New Pet

I have a new pet project--Winter Holidays!!  I am preparing for the Winter Solstice, for being visited by dear friends from halfway around the earth, and for Christmas.  I and my space must move some excess.  I have gained several pounds as a late-thirties present to myself.  I've had enough fun with it and I'm passing it along.  Rather than feast with friends or family, I intend to conduct a juice fast.  I'm charging up my camera so I can take before and after pics of myself and my space.

Believe it or not, I am pulling on some online resources for planning a wedding, have a dedicated calendar/project management notebook, a budget, and I'm working on a timeline.  I'm also starting to declutter while I do my planning.  Basically, I'm getting a home Christmas wedding together in the space of about 15 days.  Woo Hoo!!  I've never felt so alive!!!

 

The Lifehouse Keeper

Back when I was little, my friends and I might say during a game of pretend, "I'm her."  We might even get in an argument about who gets to be whichever coveted persona "her" was.  I just now got an image of myself as a lighthouse keeper, and joined in with my inner seven-year-old and said with her in unison "I'm her."  Then we laughed out loud and coined the title "Lifehouse Keeper."

"Ooooh, good one," one of us said to the other.

What's so cool about a lifehouse keeper?

It's an important job.  The people we are here to serve get to range far and venture big because they know that if they get anywhere near our place, they will be able to make it in safely.  We get to spend most of our time in solitude.  We have company many weekends, but not all the time.  We get to love the fact that we are not the only lifehouse in the world, and let that notion go.  We get to travel without leaving home if we want to, and going away for a bit is also a cinch.  It's also more of a sacred office than a position, just as any "being yourself" modality is.  In any case, it's the only "me" we can be, so we say, "I'm her!"   

French Women Have Nice Rooms

It's a fact.  Do your own research.  You'll see. 

November 6, 2011

I woke up this morning, opened my laptop as usual to check and see how my blog post was sitting with the wide world, and couldn't find it anywhere.  "Oh," I thought, "maybe I forgot to cross-post, or maybe I wrote it only on the NaBloPoMo site."  Nope.  The blog-post gnomes made off with it in the night.  Oh well. 

I had written about moving a 5,000 pound granite orb with one hand at the Museum of Natural Science.  I had written about black holes and white holes and the worm holes connecting them, which I pseudo-learned about in the planetarium (really glad there wasn't a quiz after because most of that zshoomed over my head).  Ooooh--that's it!  It got sucked into a black hole!!

Oh,Thank the Damn Universe!

I am now a conspiracy theorist.  The Universe, I swear to pete, is conspiring on my behalf that every teeny tiny little event and every big f***ing deal works together with all the other stuff that I don't even notice, to land me square in the lap of luxury.  Yeah, I said it--luxury.  Silk pajamas and caviar sandwiches?  Better.  See, I am almost totally unemployed right now, in a paycheck way, I mean.  And as such, i tend to feel a bit on the worthless side.  I'm dependent.  The word "dependent" makes me think about Depends undergarments.  Although i know that loss of bladder control is neither here nor there, what the hell does it matter...I have it hardwired somewhere in my brain that "dependent" is both dangerous and also somehow all I can ever hope for.  Not a comfortable feeling to feel, well...f***ed.  What was I saying about luxury?  That Life itself conspires on my behalf to help me notice how exactly how I can slip into the space of welcome and nurture. 

Get Off My Case!!!!

The comparison game sucks the devil's ass, and that's what I've been up to every day since I can remember.  It feels dangerous, in fact, to give myself permission to just be exactly as I am.  I just got an up-close inspection of they way I have tended to talk to myself.  Not purty. 

I've moved up a coupla notches on my priority list.  No one on earth counts on me more for kindness and fairness.   

French Women Do Get Hypnosis

In the past couple of days I have come to get an inkling of a mechanism in me that loves to suffer, can't get enough suffering, and works tirelessly to bring about further suffering.  For me, it manifests mostly as anxiety.  I used to have a huge sorrow, but now it's mostly guilt/shame and obsessive worrying.  I don't think I have ever been honest about that before.  It's just not a very flattering condition to admit to for me.  I've had some fantasy that I'm more spiritual than that, that my faith is in better shape than that, but its not. 

