booze in a bag

i drink wine from a box-- on a semi-regular basis. which means i have officially become my parents- in their thirties, not sixties, that would involve duty-free sized bottles of gin. things have changed- a little- since then. the empties my then, six year old brother, and i were given to use as booze cruise floaties in the novotel pool used to be all silvery and space suit looking, now you just get a giant sandwich bag with a spout- the box to bottle equivalent of a cork versus screw top. fortunately my parents were able to redeem their lower end table wine loving selves once we moved from the u.a.e. to 'dry' saudi arabia.

there is a perception that the middle east is one giant sand pit where people live in tents and children go to their biology and history lessons via camel. the truth is, central AC is far more common there than in england, and you can buy grape juice, pre-pressed, in bottles; cases of them.



our villa even had a "wine room", which is different to a cellar, and family trips to the supermarket revolved around the usual cornflakes/milk/eggs/12 pack of loo roll on the shopping list, but also chucking a 500 gram bag of sugar and box of yeast into the trolley. perhaps it was naive of our parents to assume that cashiers thought all the expats were making loaves of grape bread?

in lieu of the impending holiday debauchery, i am reminded that it is ultimately tradition, imprinted from childhood, that creates a sense of home and associated behavioural patterns.



like restlessness and drinking.

the REAL, real housewives

were i (and assorted photojournalist/social worker/museum development director girlfriends) to be fortunate enough to play the role of real, 'real housewives', it is highly improbable that there would be much video footage of us camped out at the botox doctor taking tennis lessons while learning the finer points of jewelry making.

the question is: what would we do?

"shopping" could really only soak up the first few days of housewifedom, quickly becoming tedious (and expensive). no matter how much stock in the portfolio, REAL, real housewives are still more inclined to go to tj maxx than t. hilfiger, because let's face it, REI has only so much north face going on closeout per season. yet like our mcmansion living counterparts, we too enjoy activities that keep us lean and 'not puffy'. rather, my fellow ladies of leisure would be filmed engaging in a regimen of anything but: yoga/pilates/zumba related exercise, and other pursuits that don't involve launching an organic moonrock make-up line or sexually ambiguous pop career. afternoons can then be dedicated to volunteerism and fundraising (doing what we did pre-R,RH status, except for free, rather than just peanuts), because as far as i'm concerned our less fortunate brethren have the same right to access crap reality tv and a shopping basket full of organic soy milk and puffed oat cereal at whole foods.

sommeliers; the weight loss coaches of tomorrow?

with the advent of the all-meat, no-protein, low-carb, hi-glycemic index, point counting, weight watching, special-k-once-a-day-as-part-of-a-low-calorie-diet, milkshake chugging, 3 square bowls of cabbage soup, plans to a better body, i'm just curious as to why the more obvious "less calories in than the ones expended" is not making the NY times bestseller list.

seriously.

my solution is that the coca cola company schedule a pow-wow with some so-cal, or so-african vineyards (maybe extend an invite to sir richard branson) and get cracking on a sexy little campaign for "diet merlot", and "shiraz lite".

throw in a few electrolytes and hitting the treadmill could never be more fun.

you are what you eat

it's very important to get the food right at an intervention.

during this current period of financial non-denominational "rapture", it is now becoming more urgent for the start-up-former-herbal-candle-making-entrepeneur to recognize the stressors that are patently spilling over into the general populus' over-taxed interpersonal relationships-- and consequently expand (exploit?) the relevant skill set, in order to meet the need of a new demographic of diagnostic consumer.

confronting anyone party to a domestic violence situation, should only be accented with fare that is soft, cold and non-acidic. the ethiopian food genre maintains an overall theme promoting pacifism for any such gathering, being that it is both malleable and lacking in any crockery. however, should picky eaters, the allergy prone, or a nutritional neophyte be in attendance, hummus, brownie batter (no nuts or chips), and jello pudding/jello salad/jello sundaes/jello corn dogs are typically more marketable sustenance to the less discerning McPalate. * additionally, preparation is key; cooked (and chilled) asparagus is acceptable, grilled or blanched is not. unfortunately, a long time potluck favourite, green bean casserole is cuisine non grata due to the walmart made in china, china and it's volcanic temperatures upon presentation. neither is chili a viable option. or kebabs. or fondue. in fact anything requiring chopsticks is potentially more hazardous than serving pigs in unleavened blankets at a bar mitzvah. finally, pineapple, avacados and peaches should be left for the clinically depressed and obsessive compulsives; pits leave bruises.






