Month: March 2011

I Got Nothin

A number of people have told me they enjoy my blog. One guy said I’m his favorite blogger (buffs nails on shirt). A couple friends have mentioned they get mad when there are no new posts. This is all flattering, to say the least.

I love writing this blog. I look forward to the time, after work is finished and the dogs are fed and exercised, when I can sit down at my computer and put words into cyberspace.

And, I realized today that when I’m writing is the only time that I don’t think about food at all. So I’d like to do it as much as possible.

But, I have to admit, sometimes I have nothing to say. No—often I have nothing to say.

Part of me worries that I have a finite number of stories knocking around in my brain. Like I’m a vessel, and once I pour out the stories, all done.

And to a certain extent, that’s true. I have a terrible memory. Terrible. I think it’s because I started eating compulsively when I was in second grade, and if there’s one thing addiction does to a person, it robs her of the ability to be in the present moment. I was so fixated on the food that could satiate my demons that I just didn’t encode what was happening around me. So stories from the era when I was frequently and heavily binge-eating? (That would be 7 to 34ish.) Few and far between.

I try to remind myself that new things happen to me all the time, and I can write about those things. And that content on this blog is generated, not unloaded, and I can generate content any time, out of anything.

A lot of the time though, I got nothin. I futz around the house, I peruse only-sort-of friends’ Disney vacation photos on Facebook, I call people and answer emails. And I fret because I have no words.

However.

I’ve found a damn-near foolproof method of sparking an idea. I’ve used it a bunch of times, and it’s always rendered some catalyst for me. Here’s hoping I don’t jinx it. Ready?

I do nothing for two minutes.

Sometimes I have to do nothing for four minutes, but it has never taken more than that. In two to four minutes, something bubbles to the surface, and I start banging away on this keyboard.

So if you’re feeling uninspired, or overwhelmed, or underwhelmed, try it. And let me know what you think. (And if you have other means of inspiration, do tell.)

I Forgot to Tell You I’m Famous Now

I went to the Monti StorySlam last Thursday night. The theme was romance so I told the dude-swims-a-river-to-talk-to-me story. That’s a romantic story, is it not? But of course I ended it with something like, “I’ll tell the rest of the story when the theme is All-Time Worst Kisses.”

The crowd, as usual, dug it. The judges did not. Again.

People kept coming up to me at intermission and saying, “You was robbed.” Not sure why I went over like a lead zeppelin with the judges yet again. One idea I had: going second is the shit position in the line-up. I went second when I told the Turducken story too. And I don’t know, I think the judges rate the first story pretty high, if it’s good, which Thursday’s was. But the second storyteller, they’re thinking, “Damn. We’ve got six more people after this. Better set the bar low.”

One of my friends offered another theory: the judges seemed to dig the “and here she is in the audience with me thirty years and two wonderful kids later” ending.

And that’s a lovely ending. But that was not the ending to my romantic story. The ending to my story was grossness and discomfort. So that’s the ending I told.

Whatever. Jeff Polish, the director of the Monti, said late in the evening that he was going to choose a story to go on All Things Considered (local version, of course) on Friday. And guess whose story he chose.

Mine.

Mine.

Mine.

Suck it, judges.

(WUNC edited the hell out of it, taking out all my profanity* and chopping the ending completely off, but who cares! Seventy thousand people heard me tell a story.)

(*I also forgot to tell you that when I had that little stepmotherhood daydream, my mom emailed me to say, “If you’re thinking about becoming a stepparent, you better clean up your mouth!” Ha! I fucking love my mom.)

Cover It in Chocolate and a Miracle or Two

I’ve been eating like crazy for the past week. I mean, I’ve found myself totally full and completely physiologically sated after having eaten fruit, vegetables, nuts, eggs, meat—real whole foods, you know?—but walking myself directly to the vending machine to buy a Three Musketeers after I dismiss the kids.

I don’t even like Three Musketeers. Has there ever been a more boring candy bar?

But I just can’t help myself. My job is so stressful.

Tonight I found myself at an ersatz wedding reception, recreationally eating Peanut M&Ms. Well, I guess recreationally is the only way you can eat M&Ms. Unless you were that dude from “127 Hours” and your arm was caught under a boulder for a few days. Then if you had some M&Ms, you’d eat them for survival.

Not the point.

The point is, I was NOT hungry. I had already had my daily allotment of sugar (emphasis on lot). But I didn’t know that many people at the party. And so I just kept popping those little bastards in my mouth.

