Today H and I finish our Whole 30 thing. It both feels like it lasted way too long and it flew by. 30 days cigarette-free is a record for H. H got all the benefits, he's glow-y as fuck, has lost all the bloat, beer weight, and has toddler-like energy. I did not get all the benefits, even though I did lose some bloat. I have hives on my face, so lovely, and crazy eczema all over my legs. I've been exhausted and pretty damn cranky/weepy. So it goes. We learned some habits and unlearned a few more. My ancestors are riled up, showing up in my dreams like: "Puta, we are the people of the motherfucking corn, eat your corn."
Tonight I drink wine. Tomorrow I eat corn.
I did learn I can be the queen of willpower. Mom made tamales chiapanecos, and I didn't eat one. Probably because she made pasteles at the same time and I gorged on those, with atypical carb-starved wildness. The family had a birthday dinner at my favorite Chinese restaurant and I didn't eat anything with soy or black beans or sugar or cornstarch, a miracle.
Glad it's over. Though the entire family is doing the Whole 30 again in November, I'll probably join them. Thought it might be more like the Whole 20 because if anyone thinks I'm not going to have stuffing they have another thing coming.
Monday, September 21, 2015
Thursday, August 27, 2015
My angry busker isn't angry or busking anymore. I guess it must be true that nicotine only lives for three days in the body and after it passes, the cravings are emotional. I, on the other hand, am still living with a sugar monster on my back, especially at my morning coffee.
Coffee is something I've been drinking my whole life. I used to spend a lot of time with my Puerto Rican grandparents when I was a little girl and coffee was part of our morning rituals. I'd sit on the high, wicker-backed chair at the counter while my grandmother brewed coffee and my grandfather sliced French bread. I loved our mornings together, they're some of my favorite memories from childhood. My grandparents had a chicken coop out back and my sister and I would go out in the mornings to find the shit-covered eggs, still feather-warm, and bring them int the house. While the coffee was brewing my grandmother would put a small, enamel pot filled with milk on and watch it carefully to make sure it didn't bubble over. I remember her sticking her finger into the pot to catch the skin on the top of milk and licking it off her finer. I tasted it once and hated it. She'd pour coffee into a mug for me, stir in heated milk and then pour in coffee. Heaven. My grandfather would sit next to me and dip pieces of bread into my sugary coffee and feed them to me. I loved the taste of sweet, milky coffee. Even as an adult, that first sip of coffee, the acid balanced out with sugar, reminds me of being deeply loved.
So emotional attachment to sugar. My parents didn't really have a lot of sugar in the house, because my sisters and I would attack and destroy it, we weren't allowed soda or candy. It didn't matter too much because we lived in such a Mexican neighborhood and Mexican candy isn't too sweet. It is spicy and salty and that was, and probably is, my favorite flavor. Even now, at 36, I have bags of Mexican candy squirreled away here at the apartment.
Last night I was what H and I called "Roam-y." I was restless, un-still. All I wanted was to roam, in my thoughts, in my body. I wanted dark chocolate, something artisan, probably salty. Instead I munched on cashews and self-hated. I'm still having trouble falling asleep. The weather has been stupidly hot and humid and I have hated the feeling of my own skin touching my own skin. Yeah, not normal. I've been spreading out like a starfish so my legs don't touch each other, so my arms don't touch my body. Showering multiple times a day. I'm tired a lot, physically, even though I feel mentally sharp. My body still aches.
Eh, it'll pass. I know this first week is supposed to be the most challenging as my body adjusts to the shifts in my consumption. Next week will be better. I'm heading to Chicago for a few days to see a friend and will have to plan my meals while traveling, and have no deep dish pizza, which doesn't sound that appealing anyway. As long as I can have a Jibarito (without cheese or mayo) I'll be ok.
Also, H is amazing at this. He is so damn good, to me, as always. Making me breakfast, coffee with coconut milk, packing my lunch every day. Now, even over three years into our relationship I look at him sometimes and think "Who ARE you and why are you so incredible?"
Tuesday, August 25, 2015
(haven't blogged in a while for various reasons but here, this is something.)
Day 3: That lovely just hit by a bus feeling is all up in me today. Second night of tossing and turning, turbulent dreams filled with ex-lovers and the ex-lovers of former friends leading me through the deserted streets of places we used to live. Everyone else who writes about this Whole 30 writes about meals and bloating, food prep and energy levels, I am engorged with metaphors, of course.
