Me Thinky Me Likey

How can it be, that me, as a writer of sorts, can love a Hollywood concoction like Sex and the City as much as I do, but I do. I confess I've seen each episode probably at least 3 (maybe 30) times. The drinking, the smoking, the men, that CITY. It's a magical combination for me--all my favorite things. So I'm awaiting the blockbuster movie release of Carrie and gang on the big screen next week. I'm no AO Scott, but I'm sure unless it really really sucks, that I'll love it. Just like I love that I can now download from iTines any favorite Carrie episode, like the one where she is the "model" and does a face plant on the runway. DANGEROUS.

New York knows no limitation, no moderation. I'm starting to wonder if it's about moderation, or if my idea of moderation is puritanical. New York is BIG and it doesn't hold back, but it can also take it or leave it. It really doesn't care if you love it or hate it. It doesn't care if you are dirty or clean. It's still NY. Maybe there's a lesson here. NY doesn't try. New Yorkers do, which is part of the Big Apple's shine, but I'm starting to think NY is just NY. There are no limits, no control, no worries about looking bad one day, blowing up another, and then charming millions with a flash of your skyline.

Can I, for one day, have no limitations, no need to care or worry what others think or do, to make myself big enough that I can hang with millions of people and also strong enough to do so without having to drink 5 martinis. It's a lot. Maybe it's not about moderation. Maybe it's about generosity. Generosity of limits. Hmmm, maybe I'll give it a try. Look out Carrie Bradshaw, there's a new girl in town.

Drinking Dinner

Moderation comes in waves. Sometimes it's easy. Sometimes I keep sneaking bits of chocolate.

Tonight one thing lead to another and before I knew it my eyes were drooping, my words were slurring. Plus I didn't make it out of the "office" until 7:15. So perhaps that lead to the drinking. Hmmm, correlation. My work is all about correlation. Perhaps that is the next avenue of investigation.

Until then, might I say that Seghisio makes a good zin. And Stacy at Lalimes is a great supporter of moderation!

And might I add that Risa Ree reminded me last week what moderation was:

"Being able to take it or leave it."

Well, perhaps this evening I erred more on having to take it rather than to leave it.

Oh, and I complained. I owe five bucks.

Thanks Erin for noting he complaining! ;)

M is for Moderation

oderation


I've begun to wonder if I have the muscle for moderation.

I've begun to wonder if I even know what moderation is.

So I turn to Miriam Webster and I return to the intransitive verbs for the Inky Thinky fast:

intransitive verb 1 : to act as a moderator 2 : to become less violent, severe, or intense moderate> mä-də-ˈrā-shən\ noun

From the verb "moderate" of the 15th century. A favorite time period of mine. Although I'm not sure that Joan of Arc was less violent or intense or even moderate for that matter.

I'm not sure I know what moderation is. I like the idea of being less violent or intense. So I believe this is a good intransitive verb for me in this month of May.

Does anyone know what moderation really means? Just give me one example. That's all I want. Well and the freedom to complain, eat french fries and drink lots of wine.

By the way, I am sugar and alcohol free this week. Or at least since Monday. We'll see if moderation kicks in sooner and I can be less "intense" about the restrictions of alcohol and sugar.

Tequilla Free Inky Thinky

This is T and Gub. They don't need no stinkin Inky Thinky Fast....

Well it's Cinco de Mayo and no tequila, no sugar coated kisses, just me at the office until 7:30pm and then a slice of pizza and a long chat with Charmaine (ps, C, the smell still hasn't gone away!).

So you've voted and this is the deal.

MODERATION is the MANTRA

On the food, alcohol, sugar strategy, it seems fasting is soooooo 2007. So I get to have what I love AND test the edges of moderation. That's going to be a fun balancing act. Anyone out there think they know what moderation means? I sure don't.

The good news is you don't have to listen to me complain about the lack of cocktails or cookies. In fact, you don't get to listen to me complain AT ALL! Gee, what will I do with all that extra oxygen?

This is the Inky Thinky Faster Part Dos
1. No COMPLAINING (each complaint will be fined $5 and placed in the Inky Thinky Fund)
2. No working past 6pm (that may change if I need the cash for the complaint fund!)
3. No fried foods (that's a good one for me to skip for a month)
4. See a movie every week (are there any good movies out there???!!!!)
5. Work on the movie script (gee I wish I knew what that script was, but I guess we'll find out)

Stay tuned....

Inky Thinky is Back and Fat

Well, not super fat, but I've been a glutenous little piggy since the January Inky Thinky Fast. The other night at dinner with Inky Think inspire-ers, Alan and Timothy, we brainstormed about the return of the Inky Thinky Fast.

Timothy voted for not so much restriction and maybe more addition of good things. Alan's response would be to skip wine for a few days and listen to music more often.

The idea of "Plus One Minus One" came to mind--maybe take out alcohol and add in seeing a movie once a week. We'll see. I may go full hog and go all rules. I'll let you decide. VOTE IN THE COLUMN TO THE RIGHT!

So, starting on Cinco de Mayo (this weekend I'm off to drink and eat in Sonoma, so I simply cannot be bothered with rules), we will begin another round of Inky Thinky Fast. Rules and UnRules to be determined.

