Even fun things just aren't happening for me. And it worries me when I get like this. And the weird part about it is that I'm not so much aware of feeling sad or bad, just lonely sometimes. It's more like I'm just this big slug, and I don't want to be this way. And I honestly can say that it's not that I'm just lazy, because even lazy fun things, like reading Harry Potter and watching fun DVDs, aren't especially appealing somehow. It's like I get home and I think that I want to read something fun, something not too challenging, but I just never quite seem to get to it, but it's not like I'm busy with other things either. I'm really doing nothing. And it doesn't make me too happy, I have to say.

However, I (finally, after three weeks of blah) am taking steps, concrete steps, to feel better and even to be better some how. And maybe I'll write more about that later. For now, I think it's enough to say that I AM doing something about it all. And just knowing that I'm doing something to start to pull myself out of whatever this weird funk is makes me feel better already.

Now that I'm here and I'm posting, I realize that it somehow feels good to be back. Or maybe it's that it feels good to be connected to the outside world, even in this "virtual" format. I've missed you all!

Gulag Archipelago

I've just started Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn's The Gulag Archipelago. And, at least so far, it is endlessly fascinating. And sad. And horrifying. And mesmerizing. How is it that I've never read this before? It's one of those things that for years and years I've been telling myself I "should" read, and of course telling one's self that one "should" do something is maybe the best way to dissuade one from actually doing it. I've read about 50 pages so far, and the writing itself is amazing. I suppose that the translator is maybe partly to credit here, but the writing, the individual sentences, are so well crafted. And all I really want to do is keep reading, in spite of the fact that both Elizabeth George and J.K. Rowling are beckoning. I don't know how to put into words how I'm feeling about Solzhenitsyn just now.

Weight

Since the first of the year, I've gained about 15 pounds. And there's not such a good reason for it, unless it's paxil (some call it pack-it-on-paxil). But I'm off that now, have been for six weeks or so. And the weight isn't going away. And I don't know how to explain how painful and difficult it is, living with the weight. My clothes don't fit--I'm down to about 2 pairs of pants and 3 skirts that I can wear. And I don't know. It's just emotionally debilitating, although I can tell myself it shouldn't be. So I've started Weight Watchers, again. But I don't know; it's all so hard. And I'm so discouraged that I do rather just want to give up and give in and decide that I'm going to be OK with being heavy, although I don't really know how to be OK with it. And I'm so, so frustrated, mostly with myself, which is the worst frustration of all. And I feel so alone in it somehow. Isn't that like some kind of weird refrain for me? I don't want to feel alone any more.

The Phil Spector Trial

When I'm home during the day, I like to have Court TV on, and of course they are currently covering the Phil Spector trial. The witness, Kathy Sullivan, who was on the stand yesterday afternoon and this morning makes me ill. She really does. She's a woman who claims to be a "platonic acquaintance" of Spector. And she was out for drinks with Spector earlier on the evening that Lana Clarkson was shot. So, it's obvious to me anyway, that it easily could have been her, rather than Clarkson. Of course, I suppose that statement implies that Clarkson's death wasn't suicide. Anyhow, this Sullivan woman is testifying as to the nature of her relationship with Spector and what they'd done earlier in the evening. And she's clearly turning this into her own 15 minutes. She's on the stand, acting all cute, cracking jokes (which the attorneys laugh at, by the way), turning this all into something about her, turning it into her chance to be on TV, to talk, to have attention. And it just makes me sick. I want to scream. I want to say, "Look, a woman is dead. Can you only think about yourself?" And it's not the normal thinking about self in the sense of saying, "Oh my gosh, this is terrifying. This could have been me." She seems not at all shaken by the whole think. It's friggin' unbelievable. And I use "friggin'" sparingly, so you can judge the severity of my reaction here.

The other weird thing that strikes me is this. And here I have to credit Lisa Bloom and Vinnie Politan for exploring some of this in their commentary. Spector seems to have this pattern of going out to dinner with a female friend, then picking up other women at the restaurant or bar and saying something like, "Hey, after my driver takes this woman home, do you want to join me for drinks?" There's something supremely creepy about that, in my opinion. And all these women he hangs out with claim that their relationship is merely platonic. Politan points out that "platonic" means that Spector was interested in a sexual relationship, but the women were like, "No thanks." If that's true, platonic must mean the women are like, "no thanks," until Spector drinks too much and then pulls a gun on them.

I don't know, rather like Anna Nicole's life and death, as Spector's story unfolds, I am struck by how supremely unbelievable it all is. I mean, I do believe it, and I think that the way that the prosecution is portraying him is reality. But if this were merely a movie and not real life, I think we'd all say, "That would never happen. That's totally unbelievable."