H and I decided to W30 after seeing my parents, sister and bro-in-law complete it last month. They were all dewy, flat-bellied and bright and we too wanted that self-righteous glow in our eyes as we turned down the offered brownies. Yes, we are (were?) ridden by the beasts of grain, sugar, dairy and alcohol but also, we smoke. Yuck! Ew! Nasty! Yes, all of that. But we’ve justified our relationship with tobacco by weaving it into our love story, long nights on our balcony surrounded by smoke and poetry, wine stained mouths. Cigarettes smoked on rooftops, rebel postured, all last-century glam; we hang in the green smoking section of our local bar where the really interesting conversations happen. But I want to live a long life composed of deep breaths and I want the same for H. We’re struggling.
The first day was okay. I’m not as addicted to the smoke as H is, I‘ve gone for long periods without any butts in my life. H, on the other hand, smokes like a film noir sad guy. He decided he needed something to distract himself when the cravings hit, he chose juggling. It’s like living with a busker on the edge of a breakdown. He juggles a tennis ball and two lacrosse balls in our living room while clenching a popsicle stick between his teeth for the oral fixation. I sit on the sofa and plan imaginary vacations and brood while he drops balls and yells.
The first night was hellish. We always enjoy an evening libation and both tossed and turned all night, sheets got twisty. We growled at each other several times in the night, not the good kind of growls. We woke up droopy, exhausted but determined to go it another day. Lots of juggling. Lots of deep breaths and avocados. Lots of me peeking at the “before” pics on my phone and wondering when I allowed myself to make the decision to only buy pants with elastic waistbands.
God, we’re eating a lot of eggs. And this whole no dairy or sugar in our coffee is for the birds, but I get it. The other meals are easy enough, I happen to be a great cook so I’ve whipped up spiralized zucchini noodles, ghee and caper whitefish, frittatas that would made Martha wink and other edible things that don’t taste like Pinterest. I know the food is supposed to be the focus but everything I read talks about the food hardly anyone talks about the FEELINGS. I’m experiencing motherfucking turmoil.
Last night, the end of Day 2, we were beasts. We ate. H settled in to get his teaching notes finalized, he starts teaching today, a lit class and a creative writing class, plus he starts the last year of his MFA. I brooded, I have discovered I am exceptional at brooding. I am also exceptional at draping myself all over the sofa in various positions that convey malaise. Very 19th century heroine of me. When we tried to go to bed all of our small aggressions coalesced and we were snappy with each other. My body was aching, H threw out his neck. We decided to sleep in separate rooms so our various physical maladies wouldn’t collide in the night. I kept rearranging my pillows like a frantic gerbil in a new cage. I was angry at my sheets for wrinkling beneath my body, didn’t they know how fragile I was? Then into dreaming, another night of all my cravings showing up as specters from my past. I bellowed at my alarm when it went off, like a baby mastodon watching it’s mama get sucked into a tar pit.
Another day. Yay veggies. I want a thick cup of honeyed yogurt, but I’ll settle for coconut milk and chia pudding with raspberries. I want to devour a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips but I’ll crunch my teeth on jicama instead. I want to swirl mouthful after mouthful of dark, red wine but I’ll squeeze lemon into hot water instead and think about letting go. I want to put my legs up on our balcony railing and light an American Spirit, inhale that first delicious lungful and exhale it as a prayer to the stars, watching the smoke shape itself into disappearing faces as it makes its way up to the heavens, but instead I’ll just breathe. Letting go sucks, but I’m pretty sure holding on is worse.
Saturday, January 3, 2015
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
Little check in.
Got back this past weekend from travel. Switzerland, Istanbul and moments in Italy. The details are boring but the trip was bookended with stressful situations. The middle was lovely. I came home after 58 hours of travel, exhausted, emotionally drained and in a bottomed-out place of joy, delirium, and gratitude. I was overwhelmed with relief at finally being home. I cried over home, I lost sleep over home. I was ready for home the last few days of my trip unlike I have ever been ready for home before. I absolutely support unions and their right to strike, but wow, the Air France strike really threw a wrench in my peace and tainted my magical time in Istanbul with the shit-storm that was getting home.
Lessons learned. I am not the wanderlust-drunk kid I used to be. In my head I had this idea of myself as someone who was always ready to take off alone. The desire for exploration still exists in me, no doubt it always will. But at 35 I'm rooted. I missed my family, I missed H. Almost everywhere I went I wished I could have shared the newness with someone I loved. My beautiful friend Sonja came out to meet me in the middle of my trip and we shared some wonderful moments, getting lost on the Asian side of the Bosphorus, conversations on rooftops, laughter, food, witnessing a Turkish street fight. I am grateful she showed up, unexpected, that we were able to carry our friendship from one continent to an other, and literally, when we crossed the Bosphorus, another. Her friendship is a gift.