Watch this space.

Where the fuck have YOU been?

"Where the fuck have you been?" She said as I pulled up. "I've been waiting here for a fucking month it seems."

Or so it seems.

"I've been busy. Film. LA. Hollywood. Important things like that."

She slammed the door after she slipped into the back seat. There were boxes piled in the front seat. They had been there for months and I had no time to move them. I didn't even know what was in them anymore. Maybe John's old clothes. Maybe my mother's dishes.

"Really, what's your excuse for not coming back here sooner? I mean, it's not that far away and it takes, what 15 minutes to get here. You too busy? Too self important?" She lit up a joint, took a long drag and then out of habit tried to pass it to me.

"What?! You crazy?! You know how I get on that shit. Stop it. And back the fuck off!"

I didn't dare tell her why I really hadn't been here for a while. First, I was lazy. Sure, it was true, work was driving me into the ground, and there was the LA trip, but truthfully, I couldn't stand facing the silence followed by all the criticism. Just couldn't do it, not every day. Besides every time I did show up, I felt like it was my first day on a job--didn't seem to know a thing, I didn't get the lingo, I was so insecure I could barely form a sentence.

"So what's happening, anything new with your business idea, that one about the internet thingymabob?" She sat in the middle of the back seat so we could keep eye contact through the rear view mirror. I saw the searching in her eyes, that look for failure, for false promises.

"Haven't had time." I mumbled. "Besides, now's not really the time." I caught a grin on her mouth and before she could say anything I cut her off.

"You don't know shit, so stop your grinning. When's the last time you even held a job you dumbshit. So stop your taunting."

I felt bad after I said it. And we drove down the street in a cloud of smoky cool silence, past the billboards for the next new thing. I wanted that next new thing. Wanted it bad, but couldn't see it. Couldn't taste it. Maybe that's why I hadn't been back here. This isn't the next new thing. It's now. It's here. It's raw. It's history and memories and most of all it's unknown. I wanted certainty, but I wasn't going to get it, not here.

No Outlet

Funny. She had been called a bimbo before, but for some reason, on this corner, on this day, it made her laugh so hard she doubled over. She doubled over so hard her head nearly touched the ground and a car full of Koreans on their way to church stopped, rolled down their window and when they heard her cackle, they rolled their window back up, and sped away. When she caught her breath and raised her head he was still standing next to her. She was tempted to double over again, falsely this time, with the hope that when she lifted her head the second time he would be gone.

“What? You’re still here? I thought you said you didn’t want to be with a bimbo. So why you still standin’ here if you’re smarter than a bimbo?”

“This is what I mean. This is exactly why I call you a bimbo. Look at you. Your eyes are all smeared and black, you’re missing an earring, and your hair's not even blond no matter how much you put that shit on it." He flicked his cigarette into the street and then finished his last comment shrouded in smoke. “And honestly, you’re just not that smart.”

This is when her laughter started, deep down in her belly. Not because it was funny, but because it was ludicrous. She looked up at the yellow sign and reminded herself: there’s no outlet being a woman.

Smart. She just wasn’t that smart. She was smart back in the 4th grade when Tommy O’Brien asked her over every day so she could do his math homework and in return he would kiss her for each correct answer. And she was smart when her mother’s boyfriend would stay over and she would lock her door. And she was smart when she worked at Wall-Mart and did an extra five hours a week to make sure she got overtime and benefits. And she was smart when she left her last boyfriend because he had a problem with gambling with her money and her heart.

And she was smart when she turned down Sanchez Street, knowing what he would say.

“See, you’re such a bimbo! It says no outlet. Jeez, how do you think you’re gonna get outta here?” He yelled and pointed at the sign as she kept walking.

She walked with purpose, head in the air. Being a smart bimbo she knew that no outlet was the story of her life and that today, like any other day, she’d find her way out.

Burning Words

Dear JoJo,

Burn me. Burn these words that you’ve written to me. Burn the salt of tears. You can’t come close to this heat. You can’t know the fire that rages in me right now. Is it humanly possible to burn this hot without your insides melting, molten?

When your letter was left at my door, pages and pages of your mind spread out as wide as a canyon, I spent two days rambling over and under your sentences while tears stained the landscape. How did you know I was still here? How did you deliver this from so far away? I haven’t been able to forget that day you stopped me to ask directions to the church, thinking I was a local. And I thought you were Italian, but come to find you were from the same city outside of Prague as my great grandmother.

And now you have left me the weight of the past and I have to burn the remnants. I wish I had told you sooner that your love had been replaced, or at least smothered by something different. You thought I had children and married, but I actually had a child with no marriage. She works in that little café we once met in for tea after I met your mother for the first time. Sometimes I miss your mother, her wisdom and her tea cakes. I still have her recipe and made the tea cakes for Anna’s 18th birthday. I have decided to leave Prague now. It is time to return home to New York. You would have enjoyed New York, but those boots of yours wouldn’t leave the continent, would they? I wonder what would have happened if we had moved to New York, if we would have survived in America. Maybe the freedom frightened you. I wonder now what your new found freedom has in store for you.

