Christmas. Merry. Happy. Joy. Stress. Angst. Guilt. That hollow feeling in the pit of your stomach. Ah, the holidays. Continue reading
Good evening Fine Reader. I don’t know where to begin. It’s been seven days since my last confession. Today, this day of atonement. Means little more than a full day with the kids to an atheistic Hebrew school dropout like me. Rabble rouser. Inappropriate joker. TMI connoisseur.
Allow me to present exhibit one: sweet fig and goat cheese frozen custard with crinkle-cut French fries for dippin’. Courtesy of Shake Shack, my new favorite obsession, thanks to my dear friend Danielle.
In therapy last week—oh by the way, I quit my new daddy-figure therapist and returned to my former gal, a lovely petite Italian Jewess who’s never heard of Damages but knows who Charlize Theron is. We talk about dreams and my favorite TV shows, see. And even though it’s rule #3,257 in the earth’s handbook of what not to do, I tell you anyway: I had this dream that Charlize and I were BFF, shopping at Lancome together. Well, she was shopping, and I was watching. She spent $3,990. Shocker, right? The kicker was that I wasn’t jealous of her. AT ALL. We’re talking me and jealousy, and Charlize Theron! What a good dream that was. I was so overcome with my confidence and maturity that I ached to blog about it. Too bad she didn’t want me to. But then I woke up! Sometimes this is a good thing.
So many pictures. So very very many.
Both posts deal with my latest dietary development—the sad and slightly mortifying fact that my diet may not actually be the magic bullet I’d yearned for, the magic bullet it felt like for a few months there, the very one I’ve been blogging about for almost a year, when I started in July, 2011.
Here’s an email I just wrote and sent to Swamp Chicken, in the hopes of garnering some of his wise counsel:
There are times when this happens: I write a blog post and then hours later, usually in the middle of the night, I wake in a panicky sheen. Wide-eyed in the pitch black I think, what the fuck did I put out there? What the hell is my deal? Why did I insist on sharing THAT? I pad into the bathroom and pee, reminding myself that I am human. I give myself a hug. Then I crack open the laptop and delete the sentence, word or paragraph, creep back to bed and fall asleep praying nobody read it.
I have deleted entire posts in this taut, teeming state of mind. And then I regret deleting. I regret it because I always envision one hater. This hater assumes different forms but he/she always thinks the same about me: that I am an idiot. No one’s ever said as much. Sure I’ve had the odd few who ask me, “How can you share all that personal stuff?” But they don’t usually know me very well. If they did, they wouldn’t need to ask. It’s in my DNA.
Here’s a little pattern I have sussed out over the weeks: I have a sublime time by myself, writing say, or taking an epic, hour-long walk through hilly little neighborhoods with winding streets, old growth trees and peeling tudors and Dutch colonials. Maybe I’m just sitting on a comfortable chair with the dog on my lap, reading a good book. And then a kid, one of mine, say, wakes up, or is picked up from school, or a playdate, by me of course, and that peace I’d just been cultivating, luxuriating in, gets trashed like a hotel room by Keith Richards circa 1972.