I've been dabbling into the work of Paul McKenna, a hypnotherapist from the UK.  Today on MeTube, I watched him work with a woman who had OCD.  The woman came to recognize that her obsessive cleaning would render her all alone in life, and she had to get more scared of alienating everyone and being all alone than she was of catching her death of cooties from allowing people in her home.  She went time and again into victim thinking, that people were being too hard on her and asking too much of a sick woman.  She finally either faked it to get off the hot seat, or actually started doing the excercises.  Paul had her following a rigid schedule of self-nurture to trick her brain into changing obsessions, getting her in better shape by loving on herself a bit, and getting her out of the rigid coping-with-fear pattern. My obsession is not with keeping it clean, but rather with keeping it numb and manageable.  I am becoming more afraid of what using will do to me in short order and more horrified with what it has already done than with what I might have to experience if mind-altering substance is refused altogether.  Probably a rigid schedule of feel-good excercises would be in order for me as well. 

 

da month--no 1

It's so easy to say "endure"
It's another matter entirely to influence another being in the way of endurance...I have no idea what I'm talking about.
Transcendence is allegedly the goodies reaped from endurance.
wisdom--the fun part
free will --what we thought we were acting under this whole time, but apparently not.
presence--do you kiss your mom with that mouth?
Intelligence?--okay, "uncle".

being this body

I am coming to understand a larger significance that sobriety has in my life.  Its grand purpose seems to be one of alerting me to the fact that I am a physical being in addition to a spiritual one.  I am being asked to give up the most powerful chemical means of expansion, all of which wear the shit out of your body if used daily.  Perhaps the body isn't meant to be involved in expansion of consciousness in this way.  It places stress on delicate albeit resilient tissues.  The stress is caused by the dualing agendas of keeping stable and going on expiditions of consciousness levels.  There is a way to explore that supports rather than injures the body, and this is the mission of discovery sobriety is beackoning me to undertake.  Will she or wont she?  This is where my true feelings emerge.  I feel a violent rejection of the notion of accepting right at this moment, and I choose to let it be okay that this inner "fuck you" exists.  Of course it does, and there is no hurry toward some kind of finish line in this case.  It's okay if I take this position regarding Vast Intelligence with me to the grave.  Good enough as is.   

EMOS DOYRH

Upon release, the twice-amplified masses break rank and disperse, straying willy-nilly out and away.

The only order is more simple than anticipated--just the one option. 

There is no other.

Knowing this, we scurry to the one side to tip the scale in favor of mass awakening and presence. 

Although we are now all on the same side, balance is achieved.

EMOS DOBMH

What is meant by "my", and especially when enhanced by the companion word "own"?

What is meant by doubled power?  Where does it come from?  It all comes from Source.

So, "I" just get two today instead of one, is that it?

Okay then,  I get to be a unifying power.

I get to know healing.

I get to attract accomplishment for the purpose of melting all back into the one.

I want it that bad.  You can have it.

This is all I ask, in fact, at least for right now.

This is why the epitaph reads

"really lived."

EMOS DOWCW
opportunities of the heart are numbered
death is a real deal, though your presence lives on.  not so much your body. 
As you will endure the experience of being just another human, you will transcend this squeamishness about having a body. 

I have been nannying a boy for the past 7 years of our lives who fits into the "oppositional-defiant" category, and who is now going to a therapeutic school geared toward children with this challenge.   A few months ago, back when his mom told me that they were considering this school, I went to their website.  Inexplicably, I felt a quickening within, like electricity, almost like when I've met someone I'm incredibly attracted to.  I even considered asking if they needed volunteers, I was so enamored.  I've had my hands full with this and that, so the volunteering idea hasn't returned, but I've often thought about that stirring of excitement I felt as I perused their website.

This morning, just as my daughter was leaving for school, and I was considering yoga or more coffee, a thought occurred to me from out of the blue, and all of a sudden, it made sense to me why this school held such a fascination for me.  It represents a blend of elements which deep down I believe must be present and in the proper mixture, along with some other elements, for a school to be dynamic and yet structured enough to provide ideal learning situations for my kids (my kids, your kids, your sister's kids...all my kids). 

I knew I had opinions about school and learning, both the formal and organic variety, but until this morning, I had no idea that I also was forming a vision for what exactly that might look like.  I am to get involved with the learning sector.  I have abundant passion for this, apparently.  I feel on fire, maybe like Maria Montessori felt when she saw what she saw and created her system of learning.  The main elements of this vision of an ideal learning situation consists of an LPC, a CADCA, a cadre of MFAs, a master gardener and a master culinarian (needn't be a chef by label, just love to cook and be good at it).  Into this mixture would rotate a cadre of science, technology, divinity/philosophy and business teachers, with people from the various fields coming to give age-appropriate presentations on a regular basis. 

Is this a group home for children who have been separated from their families somehow (foster kids)?  It's a big vision, but one I could really get my teeth into.  It encompasses, I believe, all of the territories which are most dear to me, and about which I feel the most passion.  Okay, it's October 6, 2011, and I have just had an urge to found and open an orphanage!  Happy Thursday!