Travel lightly my love,

Sara

Boots of Spanish Leather

Dear JoJo,

I received your letter, late. Had I made that half-mile trip to the post box just a few days earlier I would have known. I must tell you that I am surprised. Surprised that you remembered me. Surprised that you bothered to write. How can it be after 30 some years you can conjure the feel of my braids and your fingers releasing the twists of hair? All I know is the wiry grey and the knots that pull on my head. What I do remember are your boots. They were so old and tired and when you pulled them off your feet I remember thinking to myself—this is what life is, simply a covering that slips off. Now I am left with your boots in my mind and your life slipping off and falling to the ground. I wonder now if you will forgive me for stepping off that platform and on to that train, for ignoring the stomp of your boots as I ran from you and into the mountains. You know, you could have come for me. You could have put those boots onto a trail and come for me. And now, now I can’t come to you. This letter will land no where now, just the ink to page and page to envelope and envelope to no where. No where but here. I am surprised, surprised that you remembered me and surprised at how well I remembered you. I will mail this note to you and hope in my heart that it finds you. Finds you peacefully sitting by the fire, boots near the door, and me by your side.

With all my heart,
Sara

Forgive me

For my rusty words, my illegible sentences, my stories that make no sense. Tis the life of a writer. Do you understand? Are you not a writer in your own right? Tap tap we all go on these keyboards, clever or smpl. I want to be prolific and cathartic at the same time. I think it is not possible. So every day for the next 30 days I will sit here, wondering if you care, not caring if you care, and tap tap tapping on this keyboard, stained and worn. Words want to meet you, to caress you, to tickle your ears, but I get in the way. I want them to walk rather than stalk, swim rather than run or brush rather than poke. Space and silence. The desert for me is the epitome of writing--prickly, sometimes barren, most certainly powerful, and forever transformative. The desert makes me wish for a little oasis, one that is full of umbrella drinks and the call of a waterfall rather than the unforgiving terrain of rock and cactus.

So forgive me. As we move through this month I will certainly stumble and beg for water (or gin), and cry for the ocean. But I will also challenge myself to scale the rocks and grab deep into the earth for gems, gems that remind us of beauty and grief and love and peace.

Flash Gordo

She had come to this meadow often, but only at dusk, never when the hawks circled and screeched. She scurried under the log and rested there. Dust blew in the air followed by a whirring sound and then a drag over the earth. Something near felt bigger than the log that she hunched under. Nervously she dug deeper, removing the small pine nuts from her cheek and then a shadow came over here. She held her breath. Something big fell upon the log and she quickly twitched her tail as the log tipped. She held quiet. A silence came over the meadow, no hawks, no rustle of deer. A bonk on her head shocked her and then plopped to the ground. It was red, red with white markings. The white looked like a drawing of two mountains. Her legs began to tremble and she feared the log would begin to shake. Suddenly the shadow moved and grew across the log and then disappeared followed by the whirring sound and the drag over the earth. The red bead with the white marking glared at her. She reached out, tapped it. Hard. Sticky. She tapped again and a small bit of the red flaked off. She patted the bald spot—it looked and felt a bit like mud, but a quick wiff and she immediately thought of honey. She tapped the earthen brown again and then put her paw to her nose, then to her tongue. Her head reeled, her mouth salivated, and her heart raced. She heard a hawk screetch, a sound she had never heard before, something that sounded like, “chok laaaaat.” Her head reeled, her mouth salivated, and her heart raced.

Editor's note: This is what we call flash fiction, a story in 1,000 words or less. It's March story maddness for Inky Thinky. The goal is a story-a-day, under 800 words, probably closer to 300. This one’s about that. Let’s see how it goes. Every picture tells a story. Send me a photo if you want me to use it in a story. Send your photos to inkythinky@mac.com.

Long time no C

Work work work. Drink drink drink. No post no post no post. I guess I am a big fat quitter. Quitter on the $500 bucks a month and a quitter on posting.

So 2 more days and I'll be back on the INK with a story a day. Stay tuned.

Until then, ponder this one: is it possible for a pig killer to be a pig lover or even a lover? Hmmm, more about that later.

I'm a gluttonous quitter!

Perhaps it was the drinking that resumed on the First of February. Or maybe it was the noxious flu. Or maybe it was the temper tantrum I had at the wine shop.

Either way. I quit this "$500 budget for February" bullshit.

I admit it. I'm a quitter. I can't keep track of the dollars flying out of the wallet, I hate the restriction, and I don't have time to think about it.

All these thoughts make me sick. You know why? Because I know that families of 10 live on less than $500 in a month, or maybe in a year. Sick because I know I'm simply being a spoiled brat about the whole thing. Sick because I hate spoiled brats and I'm being one. Sick because, well, I did have a fever...does that maybe explain it?

And a cheater!
What disturbs me is how much, in the last year, I've become a consumer. I want to spend spend spend. It's not like I want a Rolls Royce (but I wouldn't object) or to spend my $500 on a single pair of shoes (but I would on 2 cases of wine!). The problem is I can't stop thinking about all the things I want to buy. I'm telling you, it's not obsessive. It's worse. It's subtle. And I feel entitled. Entitled do whatever I want.

Ever since I said I'd keep to the $500 budget I've been devising ways of cheating. What if I order it now and it arrives after the leap year? What if I make someone else pay for it and pay them back? Not since 7th grade history class have I wanted to cheat so much.