* catering for the sex addict's hopeful 'wake-up moment' is more limiting than a kosher-vegan diet; no hot dogs, baguettes, pies, pumpkins, or even a benign tureen of oatmeal-- and definitely no pesto. cornflakes and toast are about as experimental as things should get.

book club

i am no better than those people who judge the label on your purse, car or boarding pass. however, my area of speciality is serving as the st. peter of the paperback. these days, you can cross almost any domestic threshold to see a flat screen TV the surface area of a ping pong table attached to the wall-- and any visible "book" shelves are used to house dvd collections rivalling blockbuster.

i like to inspect other people's libraries (they are far more revealing than the medicine cabinet) and was recently sent an invitation to: http://www.goodreads.com/ allowing me to take my stalking, opinions, and judgements to a new, self-righteous nadir.

every.single.set.of.shelves.should.house.an.atlas.of.the.world. and the sentimental children's food stained picture atlas from your own formative years (next to an equally dog eared "little engine that could"), does not count. the hardback versus paperback elitism is redundant, as many of the leatherbound-never-been-cracked spines are for the pretentious who also own the complete works of dickens/austen/bronte, but couldn't spot miss havisham at 20 chapters. collections are acceptable only under certain circumstances; harry potter being the obvious exception. however, an entire alphabetized series of chicken soup for the soul, and i will be leaving you and the green bean casserole dinner you made for me. finally, if "someone", or "[your] mother" gave you dr. phil's latest missive, the official margaret thatcher autobiography, or the 'purpose driven anything', then you need to re-house it somewhere else-- like the gag gift white elephant exchange at work.

as with anything in life, balance is always the ideal, and it prevents your shelves from buckling. too many; "manage your stock portfolio for a brighter tomorrow" or "adult child of a parent who beat me/loved too much/was addicted to daytime soap opera" is tedious, and these individuals are to be avoided at the watercooler. additionally, the shelves that could have their own "airport departure lounge" section at borders (the da vinci code and it's ilk) is the only acceptable genre to pass on and never darken your treated ikea "pine", again. the science fiction "luvvies" are a breed unto themselves. i love you guys, but the spines of those robert heinlein books just don't have good "curb appeal".

while shel silverstein appears to be the pottery barn objet d'art for the bookcase, dave sedaris and augusten burroughs represent the standard "U2" for paper and print media. and those of you who own "spice girls; the album" should probably keep it hidden under the bed with "knitting for my cat" and "he's just not that into you".

my goal when people come and pry at the goodreads i harbour, is to induce bibliophilic lust. or at least be able to identify which continent tanzania is part of.

pride AND prejudice

being caught in the self-help section at borders is like seeing those middle aged men in overcoats with tobacco breath in the "nubile dominatrix-atrons gone wild" aisle at movie gallery.

i am that person.

i am an i-tunes whore

impulse control is severely lacking in my right index finger; nose, zit, scab, "buy now". this may explain why i am constantly plagued by something from the contact dermatitis collection.

i grew up in a pop culture vacuum; my recognition of different musical genres is "swiss cheese", at best. the flying lizards, adam ant, the buggles, 4 non-blondes, neneh cherry, alphaville, chumbawumba; this consitutes a random rolodex of memories, where music = geography.

i am a strumpet who enjoys her one night stand, one hit wonder playlist.

just "add friend"

i recognize the addictive parts of my personality (not to mention the slacker elements), i therefore try and avoid many of these triggers (a "dry" addict/slacker, to use the relevant parlance), particularly in the workplace. it should also be noted that i am an appalling multi-tasker.