October 5, 2011, Day 2 of my NaBloPoMo challenge!

EMOS DORCS

by

Wowager

you embody human Dedication to feeling and trusting Instinct

everyone Survives the Life Force. 
everyone

Cooperation is Universal



My creative expression life has TAKEN OFF since I quit drinking, and was even picking up nicely ever since I started this blog  (before official schyobriety)!  I can't vouch for the quality, but the quantity keeps on coming!  Love does that, I guess :). 

NaBloPoMo

1) open the box of packets containing your power
2) dissolve one double-strength tablet and drink deeply
3) allow the medicine to target the issue, which is only ever
    old pain.
4) Release.  That's it. 
5) Awareness will flower, and will liberate stuck energy

Just found and joined NaBloPoMo, a group of bloggers who want support in forming their blogging habits.  I hadn't thought about it until I ran accross a NaBloPoMo button on someone's blog--Thanks Michelle--I found it on the SecThurs blog (thanks, SecThurs blogger, too!  I wish I was a homeschool mom so I could post!  I'm a religious homeschool survivor from the '80's, does that qualify?).

I came up with this blog title a few months ago, when I became tired of being a problem drinker.  This was to mark the beginning of an era in which I still find myself, one which has turned a corner recently, to be sure.  When I came up with the title, I was returning to an earlier personal-intake-moderation plan I'd conceived which consisted of following Mireille Giuliano's equilibrium-finding program as outlined in her book French Women Don't Get Fat (hate the title, by the way, and the whole notion that fat is inherently evil and thin is required for true bliss--whatever!).  I love the notion of slowing down and truly enjoying the moments which make up this life I am in for who knows how long or short.  Her advice is a bit Bhuddist in a way (loving the suchness of this present moment), but it's lavishly wrapped in charming Provencal butcher paper with that twine you can only find there.  It appeals in a big way to this particular hedonist.

Since starting this blog, I have had an experience or two, including an apartment fire and a major confrontation and subsequent rift with my rigidly religious father, having to move back in with soon-to-be-ex-husband, and finally admitting that my overuse of alcohol isn't going to budge without the big guns.  "What? Rehab, Madame?," you must be wondering.  No, or at least not yet, but I have sought help in a 12-step program, which is about the same thing from where I'm standing.  It's just a lot cheaper and you eat and sleep off-campus.  I have had to say "Adieu!" to Mireille's genteel guideline of one glass of wine per day, as I tried keeping it to just the one glass, time without number.  Most of the time, I wound up drinking way more than that and waking up wishing I could change my ways.  Okay, so The Big Guns--12 steps, a new community, a new mindset, a new lifestyle, and voille!  I am changing my ways!  It's a sweet relief to wake up rested, with clear eyes, no adrenaline surge about who I drunk-dialed last night or whether I remembered to put the food away after dinner.  My body is functioning better too, which is a huge, huge plus (getting older, was getting worried).

So this Francophile woman (me) has practically gone to rehab after all.  At last analysis, all I have lost is a bit of opinionated pride, some judgements about 12-step organizations, some secretly-disdained isolation and a former pleasure that had become a big pain in my ass. 

As my favorite oracle Robb Walsh says, and I paraphrase, " I am ready for newer, bigger, wetter problems!"

"The Connection Cleanse" (?)

Well, this latest leg of the cleansing journey surely has taken me into unexpected territory, but of course, it's totally the ticket (ooooh-inadvertent pun--ticket, journey--yeah, I know, you probably got it immediately)!  So the magic that seems to be happening (and I'll get into the details of the regimen here in a bit), is that I am unleashing years of pent-up gratitude toward my body for her oh-so-integral role in this experience that is life on Earth as Me.  I'll say she plays a pretty huge role.  She's the vehicle, and, what a vehicle!  Do you remember Night Rider, that tv show from the '80's?  The car was a smart and beautiful vehicle (smart for pretend, of course).  Compare a hunk of metal that has some cognizant capabilities and whatever to the marvel that is the human body and Kit (the car with the sexy voice) looks like a set of dental braces or something.  I am appreciating my body (especially repenting of hating on certain aspects which I made the scapegoat over the years), and that, I think, is at the heart of why I wanted to do a cleanse to begin with.  She needs some love and appreciation from me.  She has been on "my" team ("my" who?  I hope my shrink isn't following this blog--I'm going to get a new diagnosis!)  She has done very well--marvelously, even!  She is my partner on this journey (or rather "I" am along for the ride) and she henceforth gets her dues.  Yay Hannah's body!!!