I think I have a problem. And I'm a big fat gluttonous quitter. What do you think about that?

Inky Thinky Part Deux

Not more than 3 days off the inky thinky no cupcakes, no vodka, no lattes, no BS, and I get hit with the flu. Guess I'll be continuing the fast for a few extra days.

The good news is that if you can't leave your bed, you can't spend money. Well I could, on the internet, but I haven't the muster.

The flu is an interesting virus. One I've always believed to be violently vomitous. Turns out what we call the stomach flu isn't a flu. But the fevers, the aches, the coughing, the sore throat, all that could be a flu, or it could be a common cold.

During my fever-streaked dreams the last two days I've had time to ponder January and what it meant to me to take a month off of livin' it up.

Honestly, I don't really miss the sticky sweet of sugar, the blurred effect of alcohol, or the buzz of caffeine. Call it getting old. I'm not sure what to call it.

Now don't get me wrong. Monday night, moments before the flu hit, I got to enjoy at least two (maybe three) glasses of robust red wine at the Incanto "rancher and farmer appreciation dinner." At a table of strangers (save for Steve of Prather Ranch and Ellen of Yumm! fadoodling) we enjoyed a loverly dinner, several glasses of wine, digestives and desserts.

(These are the bones of Ellen's sardines...I heard they were delish. I went straight for dessert.)

That's what makes me certain I've got the flu. All that garlic and wine and good cheer would have chased a cold away.

Needless to say with two days at home and probably more days in bed, I may have saved enough this week's $100 budget to be able to splurge for a fancy dinner Saturday night. I can't wait! Until then, stay away from those germies.

"Fun for Less" February

This was breakfast on Friday. Deep gratitude to Deb for providing the wine.

I've barely had a moment to enjoy the end of January's "no fun cuz there aint' no sugar, no booze, no caffeine and absolutely no fucking swearing."

I'm not sure how it happened, but on Friday as I was slurping up my second G&T, the celebration quickly turned to strategy for "what's next?!" Easy for them to think big and decide I should give myself $500 dollars for all discretionary spending in February. It is a short month after all.

Just when I had visions of $4 lattes, $200 dinners, and $150 a week in groceries from the fancy market, my "fun" just got cut off at the knees. Apparently I can barter to my heart's content. That may be interesting, particularly when it comes to martinis.

Since Saturday I've already spent about $50. Ouch!

Three Words

Gin & Tonic

The Last Supper

I cooked up a little kale and made some buttermilk biscuits with gorgonzola tonight to mark my last supper of the inky thinky fast. That's an Izze pear juice, not a beer. I love that stuff. And it was Amanda who brought Izze into my house and it was Amanda who asked me to come here and write. I gotcha covered tomorrow night!

To be honest, tonight feels uneventful. Tomorrow the rules are lifted. It's almost like when you were a kid and you were being tickled so hard and really, you could get up and run away, but for some reason you felt trapped and secretly enjoyed the joy and torture of the tickle. So the tickle of the inky thinky fast has been both joy and torture. Joy because you have joined me for 31 days. Torture because sometimes I really needed a shot of tequila or to scream "fuck off" at the top of my lungs in my car.

Overall the fasting has been a blessing. Some people don't even get the chance to make rules. In fact, the rules are made for them. That's why, despite your cajoling to put my $1200 of the "Curse for a Cause" fund to a booze fest, I've decided to put the money where the children are. They, particularly the girls, have so many obstacles and rules stacked against them I sometimes wonder how generations continue. So enough of the soapbox.

I guess I just want to say, thank you all who supported me, laughed at me and enticed me to take a sip or a bite or teased me with litanies of swear words.

I'd like to come back here after tomorrow, and I hope some of you will join me for "Shopping Free February-if you ain't got it you don't need it!" More to come tomorrow.

Until then, be grateful for your freedoms.

p.s. It is 12:30 in NYC and that's my favorite place in the world so maybe I could drink now?!

Next month? Snake charming?

I'm about 24 (26) hours away from the end of the inky thinky fast. I'm not good at letting go, so we'll see how it goes on Friday, February 1. Will I immediately want a danish and a fully leaded latte? Or will I stick with the familiar yogurt and hot water with lemon and then dare to slip a square of chocolate under my tongue after lunch? And what about the drinks party I have planned for 5pm on Friday? Will I enjoy the G&T or will the first sip simply turn into 20 sips and land me with a head the size of a small boulder on Saturday morning?

Snake charming for February?

I've been pondering February. There are only 29 days and I kind of like the "one month at a time" theme. Maybe next month it will be learning a skill, like the snake wrangling I did as a kid?

Or how about no shopping for a month? That means nothing comes in the house unless it is absolutely necessary for survival. The good news is that I still get to go to the farmers market on Saturday and get my fill of rancher men at the Prather counter. I mean, I do have limits!