I sorta alluded to some of this a couple of posts ago. I sometimes feel like there's all this "stuff," important, sad stuff that's happened in my life, stuff that I'm just not talking about. And it seems like I somehow need to talk about it. I think that just avoiding it, or acting like it's unspeakable makes it more damaging. And really, why not talk about it? I think I'm just somehow protecting people who don't care about me. Here's an example: just over three years ago, I didn't get married. I was engaged, and J. waited to decide that he didn't want to marry me, waited until the last possible second. Seriously. He waited until there we were, in front of our families, in this public forum to say, "Oh sorry--don't want to marry you after all." OK, that was a paraphrase, but you get the idea. I suppose it would be more accurate to put it this way: he said something like this, as he dropped the ring he was supposed to put on my finger: "I'm really sorry, but I just can't do this." What he said isn't my point however; my point is that he chose to do it in a very public and thus extra humiliating fashion. He chose not to deal with me; he broke up with me, in front of, like, 50 people. But here's the part that I'm getting to. A week or so later, when I told some colleagues of both of ours that we didn't get married after all because he changed his mind, he got all bent out of shape. He got mad and told me that I had not right to tell people, especially people with whom he had a professional relationship, as did I, that it was his decision. That, he said, was too much personal disclosure. So that made me really angry. I mean come on! One: it was his decision, and I didn't want the additional pain of having my character called into question as the one who didn't keep commitments. Two: he did it in this oddly public way anyhow. I mean, after that, I think that any reasonable expectation of privacy was gone anyway.

The more I write about this whole situation, the more I feel absolutely disgusted with J. He'd be horrified, I think, that I'm posting this publicly, and I'm proud to say that I've gotten to the point (finally!) that I really don't care. It's somehow therapeutic and helpful for me to say it all publicly. The more I think about how he dealt with the situation and what he's done since (he lives with his mom. He's 35 and lives with his mom, not because he has to for any reason, but just because he's kinda pathetic like that). . . oh, the more I think about what he's done since, the more I just feel really, really sorry for him. And so there it is: I was in love with a pathetic loser. He was the love of my life. And I'm sure that I'll never be quite the same. But still, at least I've moved on and actually have a life of my own. Oh, his mom's quite wonderful, but that's not really the point. I've found a career that's mostly fulfilling and that I'm mostly successful at. I've forged other meaningful relationships. I have friends. I have interests outside of work. I guess I don't know where I'm going with all this, just that I need to get it out.

Lonely

Ok, this afternoon, I'm really lonely. And I know that this sounds kinda dumb, seeing that I teach at a college and all, but I sometimes feel like I'm languishing intellectually. You'd think that being a professor (ha, ha) and all, my work day would be filled with all kinds of smart, intellectual interaction, but really most of my day is filled with kinda mundane activity. And what I really want is someone to talk with about women's writing and women's experience and feminist theory. And there's sorta, kinda no one I feel like I can talk with. And T., my usual go-to-guy for this sort of thing, is busy. And Carina is far away, and maybe I'm just missing her. So I'm thinking about this Women Writers course that I'm scheduled to teach this fall, and I'm all obsessing about the possibility of a true women's discourse, you know? So here I am, getting all "Laugh of the Medusa," and it seems like there's no one around who can relate, you know? And then, I miss J. at times like these, because although he wouldn't be all into feminist theory and although I've had to explain second- and third-wave over and over to him, still he'd listen and ask the right questions to get me thinking about it. But how do you corner someone new and say, "So I'm reading Irigray lately. What do you think?" Or, "I'm interested in how the question of embodiment, especially the experience of the grotesque body, affects one's sense of identity." Or on a different note, "I'm convinced that Eco and Rushdie are speaking to one another in some important ways, but I can't figure out how they might be connected." I mean, I want these ongoing (possibly slightly tipsy) conversations about literature and feminism and postmodernism and medievalism and the self, and it's just not happening in my life. And my students are great. And they are attentive and responsive, but it's just not the kind of exchange that I'm craving. I don't even know where I'm going with this whole post. Maybe it's just that I'm missing friends and the life that I had (or maybe just some idealized version of it) in Riverside/cide.

Observations Made While Grading Essays on Oscar Wilde's The Importance of Being Earnest

1. When someone introduces a thought with, "Not to be sexist or anything, but. . . " the subsequent thought is sure to be offensive.

2. "I found it boring" is not particularly insightful as a critical response.

3. The use of the word "crap" creates a decidedly non-academic tone.

4. What I really need is "a frivolous and partying alter-ego."

Ronald McDonald

Ok, I just need to get this out: I'm totally freaked out by Ronald McDonald. I don't much like clowns anyway, but he's the worst of the worst. The stuff of nightmares, really.

Procrastination (Again!)