24: Well, whaddya know? I am writing a story (just the bones so far, but wow)! Check it out (and check out the end of the last post for the first bit of it)!

why does the noblewoman dig me so much?

Is she into women?  No, well, maybe, but she's not after me in that way, or else she is being really subtle with her approach.    I helped her in a moment of real need.  She needed to hide out with her grown daughter and my small cottage was the place to do that.  Her grown (illigitimate) daughter was pregnant, and sadly, she and the infant died during childbirth.  We buried them there, asking the midwife to keep everything under wraps.  She continued to stay with me for much of  the following year.  I would have to go back down to my family's home (they didn't know a thing about all this) to bring down the herd and participate in shearing and trading at market and such, but I would always make an excuse and return to the cottage, bringing fresh provisions, blankets, little comforts.  At one point, she decided that she was ready to return home, and very carefully and chokedly asked me if I would like to come with her back to her world.  I thought about it, knowing that I would never be able to return home in the same way again after, that bidding farewell to this life was pretty well for keeps.  I went back and forth about it, then what won me over was my desire to study and learn and discover.  I said yes, and I introduced her to my family, who were all properly bowled over, of course.  They hopped around frenetically to bring out the best and make a good impression.  The time came when we told them of our plans, and they were stunned.  My mother started to cry, then I started to cry, and I noticed my noble friend was dabbing away too.  My father and brothers looked like they had been sucker-punched, all lacking their usual bravado and boisterous manner.  We rose to leave, and my mother embraced me, and choked her way through asking my friend to be careful with me and be good to me.  My mom wrapped up the remainder of our meal to send with us.  My father disappeared then reappeared with a bottle of his infused brandy, and my brothers gave us sheep-things--wool, wool tunics, wool socks, a sheepskin rug.  My nicest brother gave me his handmade flute, trying unsuccessfully to speak as he handed it to me. I wasn't able to either, and said it with embrace instead.    

The carriage had arrived, and my friend produced a small but heavy (two-hander) box full of gold and silver coins (I had wondered what had made her things so heavy) and gave it to my mother.  We boarded the carriage and waved to my family as the horses pulled us away from my old home.  I thought about opening the brandy, but knew I wouldn't need any help keeping my stomach settled in this swaying, jostling carriage.  My friend advised me to fix my gaze on something outside the window that doesn't move, and patted my hand, resting her hand on mine for a second.  Big tears then started to roll down my face as my gaze had clamped onto the rock outcropping that marked the spot where I had been going since I was a young girl to pasture my sheep.  I couldn't see the cottage, but I knew it was there, and would be there, but after a while we began to pass it, and I had to pick a new focal point further out into the distance.     

34-25

Sweet Jesus.  I am in an intense time.  I am retraining the way I think about myself and the others around me.  I am retraining myself to crave the present moment rather than craving catharsis from it.  My moments are steadily becoming more bearable and also even enjoyable.  You could not have bribed me with a large enough sum to get me to admit to this up until now, but the pep rally I've been leading for myself all these years has been masking a heavy flow of judgement, suspicion, fear, and dissatisfaction with myself and with Life.  Of course that's not all that's been flowing, otherwise I wouldn't be able to humble myself now, but it's been my modus operandi for ahhh, a long-ass time. 

I am now increasingly attracted to the willing act of laying myself bare to Life by coming present.  It feels like a death, but I'm starting to dig it more and more.  It really is nothing to fear, death.  Decay is a little stinky, but death itself, eh.  You'll live.   

I am embarking upon a weekend (holiday) to envision the kind of space I would like to have, envision what I do week in and week out, and include notes on quitting tired routines and pursuits and replacing them with the very thing that would make me love me madly!  As the vision gets clear, I would like to begin alternating envisioning sessions with sessions for reordering my stuff, setting up organization systems, putting on my bossiest leather corset and telling shit whether and/or where it belongs in my space.  I am all for washing and wiping down and orange-oil-throwing, thus blessing my new space and quite moving in.  Everyone is going to need to stand back for this.  It may get loud.  I might weep.  I might play guitar quite a bit.  I might even do both at the same time!

This long weekend is all about my relationship with the love of my life, which is me, of course.  I've finally met the man of my dreams, and guess what?  She's not only a woman, but she also happens to be me-- Mycellf.

During this weekend, I take impeccable care of my body, washing and detoxifying her gently, girling-up as desired.  I will take care of this.  It is of the utmost importance.  I eat lovingly (and gratefully, I would imagine, after two days of leek broth) cooking indicated recipes, following Mireille's advice to the letter.