TOP 10 lessons from the InkyThinky Fast

10. Herbal detox tea, even when infused with "essence" of blueberry tastes like cowpies.
9. Don't let friends set the fine for your "Curse for a Cause" fund unless they're helping foot the bill.
8. Hot lemon water is not as good as a lemon drop.
7. Sugar cravings go away after about two weeks, but the headaches do not.
6. I'm not sure I like being drunk. I like tipsy, but I don't like drunk.
5. I still get all shaky even without caffeine.
4. Swearing is in my DNA and very difficult to cure, but it is possible someone at the genome project could help me.
3. Writing every day can be fun.
2. I don't like rules. (My mother would say that's not a lesson it's a fact since birth.)
1. 24 hours may be a good TV show, but it's a fuck of a long time to wait for a gin & tonic.

Perhaps you'll find me here tomorrow at midnight with a brandy in my hand. Or maybe I'll wait those extra 18 hours until 5pm @ Harlot. And no Stephen, I'm not one. Get your words right.

A Note from My Mother

Dear Poo,

I had a hard time this afternoon trying to get on your blog. After dinner, I had no problem and laughed myself silly...even had to read it to Dad.

I do take exception with a few of your statements. I stopped smoking when I was pregnant with Kris as I was hanging over the pot and hardly ever smoked again..except to steal a few drags from Edie at a cocktail party.

I was never pregnant smoking but I did drink some alcohol. Back then, there was never a warning about booze. It makes sense, tho.

I NEVER remember giving you kids some wine to put you to sleep. Are you hallucinating because of all your abstinences?

I fell off the wagon right after church on Sunday when I made promise to stop swearing. I met Alice H. and we were comparing aches and pains and I said, "It's the shits to get old."

So much for promises to God.

That's quite a bit of loot you'll owe some lucky organization. Only a few days to go, but, please, don't lose your head and fall off the barstool again.

Much love, Mom


(Ed. note: This is me, "Poo." A little nickname that has to do with cuteness not "number two." Secondly, my mom has been a big fan of the blog and she is quite a clever writer herself! Thirdly that picture above is my mom and dad and my grandmother. Smart looking aren't they?

Finally, yes she did give us wine to sleep. I remember clearly one time when I couldn't sleep and she gave me a little glass of wine. I slept like a baby. And by the way, I smoked a cigarette last night. Again, you can blame the Brits--they were trying to get me to drink so I opted for a fag .)

Limbic Laziness

This morning a rush of words tumbled out of my mouth. All of them worth a $50 fine. I'd estimate that my "Curse for a Cause" fund is nearing $1200 after this past week of late nights, irritating executives and a full moon.

As the flurry of fucks blurted out this morning into Charmaine's ears, I declared to her that the ban on profanity was over. "I'm fucking done!"

Now, this evening, 8 hours later, I truly feel like a failure. I've got less than 7 days left. It's only words for monkey's sake!

Why can't I simply stop the words? I can (not without some restraint) resist the fizzy drink boozing, the enticing cupcakes and the lure of lattes, but I can't seem to capture that fucking word before it fuh fuh fu fucking flies out of my trap.

Motor Up that Emotion

It turns out it's my brain's fault. According to "How Stuff Works" swearing is a combo of speech and emotion. And not only that, it seems the emotional "limbic" brain, aside from being the place of memory, emotion and basic behavior, it is also the part of the brain that primates use to vocalize. It's said that monkey's also swear.

I guess I'm an emotional monkey with no self control. So should I give in to the idea of failure? I'm not sure. But after a few explicatives today and the nightfall of regret, I believe I'm back on the monkey wagon. Let's see if I can prevent those fu fu fuuuu fudging words from forming and flying between now and Friday, February 1st.

Until Friday, Blame the Brits
According to a British study (I'm not particularly fond of the Brits this week - no offense Chrissie) "Swearing on the job can reduce stress and boost employee morale."

Could it be that all I really wanted to do with my swearing is to reduce stress and boost morale? Perhaps not. Truth is, one reason I chose "no swearing" for the inkythinky fast was specifically because I sensed my language was inappropriate for the office. I wanted to tone it down a bit.

My ears have become more sensitive to profanity in the past month, and I have to say, in the workplace, it's generally NOT a good idea to swear. In intimate conversations, of course a good peppering of shit goddamn serve the purpose, but in meetings, it's awkward. I've felt myself twinge a bit when people have said "shit" or "fuck" as we sit around the table. We'll see what happens after February 1. Will I be more cautious? Refrain? Or will I simply be a silly monkey?

If only I could have a night cap

14+ hours of work for the umpteenth day

my brain is fried and twisted

no cocktails 

no cake

no point

To keep my mind off work I've been secretly planning a cocktail party for February 1. I can't wait!

ps. does rescue remedy count as booze since it has some brandy in it? if so, i quit.

Drink! Don't Smoke!

These are the wise words from my mother this evening as she rubbed it in that she was just sitting down to enjoy a glass of wine.

My parents hail from the good ole days of highballs, smoking while you're pregnant and giving your kids sips of wine to help them sleep. (This is them 50 years ago)

As she sipped on her glass of chardonnay and I told her I was tempted to smoke, she yelled, "For god sakes Ingrid, drink! Don't smoke." I've done neither.

Old Dog, No Tricks
I started drinking when I was about 12. A suicide mix of everything from my parents cabinet that ended in what you'd expect--me holding back my braids, a retching sound and a trembling fear that my parents would find out. They did. I got grounded. And, as true punishment, to this day I still can't drink any colored liquors like scotch or bourbon. Since then I've gone from problem drinking to complete abstinence for about two years (hard to believe now) to mini-fasts like this.