Mostly I wanted H. I wanted to gape with him over the details in the mosaics. To slide into the easy depths we inhabit, discussing the emotional archaeology of place and memory, to get at the poetry and four secret-sacred questions we ask about anything that matters to us or the world we experience. I wanted to contemplate stones with him and invent stories, compare ghosts and surprise each other with little gifts the way we do in our daily lives. Love is good. I am grateful.
People asked me why Istanbul and I had to answer truthfully: vampires. I was obsessed with vampires as a teenager, all the Anne Rice books, Dracula, etc. I read Elizabeth Kostova's The Historian years ago, a genius mystery about Dracula. The parts that truly stuck with me took place in Istanbul and I knew I had to visit one day. The opportunity came and I took it. The city didn't disappoint. It is a place I have to revisit, and next time I'll get out of the city, head South.
Favorite moment: I was at the Hamam, a traditional Turkish Bath. I was at Çemberlitas Hamami, an over 400 year old building. It is said Florence Nightingale used to bathe there. I was exhausted, Istanbul is a walking city and my legs were beat, feet covered in blisters. I went in late-afternoon for a scrub and massage. As I lay mostly naked on the huge marble slab in the main room I began thinking about all the women throughout the centuries who'd also bathed there before; an ache began in me, that beginning tingle of poetry or insight. When it came time for my scrub, a middle aged Turkish woman began lathering and scrubbing me, my eyes were closed and I gave in to the rhythm of hands, soap, pressure. The hamam was silent except fort the sound of running water and occasional slap on hand on skin on marble. Then the woman bathing me began singing a Turkish lullaby. Her voice was sweet and echoed throughout the entire chamber, melancholic. It lulled me into my body, I wanted to cry with joy or nostalgia, it grounded me for first time in days. A perfect moment of beauty.
There was another perfect moment but it was so perfect it seems blasphemous to share.
Much love to the folks at Second Home hostel. The most emotionally generous and kind folks I met. They made my trip so much easier, and the hostel was a great place to come home to each night. The rooftop was beautiful, the rooms clean, the breakfast filling. I highly recommend them if you ever want to get to Istanbul and stay in an economical, clean and centrally located place.
Sunday, August 24, 2014
Heading back on to the road in a week and a half, will post my notes, images and thoughts here:
Monday, June 16, 2014
I arrived at the house where I was going to work and it was a stunner. The biggest house I've ever seen, on 200 acres of high desert mesa and valley. I was given a guest house to myself and told that I would be staying on the property alone, since the owner was out of the country. Yep, I had a 200 acre ranch and mansion all to myself. Yes, the house was stunning, exquisitely detailed and magnificent in scale but I didn't really care. I was elated (and a little scared) that I had the desert to myself.
The first couple of nights were scary. I love solitude but this was a whole other type of solitude. I would step out of the cabin at night to stare at the sky, and rush back in at the finest noise, usually rabbits or big fat beetles. I set up booby traps by the doors to my cabin, balancing empty wine bottles and cans in pyramids in case anyone tried to break in. I had no internet or cell phone reception so even if anyone had broken in all I could have done was scream and attack them with the serving fork I slept with. After a couple of nights I chilled out. I was able to spend my nights outside, with a glass of wine and my thoughts. By the last night I was dancing by myself in the desert, spinning around, singing in gratitude and that freedom that comes from knowing absolutely no one is watching.
I did a ton of work on my fantasy novel, that was the true gift. I rearranged chapters, worked on plot holes and edited. It still has a long way to go but wow, it felt good to spend dedicated time in that world.
I featured at the Speak Poet poetry reading in Albuquerque on Thursday night, hosted by my awesome friend Andrea Serrano. I love visiting New Mexico for many reasons but Andrea is one of my favorite reasons, we laugh and have the best conversations whenever we're together. It was lovely to feature, I haven't had a poetry feature in a long time. Funny to read all this poems, so many of them are a testament to my twenties and I could never write them now.
I'm reading next Thursday at So Say We All's monthly storytelling event VAMP. I have a funny piece based on the theme "Coming to America." My piece features Laura Ingalls, self-hate and fantasies about scurvy.
H comes back this weekend and I'm thrilled out of my mind. A month apart was a lot. I miss our life together, our little details and rituals of day to day living. I miss our balcony chats and morning silences. All of it. We're supposed to meet up in the Bay Area this weekend but I may stay in town since my sister is 37 weeks pregnant and ready to go into her birthing time any minute. H and I have a super busy summer ahead of us. I can't wait to have him home.