As if pretending that I'm French is not enough from the whimsy department (clearly it's not, or it wouldn't keep coming, right?), I have decided to pretend that I am a tanned and calloused shepherdess from, y'know, French...sheep...country (?), and I have had a chance encounter with a lovely, wise and kind noblewoman who now wants me to come live with her at her home and be with her out at social functions of all sizes and on every level (she is not tied down to her own social stratum, and for that is considered amongst other members of the court at Versailles a bit of a threat, or in the vernacular, a crass and wonton shipwreck of a woman).   She pities them, but as it is out of her jurisdiction, she lets it blow by her.  She loves me, thinks the world of me, can't get enough of me and can't wait to start taking me places with her.  She apparently has quite a good time of it, and rather takes it as easy in her life outside of court (that she has one is the problem, of course) as she gets a hard time from everyone at court.  She sees me-- sees my beauty, my charm, my depth, my grace, my wisdom, my cleverness and my hunger to know--to make journeys of discovery.  I feel bold with her, just as Shakespeare said that one was bound to be, "...when one is sure of being loved."       

42-35

I am cleansing, doing a hybrid of Guliano's leek soup and the Master Cleanse in an attempt to recalibrate my habits, go all the way crazy, and set myself up for success for the remaining days of Savor School.  Slowing down enough to do the work of Savor School has proven to be a huge challenge, so I've pulled out the big guns (fasting).  It's what Guliano suggests anyway to jumpstart the equillibrating process and lifestyle. 

What's really been in my face these past two days of cleansing is how badly I tend to feel about myself and how disgustedly I tend to talk to myself and how badly I tend to treat myself.  I'm nose to nose with my low self-esteem, and I think that it's up for a raise during this fast.  I feel pretty clueless about making that happen.  I feel like a beginner, not an expert at all.  I think what separates me from the me I would like to be is humility and acceptance of my perpetual beginnerness.  I would like to be okay with this "cluelessness" rather than feeling threatened by it.  "I don't know..." (the answer, how to do it, where it is, where I am, what's going on...) is where I want to feel most at home. 

"52-43" or "WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU???!!!!

43

It's been a few days in coming, but guess what?  I have such a clear idea of what my main pain is, and boy is it special.  It's the stuff that would make Oprah herself want to wrap it up and call it a life. 

It arrived by stork this evening, just as I was going on hour #876 of solo parenting duty, meanwhile trying to do what I do and be who I be without major failure.  I don't think I have been this angry with no place to go with it since I was about seven years old and getting my ass handed to me by my next eldest brother.  I really felt like I was coming to pieces tonight, and in the midst of the crisis, I gave an excercise I recently picked up a whirl.  What the hell...I am angry enough to murder, practically, so why not give peace a chance?

I started stream-of-consciousness-ing into a text message (which I promptly readdressed to my own phone--no sense in sharing this brand of love with someone who had simply asked "howz it go-n?"):

"I am in violent rejection of something about Andrei.  He is the most out of touch person on the planet.  So insensitive I think he is the undead.  I feel like dismantling him. However, I am of the persuasion that any time we humans react to something in someone else, it is simply because we are loath to acknowledege that bit about ourselves.  It is my own insensitivity that I can't and won't look at.  He is simply mirroring it back to me and I cannot f***ing stand it.  He is giving me a good look at an aspect of myself I actually (deeply) and desperately wish to acknowledge and integrate.  It is within a hairsbreadth of my life purpose.  Another 'I' (waking, surface?) hates this and wants to forget the whole matter.  Problem is, I am miserable in my life to the exact same degree that I am resisting this:  that I am just like him (and just like my brother and my mother, for that matter).  I hurt others in the same way I feel hurt by him!  I hate it.  I am so deeply disturbed by this aspect of myself that I all but but can't look at it.  What do I feel when I consider that I am just f***ing like him here?  

Well...ok...

'that I am the worst human being that has ever walked the earth.  I cannot be loved.  I cannot be forgiven.  I cannot be accepted.  I am utterly wretched.  I am worthless.  I have relegated myself to oblivion.  There's nothing else to do with me but reject me and let me disintegrate.  I'm trash.  I've wrecked and ruined myself.  I am to blame for my own wretchedness.'" 

So!  No mystery why I've been using :)!  Jesus and baby Mary. 