I told Amanda today that it's the drinking I probably miss the most. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because I've known it for so long, relied on it for good times and bad, and loved the way it welcomed me rain or shine. Kind of like a dog. But I'm not really the dog owning type. So I guess come Feb 1 I'll be back to my old tricks. Like they say, you can't teach an old dog new tricks.

Bird Kill

This hawk decided to eat lunch with the rest of us over-consumptive cows in the Financial District. I guess he rocketed out of the sky, got his claws into that poor pigeon and immediately started tearing him apart as we all watched from afar. Occasionally he'd lift his blood-soaked beak and look at as all with a powerful gaze that said, "This is my lunch and I'm not sharing. Now get back to work."

This is kind of how I'm feeling this week. Watch out because I could go in for the kill.

The "Curse for a Cause" fund tops $700

I haven't slept much this week. And I'm wondering if I should stop the fast a week early. Either that or have a cigarette. I think I like bad behavior. Maybe that's why I was fascinated by the bird. That was complete bad behavior for a bird of prey. But then I thought, maybe the boozing, sugar high, overpriced coffee and potty mouth aren't really bad behavior, maybe they're just behavior.

I'll let you know how the smoking goes.

Reader Beware: Profanity in this Blog

NOTE TO READERS: as part of this fast I have supposedly given up swearing, in addition to sweet sugar, delish alcohol and zippy caffeine. In writing this post, for 30 minutes I typed, read, and laughed out loud as I search and typed the "F-word." In this posting, "F" stands for that word. Continue reading if you like, but know that when your eyes see this "F" you're mind is going to actually "say" the "F" word. So I confess, that had I been counting how many times my mind said "F" during this last half hour, I'd be in debt up to my *F*ing ears.

I CAN'T STOP SAYING IT
I've not had a lick of sugar, a sip of moonshine nor an injection of caffeine, but I CAN'T STOP cursing. It begins slipping out and within a split second I'm shouting it out with some twisted sense of glee and anger. Mind you I haven't yet given anyone the finger, so obviously I have some control over body, but not mind.

This ASL reference (found on Wiki) is specifically for Stephen. Not that I'm directly giving you the finger Stephen, I simply can't afford it right now. But I thought you'd appreciate the artistic emphasis you get with a green curtain. Try it some time.

It's in my DNA!
I found out why I can't stop myself. Go onto wikipedia and type in "F" if you must, but you don't have to. Let me save you the trouble and give you the InkyThinky-pedia. (see below)

German ficken (to copulate), Dutch fokken (to breed), dialectical Norwegian fukka (to copulate) (Source: Wikipedia)

Obviously the Norwegians OWN the etymology as far as I'm concerned. Don't you think my fellow Vikings obviously perfected the "F" word by putting that "u" in there to give it more uuumph?!

Now if you examine this a bit you can see how if you say "frikkin" you're probably of German decent and lack a sense of humour. If you tend to say "fauuughk" then your Dutch roots could be tainted by slavery. BUT, if you say "F" strong and clear, like DUCK but with an F, then you may be lucky enough to call yourself a Norwegian.

So that's my excuse. The Irish get to say they drink so much because they're Irish. The Italians say they are philanderers because they're Italian.

And I curse like a Norwegian Viking because, apparently, I am one.

PS. The "Curse for a Cause" fund topped $500 today. Might I add that my use of the word, when it does escape, is quite violent and angry. Guess that's a little Viking trying to bash his way back into my vocabulary.

Scraping By

See that rash from the no sugar, no alcohol, no caffeine, and no swearing? I'm done with this fasty wasty.

Hah! Not really. This nasty humongous blotch is a result of scraping--an ancient Chinese tradition that helps draw out toxins and knots in one's neck. And yes it hurt like a tack to the toe, but isn't it pretty? You think if I cover my neck in toothpaste it will go away? No Mom, it's really not a hickey. It's called scraping by.


The Margarita Craving
Honestly, I don't drink very much since I hit 42, I mean 43, I mean 42. But boy has this week been tough. I want a margarita, a martini, a deep glass of red, anything. And Fridays, Fridays were meant for drinking.

If I wasn't really spending my Fridays falling off barstools then why when a rule is imposed with a big fat NO then I want more than anything to fall off a barstool after a few shots of tequila? Why is my immediate response to a stress-packed day of wrong turns, wrong tapes, parking tickets and a near-miss accident make me want to make everyone feel my pain with a loud "GDMF!" (you figure it out) and a few margaritas with chips and guacamole?

WHY? Why does my stress and anxiety demand sugar, alcohol, caffeine and swearing? Why do you, my dear stress, demand such attention? My why is turning into a whine.

I need to sleep on that one.

Until then, this is dinner.


A F*^%! $300 Fine
By the way. I owe about $300 to the Curse for a Cause fund. I didn't have to tell you and I didn't have to fess up, but I yelled that word so loudly today that people's heads turned (twice!). I decided I had to buck up the cash.