It just occurred to me that I've been procrastinating about posting again. And the reason for my procrastination is soooooo annoying. I realized that there are all these things I want to say but, I feel, for a number of reasons, like I have to censor myself. And that's so irritating that I'm just not wanting to deal with it. It's like I want to talk about my recent weight gain and how that makes me feel. I want to talk about C., my ex-husband, and how that makes me feel. Sometimes, I just want to talk about what a struggle work is some days. But it's like I'm suddenly all paranoid. Is it paranoia if it's justified? Seriously, I want to tell the world about all the crappy, mean, evil, destructive things that C. did to me. But will that come back to bite me in the backside some day? What happens if I ever apply for a job and a potential employer Googles me, only to read all this crap about my personal life? I mean, this isn't just paranoia on my part. If I had used the half-brain that I do have, I would have started this whole project with some clever, interesting pseudonym. But now it feels too late. And so, I just have to say the nice things. I can't say that my breasts are bigger than they used to be and that it really bugs me or that I still dream about C. several times a week. And I hate that I feel like I can't talk about these things, so I guess it's sometimes easier not to talk at all.

An Update

This is for those of you who are concerned about my well-being, given the icky, stubborn New England weather.

I am tired of this weather. Tired of snow, tired of cold. All I want is a sunny 55 degrees. I'm feeling so worn down by it all. However, I have heat and power and hot water. And at this point, I feel so, so grateful for that. Hot water seems like this wonderful luxury that, apparently, most of the rest of the city does not have. I'm also thankful to have sustained no damage, at least so far. No trees have come down in my yard; more importantly, no trees have crashed into my house. So all is well, as far as I'm concerned.

Too Much Stuff

I've been thinking that maybe I'd try to go for a month, then six months, without purchasing anything that isn't a necessity. You see, I know that I really have too much "stuff." And some of it, like my iPod brings me regular pleasure and, thus, seems justifiable. But really, I just own a lot of stuff that I don't really need. I mean, do you have any idea how many sets if dishes I own? And really, how many sets of dishes does a single woman need? And while I'd have to say that dishes do, in fact, bring me real pleasure, there is a limit. And I think I'm approaching that limit. I could say the same of clothes. And so, as I've been thinking about this all and thinking about my finances and thinking about just simplifying my life, it seems like a good sort of practice to cut back and try to figure out what I really need. I have such an accumulation of "stuff" that I could certainly live for quite a while on what I have. But I worry too. I know that I'll inevitably give in and buy something that isn't really necessary, even just, say, a latte. (Oh, I just ordered a Madame Alexander Olivia doll. Talk about unnecessary. But I'm so excited. Thanks to Zee for that!) And I'm worried that I'll be all down on myself, like, "You didn't need that latte. You said you were only going to spend money on necessities. And then you bought a four-dollar latte that you didn't even need. Why can't you do anything right? You are a failure." I'm afraid that it will simply be an opportunity for my old companion Perfectionism to set in. Perfectionism, you know, plagues me, stalks me, really. You know the routine: I hold myself to an unreasonable, unrealistic standard, then fall apart emotionally when I don't meet it. And yet, I have to say that cutting down on the stuff and figuring out what I really need, then what may be a luxury but one that brings true pleasure, this seems somehow liberating to me. I think that, in the end, rather than feeding perfectionism, it will liberate me from the tyranny of unnecessary "stuff." Because all the "stuff" is causing its own kind of anxiety.

Of course, this all brings up inevitable questions about the necessity of own books: Are books necessary? Need I own them, or is checking them out good enough? How many books are necessary, and when have I crossed the line into "stuff"? Am I spending too much money on books?

Anna Quindlen: How Reading Changed My Life

Yesterday, I went to work for just a couple hours in the morning but came home early in order to make it home before the weather turned too, too horrible. Ice storms, you know.

Anyway, since I left work early, I had some free time on my hands. And after a good, long nap, I spent the afternoon reading Quindlen's How Reading Changed My Life, which, although published individually, is really a long essay. First, I should say that, thanks to my mother, I'm on this Quindlen kick. How have I missed her all these years? My mom sent me her Being Perfect a couple of months ago; and it so much resonated with me. But How Reading Changed My Life was wonderful and made me feel less weird, less nerdy for simply being someone who likes books. I especially appreciated Quindlen's sense that books, novels particularly, are this path to female understanding and female relationships. Books give us, women in particular, a way to understand the internal lives of others and especially of ourselves. But books also give us a way to connect with other people. Books give us something to talk about. Books provide both intellectual engagement but also an opportunity for social interaction.

And as I read Quindlen saying all these things, I thought about all the times I looked to Virginia Woolf for comfort, for the sense that someone understands how I feel. But maybe more importantly, reading Woolf (or McCullers or Charlotte Perkins Gilman), has given me the forum for talking with DC or my mother or whoever else about how it feels and what it means simply to be. And I think that personal connection, that opportunity for reflection and conversation is maybe more important than the books themselves. Eek! It's hard to believe that I'm saying that there's something more important than the experience of reading and writing. But the older I get, the more I come to believe that the interpersonal connections I avoided and even scorned are the really important thing in life.

Anyway, I do recommend Quindlen, especially How Reading Changed My Life.