53

Today I simply stayed in bed, recooperating, writing and resting.  I got all slowed down, made myself breakfast and then lunch in bed, read some of my rehab bible (French Women For All Seasons, of course), chatted and skyped with people and did some web research.  In all that resting I feel like something has begun to come together programwise for this consecrated period between now and Midsummer.  Another book has come to grace my tote bag, The Good Girl's Guide To Bad Girl Sex.  I think it may fill in the erotic gaps left by Guiliano's work.  She's French, so she probably is a very bad girl, I'm guessing, and maybe her sex book is due out next year, I don't know, but I think I need this sexuality-and-savoring-specific tome to enhance my program.  Savor School simply must include a retraining of my sexual being and expression.  I've read a bit of the sex book, and it is all about savoring your body, coming to appreciate and own it, and learning how to share it in a way which satisfies you and usually awakens your partner more fully as a human being in the process.  More on that as we go.

I would like to set a goal for my reading of these two books.  The sex book has soooo many excercises too, but then so does the French one too.  Mirelle has me shopping, prepping cooking, fasting for two days, yoga, bike riding, walking (or hiking in my case--love those trails in the woods at the park), and on and on.  The sexercises are mostly done in the budior, obviously, but take time and focus to complete (many are actually meditations, so don't go wild picturing some prescribed orgy taking place every day).  The goals I'd like to start with for reading these books are:

French:  6 or so pages per day plus excercises
Sex:  4 or so pages, plus excercises 

One thing I would like to start doing as an adjunct to my reading, cooking for myself et al, is performing spa rituals at home--real deal face masques, manicures, pedicures, hair masques, exfoliating scrubs, self-massage, house-call massage when feasable, teeth-whitening (I have the special whitening pen, just need to make it a priority) and any other treatment that sounds like just the thing.  I want to be my own lady-in-waiting.  I want to emerge at Midsummer as the made-over Eliza Doolittle--regal, poised, tan (I'm throwing that one in b/c I feel better tan), dressed to the nines (oh yeah, I get to sew and accessorize too!  Costume time!), with great hair and feeling deeply, deeply loved and cared for. 

So, this just in...I am no longer on the market for dates and stuff to do in the evenings and on weekends.  I am no longer pining for the admiration of the rich and handsome.   I don't feel responsible to show up for art openings and performances, and only go to birthday parties and get-togethers of people to whom I really super-duper want to say "I love you, I'm glad you were born."  I'm glad everyone was born, mind you, but for the next seven+ weeks, I'm going to need to be a bit ungettable.  "No, thanks.  I wish I could.  Next time for sure.  Let's reschedule for July or August, can we please???"  I will maintain a healthy facebook, twitter and email appearance, and can skype and phone some, along with sending gifts, cards and flowers, but getting me in person is going to be next to impossible unless I work for/with you or I have hired you to massage me or do my nails.  I am my own best friend for the next 7+ weeks, and I recognize that I don't need to be sought-after socially in order to feel worthwhile.  If people don't invite me out or want to see me, good.  I'm not available anyway.  My schedule is full with reading, doing excercises, writing, yoga, business development, fund-raising (my nanny job and catering), hiking, yoga and parenting.  I also need to sleep, so my new bed time is about now--9:30, come what may.  July may look different and August I may be globetrotting and dancing all night, but for now, this is what I choose to be and do. 

Well I guess this thing is coming together!

Boozing activity for the day--two sips of brandy (tossed the rest--don't know why I poured it, just habit, I guess) and a 3/4 beer offered as a social gesture by Baby Daddy.  I didn't see the harm, as my goal for the next 8 weeks is to have no more than one glass of beer or wine per day in the evening (and always with food).  Also, the Antabuse I'm taking is truly as advertised (anti-abuse), and I started to get that nasty taste in my mouth by 3/4 of the bottle, sipping slowly.  As far as I know, as long as I heed that initial warning (nasty taste, like I've been drinking all night and it's time to go to bed) there's no harm to my body, but don't take my word for it.  That shit can kill if you decide to say "fuck it" and throw back a shot.  Heart failure.  Not fun, and not for the wavering of resolve not to abuse.  Be sure of where you stand before you decide to pop this pill unless you are suicidal and love to suffer. 

Now Begs the Question...

What are the true principles of eating and drinking?  Within the answer, I bet I'm going to find my life.  Excercising the discipline required to honor the pleasures of the table is my own personal savior in this endeavor of Savor School.

One Professor's View of the Impact of Excess on Savoring

"Those persons who suffer from indigestion, or who become drunk, are utterly ignorant of the true principles of eating and drinking."