Straight up, no olives

Less olives, more vodka. That's what I'd like to scream right now, at some hot bartender where I'm crowded by New Yorkers swilling and yelling and having a *BLANK* good time.

But I'm not in New York. And I don't even have a proper vodka to make a martini. Plus, I'm doing that 31 day InkyThinky bottle of absolute stinky fast. So there won't be a martini. There's only going to be another gosh darn cup of hot water with a squirt of lemon, some pasta with pesto and a bunch of roasted greens.

And my head will still pound. And I will still dream of that first flush of vodka that hits my system and takes a little edge off the day. And I'll dream about a bit of chocolate and caramel and a little almond. And I'll dream of the steam on milk and the burnt smell of espresso. And I'll still dream of a night, preferably tonight, sitting in a Manhattan bar next to a man drinking a Manhattan.

I Have A Dream

I like dreams. Like my dream that Hilary and Obama will join hands in about 7 months and say, "We're running together and we're going to change the world. For the better." My dream is that we don't have a THIRD corrupt election here in the US.

This inkythinky fast is really about removing barriers and examining habits. Habits to not think, habits to do what's easy, like my habit to ignore our political landscape because it's simply too painful to examine.

Perhaps as inspiration for all of us as we head into 2008 is to be reminded of the passionate words of the Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr.

I got teary-eyed recalling his words. And for the record, he really meant to say all "WOMEN" are created equal and the men aren't so bad either :)

Let us not wallow in the valley of despair, I say to you today, my friends.

And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream.

It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed:

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."

My Sugar Baby and Me

I had loved him more than sugar
I loved the way he melted in my mouth
The sweetness of him drizzled all over
That sparkle that put me on my back
His crystallized gaze from across the table
He could be shiny, creamy and buttery just like a love bun
One bite of him and I was done for the day, gone, completely his


And then the taste turned sour
He stopped pouring on the sugar
His kisses hinted of burnt caramel
His touch felt granular and unrefined
And his beautiful glassy heart became cracked and discolored
And I then it happened
One day I simply lost my craving for him

Denied sugar, bingeing rats suffered withdrawal

Is this what they really do at Princeton? The truth is yes.

I haven't got the prestige of Princeton, but I tell you my little lab rat self is, "exhibiting signs of withdrawal." My teeth chattered for a moment during a meeting (or was that me smacking my sugarless gum). And my friend the headache continues to freeload off me, not really wanting to back off.

According to the scientist (I love using that word, doesn't it make you want to just keep reading with confidence that there is truth coming?) Bart Hoebel, who managed the Princeton sugar rat lab experiment, they started the experiment by forcing the rats to binge on sugar. My question is, who has to be forced? And truthfully, isn't this simply forcing Christmas upon the rats?

Then those poor little Ratatouille's "exhibited telltale signs of withdrawal, including 'the shakes' and changes in brain chemistry, when the effects of the sweets were blocked. These signs are similar to those produced by drug withdrawal." I believe on day SEVEN my effects of sweets have been blocked. But I knew that without having to test it out in an Ivy League rat torture chamber. I torture myself well enough thank you very much!

Brainiac

Doesn't the lab rat host Dr. Hoebel look like he knows what drug withdrawal is all about? I guess I have to confess I don't know what drug withdrawal is all about, but I know people who do and I know it's not easy. So I can drop the poor me and my headaches and shakes and just sip another cup of hot tea with lemon.

Watch for more later on those opioid receptors that like heroin, cocaine and yes, a Snickers bar, make our bodies jittery with happiness and absent the crackle of anxiety. Sounds nice huh?

Needless to say, my cravings are strong, but my tolerance is stronger. Or at least that's what I like to think.

Some days are blue

Today my eyes are blue.

Even though my eyes are normally hazel "cat eyes," they occasionally turn blue. Word is hazel eyes really do change color from light brown to green and gray. I say it's the mood that changes them, but Wikipedia says it's the current lighting in the environment. Wiki-whatever!

I didn't dream of giraffes or cupcakes last night, but I am feeling better today and the eyes are not representative of the mood. Although I have read that sugar causes mood swings. This implied causal relationship got my little curious mind thinking and at Amanda's request, I did a little sleuthing on this month's bad boy: refined sugar.


The Proof's in the Sugar

Some say sugar causes cancer, others say it makes kids hyperactive, another reports eating refined sugar is "like pouring jet fuel down your throat." In our consumptive world, I believe we may be missing the point here. It's not the sugar, per se, that's so evil, it's our bodies' reactions to the sugar that could perhaps be termed "bad." We're biology blobs and chemistry experiments. Sugar is simply a chemistry experiment for our blob. So why all the bad press about the sugar? It's all about the wrong fuel for the wrong bio blob.


It turns out my body knows the difference between a Snickers bar and a satsuma--both of which I love to eat. The deal is, the moment that Snickers hit's my tongue, my body yells, "It's white sugar" and immediately there are alarms and everything starts moving. Enzymes start breaking down that chewy caramel and sugary nougat. That immediate digestion dumps the sugar into my blood stream pronto which freaks out the pancreas.