in an effort to be a more productive individual i have limited my time and energies to just a few websites (email, blogs), stripping away the mindless distractions of other wasteful on-line locales. however, removal of something, requires finding a replacement to fill the void, for example; stop smoking/start eating, practice abstinence/commence manic building of model aeroplanes.

i have finally succumbed to facebook. in the wake of myspace, where the goal appears to stalk complete strangers with a 5 to 15 year age gap in order to accrue pages and pages of cyber friends you will never have porn sex with, i was somewhat wary of yet another facile popularity contest. this coupled with my mother's urgent reccomendation, was enough for me to give it a wide berth of 747 proportions. fortunately, she has some boundary issues, or simply 'mother ignoring daughter' issues, and signed me up for an account anyway. after a couple of friend invites, i admit; i browsed. i discovered an expat brat reunion going on without me; this is the equivalent of a monocultural going back to the small town/village/hovel they grew up in, or until now; "the lost years" of people who knew me when...(i wore plastic jewelry and footwear, and thought mirrored sunglasses, lacy gloves and fluorescent pink tutus made me look more mature). long after midnight (and my sleep cut-off to become more than a grunting neanderthal the following day) i was compulsively punching in random names, former crushes, and bullies in the hopes that their pictures would now display "fat" and "bald". ironically, half of these people i had never spoken to when i was 11 sitting next to them in physics, let alone made eye contact with behind my oversized glasses. but now with a click, i can "add friend" (including a former maths teacher who brought me to the verge of tears on numerous occasions). if only school had been that easy.

dear diary, or 'oh shit, lets indulge in yet another weak ego, adolescent moment'

"letting go" (yes, i like to perseverate on certain things), according to my personal dictionary, means moving into a state of accepting that the past is past, and the people that you were so intensely present in the present with, are also; past. something of a relief, but also something that induces 5 year old resistance.

erikson postulated on the psychosocial stages of development, where the moratorium phase encompassed the abyss between adolescent and adult. although i truly believe that this comes at the proscribed time that guys start browsing the "just for men" products, and the y chromosomes amongst us embrace silicone and bleach.

closure (again refer to the 'disa dictionary definition' 58th. ed.) is not one final step, door, or coffin nail; rather it is a multilayer of cabbage, directly related to ongoing experiences (and re-experiences) in the maslow-vian 'hiearachy of needs'.

the shift from fantasy, which inevitably becomes temporal reality and finally abstract history, is as hard to swallow as something i am not going to mention because i do believe that my dad (and their swedish next door neighbour) checks this blog. the challenge is to re-frame 'letting go'; not as someone holding onto your greasy fingers as you hang over the niagara precipice, but rather the pruning of the dead (drama) that prevents new possibilities (although that doesnt sound nearly as exciting subject matter for the blog gristle).




*disclaimer: this was typed BUI; "blogging under the influence" (which, for those who receive emails from me, would acknowledge that it has actually been spell checked).

well. that was a bit bloody awkward...

i have been very open with friends, not to mention random bloggers, that i have been attending weekly codependent's anonymous meetings. i listen, laugh, cringe, shake my head and nod my head; i have never spoken up. i do not "speak UP", i leave that to the baby boomers who's histories are littered with alcoholic fathers, controlling or passive mothers, and physical and sexual abuse. i cannot relate to their stories, but i can relate to their experiences; on how they choose and relate to their families, friends and partners.

today addressed poor communication styles. apparently i am doing an excellent job at communicating poorly on every bullet point; defensiveness, scapegoating, diversion, passive aggressiveness; i could teach classes. mary, our outspoken facilitator, asked the group what were some things people used to fill their "potholes". shouted out was the usual hit parade of; sex, money, food, computers, work, codependence, cell phones, and drugs.

today i spoke up.

"moving".

oh shit. everyone turned around for a (blank) look. sitting at the back is not a good thing when you start volunteering information. mary "rescued" me. my experience was validated just as legitimately as anyone else sitting in that room. she told us that the military "kids" (or adult "kids") on the inpatient unit got the "itch" to move every 3 years to fill their "potholes". she asked who my best friends were growing up. my brother (when not fighting over who used the milk last/had the most crucial piece of lego).