-Brillat Savarin, The Physiology of Taste

54

54 arrived bright and foggy (in my head), although I didn't feel that bad physically (hangoverwise), aside from the worsened symptoms of upper respiratory infection that had begun to turn into accute bronchitis.  I waited until noon (twelve hours after my last drink), and then took a dose of Antabuse, which is a deterrent drug for people who don't want to drink but have a drinking habit.  It's the willpower pill, and I love it when I make up my mind not to drink.  It causes an immediate unpleasant reaction to alcohol when both drug and alcohol are present in the body.  There just isn't room enough for the both of them, and the drug wins every time.  I don't want to feel that reaction, so I stay off the sauce.  It is my intention to keep up this medication during the remaining days of this recalibration period.  Of course I drank nothing alcoholic during #54.  Yay.  It feels good to be aligned with my desires like this. 
I did many things today, though I really wanted and probably needed to be in bed the whole day, resting and aiding my body's healing from this bronchitis and whatever other challenges it may be having as a result of my chronic over-imbibing.  I'm on her side, and now I can put my resources where my mouth is.  I continue to read (re-read for the third or fourth time) French Women For All Seasons, learning to savor the Spring and prepare for Summer.  More and more on that as the other (chemical) drama in my life subsides! 

55

55 was a red-letter day for my business.  I have been trying to get it off the ground for over 3 years now, and until Wednesday was totally conflicted about having this business at all.  Without going into all the details, let's just suffice it to say that I was able to move into a much more compatible direction with it, and, for the first time in over 3 years, I have almost no conflict about getting new clients, taking on bigger and bigger projects if need be, having staff, and turning this thing into a thriving catering business!  I feel like I have been let out of jail, and that I get to play for a living from now on, even if I still need to do some less exciting things for money while the busines gets off and running.

While I unfolded the above miracles, I imbibed the other three Guinesses over a period of six hours or so, then in the next six hours I drank another couple of shots of brandy, had a glass of red wine, another Guiness or two I pilfered from someone's stash, and finished the evening with about three shots of vodka.  All in all, eleven drinks in so many hours.  Hey, that's what the moderation police recommend anyway, right?  One drink per hour!  Except I don't think that they meant eleven in one day or starting at noon.  55 was definitely another instance of putting the suck in suckcess!!  I am very excited about the blockage I removed to fully launching my business though.  One less reason to want to escape the present!  On to 54!

falling down and going boom

I have become really good at regarding my attempts at mastery over my awareness (speaking here of "failed" attempts, of course) like a kind and enthralled parent regards their baby who is learning to walk.  That parent loves every minute of it--the pulling up, the letting go, the teetering, the hard sit-down on diapered bottom--there's no pressure or timeline or anything at stake.  That parent just loves that kid, and the kid can do no wrong.  Does this mean that the parent doesn't care whether or not the kid achieves mastery of her gross motor skills?  Quite the opposite, and in fact, that parent will be looking for ways in which to support that kid in her quest for mastery...and if there seems to be something wrong with the mastery achievement, such as a developmental delay, said parent is going to be on Google like bob's-your-uncle, phoning pediatricians and getting referrals.  My ability to master present moment awareness without a major vacay to Dry Gulch Rehab Center is still a bit up for grabs...I may have problems bigger than I can solve with my cunning and humor.  We'll see, but I'd still just rather do my own version of taking this endeavor seriously by doing this...blogging, supporting and being supported by friends, continuing with my therapist, my head meds, my start-up coach, and not least, learning to slow down and savor with Mirelle! 

56

There are 56 days in 8 weeks, right? (seven-day weeks times eight, yeah...shut up, I still count on my fingers, and that's...okay)

I'm going to count down from 56, because starting from "1" feels daunting.  Starting from 56 props me up with aromas of mastery yet to come. 

So, 56 was tuesday.  I started this blog, actually shared it with another live human being, then drank some brandy for my sore throat, then some more brandy.  I don't actually posess any brandy of my own, mind you, I pilfered it from my baby-daddy's shelf at our former residence (it's been about 5 months living apart now, and no, I haven't been boozing it up at all to handle the transition stress, noooo, not me ;).  After baby-daddy came home from work (killer late that day, it happens...), we gathered up a bunch of laundry for me to take over to my new place where I sort-of have a washer and dryer.  Oh no!  No laundry soap!  So next I haul my tired (and slightly inebriated) ass to the store.  What to my wondering eyes did appear next to the soap aisle but the beer aisle, and that Guinness looked like the answer right then.  Sore throat?  No appetite?  Warm Guinness!  I took care of three of them over the next two hours, then back to baby-daddy's with the clean clothes.  What goes better with a lot of laundry to fold but...more brandy!  Of course!  It really did feel good on my throat, I have to say, and I love the intense focus I can have when I'm doing housework either drunk or stoned.  My body can't have appreciated all the toxic crap she had to deal with after all that, however, and, already being under the weather, some really solid sleep was probably called for, for which alcohol doesn't help, apparently.  We are off to a grand start!!!  What adventures await in #55, I have to wonder?  I'd really like to have an adventure, actually.  Drinking myself numb is an old, tired schtick that I have experienced so very often.  New frontiers, please!   