The pancreas then pumps out a bunch of insulin to help lower the blood sugar rate, but it's hard for the pancreas to judge the right amount and then there's too much insulin, hence the "sugar crash." Then the adrenals kick in with a deep desire to pump things up again and so the cycle goes. There's also some who say this cycle of processed sugar actually robs you of vitamins and minerals, but that site also claimed a huge conspiracy theory by the sugar industry. I LOVE conspiracy theory, but I'll have to investigate more.

So why doesn't this panic happen when I eat a satsuma? Because my biology blob knows mother nature's sugar and takes it's own sweet time (and less alarms) to process it.

So what's the verdict? I'd say the verdict is still out. I need to see if there really is a conspiracy theory. Is there a secret room where the CEOs of C&H, Hershey's and Starbucks all get together to ensure we keep our pancreas' on alarm?

Stay tuned. And by the way, for my financial friends, the market took a tumble on Friday, but sugar's been up 20 basis points for the last week!

I'm a mess

Despite today's luxurious "make my lines disappear and make my body melt" facial and massage, I'm not feeling quite right tonight.

Could you just sit with me here for a while? Let's just sit here and have a cup of tea, and if you don't mind I'll tell you about my day.




Imagine standing in line at Blue Bottle Coffee (the best of the bestest) knowing you're not getting a creamy dreamy latte as wafts of fresh espresso tantalize you and then looking at the table next to the barrista and there are TWO BOXES of Miette cupcakes FOR FREE.

That's like, I don't even know what that's like--maybe it's like, I can just die here with a latte in one paw and a cupcake in the other. But I held fast to the fast. No coffee, no cupcake. Then a part of me screamed AND NO FUN!

We're standing in line for El's decaf, and this man with adorable child who kept poking me while she blurted "purple" and then jabbing me with her stuffed giraffe, this man, he says this about the Inky Thinky fast. "Why would you do that? Those are all the best things!"

What are the best things?
Giving up all the best things, except sex. That's what this month is about, it seems. But is it really?

Do you want more tea? No, me neither.

Thanks for sticking around. I suspect I'll ponder this tonight and dream of purple giraffes in a jungle of fluffy icing and towering cupcakes.

But seriously folks

What a day! Bay Area hurricane got this car almost as bad as I got spider banana.

As I sat in the 34th floor conference room today, I gasped into the speaker phone because I thought the windows were going to blow off. I spent the rest of the morning wondering if I was going to get sick from the sway of the building (and I mean a real sway, as in "is the top floor of this building, which I'm sitting in, going to snap off and fall into the street?" kind of sway).

Needless to say. I NEED A COCKTAIL.

But I won't and I didn't. I wanted one. Really, really, wanted one after the winds got me all stressed out. Or maybe two. And I started plotting a way for me to kind of drink, but not really. Maybe ask for a mojito and then say to the bartender after a good long suck, "I said a VIRGIN mojito. What are you trying to do, get me to drink again." But then I realized that would be nixing the alcohol AND sugar commitment, so I stopped the fantasy. Then I sulked on the way home, made a pathetic cup of tea and then stuffed myself full of indian food.

At dinner Ellen and D reported that the no sugar no caffeine was going well. Perhaps some cravings and some moods surfacing, but all was well.

Rattled, but still clean. Except now I owe over $176 to the "Curse for a Cause" fund.

A Quick Pig Note
Awareness around eating and habits is one reason for this 31-day torture, but my torture is nothing near what the animal torture is for your typical hamburger or chicken fingers.

Have a look at the Meatrix and then think again before you turn your nose up to us food snobs who seek sustainable.

Spider Banana Goes Missing

Many of you may be doubting the truth of the spider banana (arachnia bananarama), but our fasting heroine returned to the kitchen last night only to find her chocolate stash mangled by the ugly spider. First she screamed and then she said the f-word and now she owes over $170 to the "Curse for a Cause" fund.

Then she did this!
















And that, let's pray, is the only violent act she commits during this month of fasting.

Spider Banana

Our fasting heroine was last seen eating french fries and tater tots with BBQ sauce, which it turns out has A LOT of sugar in it. Ooooops!

Then she disappeared. Supposedly to go work at her computer and then this was found.

Obviously there is a problem. Help is a strong word for our heroine. Rarely used, but heard occasionally. There's supposedly an incident involving a few tequilas and a bar stool. Apparently when she got up to leave the bar, she reached for her coat that had fallen to the floor and she was suddenly swallowed up by the bar stool. An unknown source says he heard her whisper, "Help. I'm stuck."

I believe this photo signifies is a cry for help. Maybe she has locked herself in the bathroom or is in the office watching another episode of Rescue Me. Watching the bad boy firemen of NYC was a prescription offered by her friend Lois as a way to satisfy that craving for cursing without having to utter a word.

Her headache got a little intense today and she now owes $58 dollars to the newly ordained "Curse for a Cause" fund. Yes, the f-word came right out of her filthy mouth. So maybe she's in the bathroom washing that out with a little Dove. By the way, rumour has it that she likes firemen because they get to do all those things she can't do right now. And besides, firemen are hot. Or at least that's what she thinks.

OH MY GOD A SPIDER BANANA!

She warned us of this. That the cry for help may entice the rare spider banana (properly known as the arachnia bananarama). This vicious three legged creature is known to attack stashes of chocolate.

Tune in tomorrow to find out if she survives the spider banana.