~"moving" families become enmeshed.
~they have no one else constant in their lives apart from each other.
~they accrue grief and loss like interest on a credit card statement.
~they think of their siblings still as children (even when we are 40, errr, 30).
~they have a hard time when siblings find partners and get married; because we think ~that we are the significant other in their lives! (oh god).

so; i found my words. the meeting ended and a woman who had been trying to catch my eye (that i had been avoiding) approached me. she demanded to know where i worked. she looked familiar in that 'former client, grown up' sort of way. i suspiciously asked "why........?" when she confirmed my place of work, she informed me "your my boss, im one of the relief people, so we haven't met, but i recognize your name and when i heard the accent i knew it must be you".

oh. well. its a good thing i didnt share the story about my crack habit.

she smiled and told me that now i would have a face to put with her name when it came time to doing her annual evaluation.

yup.

abstinence

addictions are a new and exciting way to add a little drama to both your, and your loved one's lives. irrespective of the form, booze, relationships, star wars action figure collectibles, they are as difficult to eradicate as a fresh outbreak of gonnorhea (so i've heard). there is a multi pronged approach for treating addictions, one of which is abstinence; the first darth vadar leads to a moving parts jabba on the toilet.

i am mildly uncomfortable with the concept of abstinence (isn't that just "avoiding", and shouldn't i be working on my avoiding issues?!). abstinence means not re-exposing yourself to the source or the triggers- where do i sign up for my lobotomy? abstaining feels like giving up a big chunk of the time you spent being a certain entity and identity, which is fine for the not so healthy stuff, but it feels a waste to throw the baby out too. it is easy to perseverate on the negative to self, doing so to your addiction feels like a betrayal of loyalty, its not the whole truth, not all was bad, i wouldnt have been as addicted for as long if there wasn't some positive re-enforcement, right?

what a tangled web

it's not nice to lie. for some its a compulsion and a lifestyle. when you tell the first, the next becomes easier, until they are just slipping off your lips with the ease of a 5 year old remarking on your stinky breath. the journey of telling lies is rather like any other, you got to your destination, you can see how you got there, but you feel so far away from where you started when you turn around and look back. explanations, reasons and excuses to those you told the lies to feel overwhelming and more hurtful and damaging- except the feeling of penance that you can now hurt too.

letting go

when you hold on tightly, you cannot trust yourself or others with the consequences of letting go. this means moving forward. it means saying goodbye. you can forgive, but how do you forgive yourself if you cant forget what your own actions have created? if you let go of everything, what do you have left? if you keep running, eventually you have to stop. if you keep thinking, you never have to do. if you keep doing, you never have to think. if you keep arguing, you never have to be alone. if you dont trust, you never have to hurt. if you break trust, you never have to move beyond their inflicted pain. if you ignore, you never have to change. if you stay angry, blame, harbour guilt and bitterness, lie, conceal, ridicule, pretend, deny, obsess, resent, punish, remind, and control; you will be alone. you will lose because you cannot let go.

chocolate hangover

aaah, big red hearts and corpulent cherubs with their pointy little arrows of love... i am reminded of a "family" trip to whole foods a couple of years ago, this was when it first opened up in louisville, and they were pimping each calendar holiday with the fervour of an elementary school teacher.

we moved methodically throughout the store in search of freebies, my top priority was hunting down the chocolate fountain that was promised in the promos. as with all excess, much of the details are a blur; chocolate truffles (light and dark), chocolate dipped strawberries, chocolate dipped cookies, tiramisu (i went back for two rounds of this), and a good chug of double chocolate hot chocolate which must have been made with half and half it was so creamy. alas, there was no fountain, but i had reached the point of nausea and knowing; i now know you can have too much of a good thing. i shuffled out of the doors groaning to my fellow -aholics that i would "never eat chocolate again", VD is coming to a whole foods near you in mere weeks, i swear on cupid's flaxen locks that i will only have 'just the one'.

bad habits: nail biting

bottoming out on a bad habit can coincide with overhearing 2 girls, sitting 2 rows behind you at a "triathalon 101" workshop comment "she hasn't stopped biting at her fingers since she's been here".