the lovely Mireille on youtube!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DV4lNLCQBKU

Savor School

I...need...to...slow...down.  I seek to retrain myself, over the next 8 weeks, to savor.   I am not thrilled by the prospect of getting deeper and deeper into my cups and finding myself to be a rip-roaring alcoholic in just a few short years.  Ask any of my friends.  I'm not dramatizing.  I am by all means a problem drinker.  ...And almost everyone wants to put the same big band aid on this social transgression and offer the same big solution:  go to rehab (or at least to AA, where you can be in good company with other transgressors), and there's nothing wrong with that.  AA has a ton of merit, and rehab is probably a good move for many, but (and here's where the experimental element creeps in...*), I don't want to.  Why I don't want to could fill up a few blog posts and probably will, but for right now, let's just suffice it to say that I see sobriety not so much as avoidance of a certain substance forever (alcohol is a substance in my book) as it is a commitment and willingness to practice present moment awareness.  For me this means that I am willing and set to step back from the machinery of incessant thought about feelings and other occurrences in my life and just shhhhhhh for a moment and be still.  Thoughts will still come, they always do, that's the nature of the mind, to generate blah, blah, blah about what's going on, but I endeavor, over the period of the next 8 weeks, to retrain myself to notice when I've drifted out of the present and am mulling over past occurrences and future possibilities...and simply come back.  The almighty savoring follows naturally, and I'll have more on that after this word from our sponsor--Edible Confetti--"the best-tasting confetti in the world!!!"

*I may still end up in rehab, and so be it, but first I want to try this.  Mastery over my lovely wandering mind is where I'm headed anyway, so lemme just give it a go. 

vital women who are sick of boozing

The above demographic is the target audience for this blog, although plenty of men might also get a kick out of this, and there's nothing inherently unmanly about this path I am embarking on (of course that would depend on the version of "manly" you go with, for which there are a world of options).  In a phrase, this path to moderation might be called "learning to savor," or, "savor school". 

The inspiration for this is a book entitled French Women For All Seasons , which is the bestselling sequel to Mireille Guiliano's bestselling French Women Don't Get Fat.  Wikipedia has this to say about it:

"In the fall of 2006, Mireille followed up with French Women for All Seasons: A Year of Secrets, Recipes and Pleasure.^[19] Devoted to l'art de vivre (the art of living), the book contains 100 additional recipes that feature French staples such as leeks and chocolate. While her first book enabled readers to enjoy a healthier relationship with food, French Women for All Seasons sought to enable readers to enjoy a healthier relationship with life. In both, through her personal stories and illustrations, she espouses living life to the fullest by embracing quality, sensitivity, seasonality, and pleasure while maintaining a healthy equilibrium.<sup>"

I am, of course, a huge candidate for savor school.  For years now I have been regarding a full wine glass like it's a humanitarian crisis, and going to it with bleeding-hearted dedication.  This is not savoring. 

While I do tend to eat far more slowly than anyone I dine with (this has to do with an inability to focus than anything else, I'd reckon), I have lately been growing (and outgrowing my pants), and this tattles on me that I am taking in more calories than I can burn off in a regular active day as a self-employed caterer, part-time nanny and mom of a five-year-old. This is partly due to the fact that my daughter has finally become too heavy for me to pick up and horse around with (I'm only 5'1") and I haven't struck up my weight-training habit yet.  The other part has to do with the immense calorie content of my favorite beverage.   
Savoring is about tuning into onesself and noticing degrees of desire, pleasure, pain (habaneros--it's why the gods gave us beer, by the way, to put out the flames, right?  No, no, no!  That's NOT savoring!  In fact, I think heavy use of hot peppers is nothing short of hitting the button on our in-house morphine supply, or "endorphins."  Nothing wrong with that or masochism of any kind, as far as I'm concerned, except that the amount of beer required to put out the heat, plus time to wait out the painful throbbing of the tongue means that I'm quite tipsy for the meal instead of alert and sharp, then I wind up overeating and ordering a tequila for a digestive--again, NOT savoring.)...anyway, more on what savoring is after these messages.  Thanks for joining me for a bit here. 

Please note:  the content of this blog is in no way intended to try to discourage anyone from going to rehab if they decide they need it.  Treating the topic of rehab with irreverence makes me laugh, and for me, laughing about a topic loosens up my fears around it and gets me going on my way to greener pastures.  Go everybody!!!!</sup>