I simply must learn some alternate strategies to deal with uncomfortable emotions. That, or commit myself to an institution.

Sharp as a Marble

Let’s be honest, I’m not the brightest knife in the drawer. I mean, the sharpest bulb in the marquis marquee. I’m not the sharpest bulb in the Marquis de Sade.

I’m not the brightest bulb in the marquee. There it is. Or the sharpest knife in the drawer.

I got an herb-growing kit from one of my students for Christmas. I took it home, opened it up, and planted those seeds that moment. It was only after the little hockey pucks of soil had soaked up the water and the seeds were pressed carefully therein that I realized it was kinda cold for growing things, even inside.

But THEN I had a brilliant idea.

I made a greenhouse out of saran wrap. It worked! Those herbies were growing! Eventually, they were poking up against the saran wrap, so I took it off.

And they all died.

Ever hopeful, I bought my first basil plant of the season at the Farmers’ Market this morning. Call your bookie to place bets on how long it takes me to kill it.

That’ll Work

Excellent evening at C & K‘s house:

  • Shooting hoops with their nearly-four-year-old, who was wearing a button on his shirt that said “Lesbian Mom”.
  • Sitting on the screened porch as the thunderstorm blew in.
  • Eating a hunk of cow, expertly marinated and grilled to bloody perfection by C.
  • Listening to dramatic readings of articles on “The Bachelor” from In Touch Weekly.

Favorite part: I was making up a little Mad Lib using an article about how Jennifer Aniston and Sandra Bullock bonded over their cheating husbands.

Me: Past participle.

K: Flossinged?

Yin, Meet Yang, Yang, Yin

Twice when I was growing up, maybe a couple years apart, I choked on food. Both times, it was a navel orange segment that I hadn’t bothered to chew enough. Both times, my mom noticed that I was about to die, reached in the back of my throat, pulled out the offending citrus, and flung it in the trash.

And went back to needle-pointing a Christmas stocking. Or braiding bread dough into Challah loaves.

In my adulthood, I asked her, “Mom, how could you not totally freak out when your baby’s airway was cut off?”

She paused and then said, “Well, I always thought there could be only one drama queen in a relationship, and your father had that pretty much covered.”

There’s something to be said for this. My mom and dad are opposites in many ways. Mom has a sort of practical/functional slant to her smarts (her PhD is in public health); Dad’s brain is more theoretical (his, ancient history). Mom’s never met a stranger; Dad’s a proud misanthrope. Mom’s parenting style was a little more laissez-faire; Dad was always fiercely protective, ready to swoop in and save the day.

My sister and brother-in-law are interesting complements as well. When I didn’t call after meeting FOT the first time, my sister started worrying. “I hope something bad didn’t happen on Amy’s date,” she said to her husband.

He cocked his head at her and said, “Maybe her date went really well.”

One time E got my sister a little figurine of Tigger standing behind Eeyore, the tiger yanking backwards on both of the donkey’s cheeks.

Wait a minute…

There it is. (Man, I love the internet!)

My brother-in-law : Tigger :: my sister : Eeyore.

But you have to have something in common, of course. My parents have been together 40 years, my sister and bro-in-law 21. They didn’t get there being diametrically opposed in every way.

So what do you absolutely have to share with your partner? And how much different is good?

I ask because I’m emailing with a guy from OKCupid right now who claims to be a positive nihilist (that sounds like me), loves food (um, mm-hm), and won’t get out of his car at his destination if Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin'” is on the radio (whoa! hello, kindred spirit!).

But he smokes “sometimes”, drinks “often”, and doesn’t want children.

I’m thinking I could tolerate (a) and (b), but (c) probably means no-go, right?

Truthiness

I have a few lurkers who flat-out refuse to comment on the blog but send me emails about my posts. Today I got an email from a friend, which essentially said, “Toothbrush?…I call bullshit.”

People. Everything I write on here is true. I mean, I exaggerate a bit sometimes if it makes for funny. (My mom emailed me a couple weeks ago and said, “You’re too young to be having these bladder problems, especially since you’ve never had a baby! Go get it checked out!” And I had to tell her that I don’t pee my pants on a regular basis.)

(I totally did pee my pants that time when I was babysitting though.)

But I was not carrying a dildo in my backpack in that elevator. I will neither confirm nor deny my possession of such objects, but really? I emailed back, “Why would I have taken a vibrator to my sister’s house in Boston?”

She responded, “Because you lived in the living room and had no privacy.”

Touché.

But still. No. It was my Crest SpinBrush. Right hand to Jesus.