The cheesecake debacle...

I am rather fluffy at the moment.  It happens.  My weight goes up and down, according to how invested I am in looking good rather than feeling good.  After all, hormones are dialed down to simmer, addictions to fun things like tobacco and alcohol are in abeyance, food is my only comfort these days.  Not that I cannot moderate.  I do.  But, once in a while, it all goes to hell.  On Wednesday, the day before the holiday, I toodled over to Costco for one of those enormous (and cheap) cheesecakes.  I got the strawberry, my least favorite, figuring I would eat less of it at the feast the next day.  On the way home, it shot off the backseat and landed on its side, broke it all to hell (inside the container, nothing was lost).  Well, hell.  I would have to go back to get another one.  And this one, well I could donate it to the Alkathon, where folks don't care what the food looks like, no, not at all.  Except when I got it home, I opened it and had a nice fat slice.  Well, I could donate HALF of the cheesecake.  In the end, I got a really chichi lemon torte at Whole Foods, which was much more up the alley of the crowd that would be eating it, invested as they are in CUISINE.  And the cheesecake never left my fridge.  I overdosed the first day, cut big swaths with lots of whipped cream.  So, I whittled each slice down, though I was eating two or three slices a day, sprinkled with walnuts, too.  It totally disappeared after breakfast this Wednesday.  Man, I miss that cheesecake.  And even though it wasn't my fave, I got to like it just fine.  Am now fluffier, for sure.  And it was worth it.  Into each life, let a little (or a lot of) cheesecake fall.

Your personality is showing!

Long, long ago, while I was married to husband no. 3, the Republican three-piece suit, I was endeavoring to find out what the hell was wrong with me.  There I was, with every little thing I thought I wanted (okay, I wanted a 35 mm camera, and he gave me a lousy 110), a four bedroom house, a swimming pool, bunches of kids, German cars, even a dog, and I was miserable.  So I read a lot of self-help psychological books, searching for the neuroses that was my own, hoping I could find my way out of my own darkness.  Of course, it didn't help things much that, eventually, I would throw up my hands and just get drunk, scream, swear, and throw things, like wine glasses.  Very satisfying sound when a wine glass hits the wall,  you know.  And one day, I came on an answer.  My problem was, ta-dah, my HUSBAND.  He had narcissistic personality disorder, which made him a cold, nasty son of a bitch.  And, really bad news, persons with personality disorders hardly ever change, because they don't believe there is anything wrong with them.  My husband, for instance, would just tell me I was crazy.  I believed him.  Things I heard him say were never said in his universe.  I was too sensitive, paranoid, looney-tunes.  Of course he was right, I had married HIM.  Later, I realized he was just my mother in a different package.  And today, I was reading that mental health folks are still struggling with a means to treat personality disorders.  They are the ugly stepsisters of the DSM-IV, defying all efforts to bring to light a therapy, even difficult to diagnose.  Well, gee, folks.  Why don't we start with a definition of a HEALTHY personality.  Deviant behavior has to start somewhere, right?  There must be platform from which to deviate.  Personally, I never saw an emotionally healthy individual in my home as a child, or in my subsequent homes that I tried to make.  Currently, I live alone.  No models to mental health here, either.  Dogs are even squirrely.  It would be nice to know what standard I am not measuring up to at any given moment. 

Identity crisis! Send inspiration!

Growing old is very like growing up.  You have ideas about what will be, and then life just runs over you like a steamroller, and nothing you planned happens.  I expected that at this age, an august 68, I would have a life partner to look back on years of holidays and summers and vacations and children blooming into parents themselves, and a couple of grandchildren to bounce around.  Not happening here.  Three strikes and the husbands are all out.  One is dead.  I didn't do it, really.  But the other two have been married to their current spouses (both two away from me) for many moons now.  And I live here, in a tiny, rather funky little yellow house, with two obnoxious small dogs and the yard of shame out front, now happily knee-deep in leaves.  My friends teach me that I am okay in most respects.  Some are silly 60, giggling like 12 year olds.  I didn't giggle then, certainly not starting now.  Some are cranky and spend every moment arguing for their limitations, certain that they can never be happy in their circumstances, not ever.  Some are very, very spiritual, constantly working on improving their spirits.  Now, those I admire, sort of.  Somehow, though, even their aspects seem out of balance.  Moi, I am just trying to float to the surface after a long, long, long time bottom feeding.  My aspect is healing, an eternal process because the wounds live at the core of my persona.  They scab over, but are capable of being ripped open in a blink and actively bleed again.  When I heal, and please, HP, let it be soon, who will I be?  There is the art.  Thank HP for the art.  The moments I spend painting are those when I feel closest to my spirit and closest to the Divine.  Compassion.  That is my keyword right now - for myself, for my friends and their wonky little selves, even for my aged mother.  And let HP send me a grandchild or two, and I will settle in and just be OLD.  Old is good.  Vertical trumps horizontal any day.

She's loose among the general population!

Okay, now on track again.  Antidepressants.  Check.  Weekly therapy sessions.  Check.  Psychological tomes.  Check.  Riding the big waves at the moment.  Yes, I feel better, less numb, more like there is an end to the heavy depression that engulfed me and left me all limp and wimpy.  Dear therapist says I fell out of my power.  I just felt I got run over one too many times by life steamrolling by.  Usually, I can dodge the traffic.  My step got slowed by wedding, death, illness, more death, even more death, dental nightmares, more death, etc.  Pow!  Take that!  No time to even get up from the mat.  So, here it is, another stinking holiday.  Thank HP for the Alkathon, marathon meetings 24 hours around the clock, where we recovering folks can get a dose of sanity before entering the family crucible.  I sat there last night with my sponsor, and noticed that the guy in front of me had an interesting neck - 2 diagonal lines left, 2 right, so he had a diamond right in the middle of the back of his neck.  Fascinating.  And the gal in front of me was leaning on her chair, and part of her bulged and hung over the back of the chair.  Oh, dear, where are the eyes in the back of my head to assure me that was not happening to ME?  I know about bra overflow and little pillows that can pooch out over the back, and do my best to tuck those suckers in before leaving the house.  Also carefully check the back of my head to be sure the bedhead is tamed and I don't go out looking like an escaped mental patient.  Careful observation of others is my secret.  At the moment, I am debating whether to wear my full length faux fur to the upcoming celebration.  These are rather conservative folks, my daughter included.  Darling son would love the audaciousness, such a jewel.  There are few occasions when I think the COAT is appropriate, and so I have only worn it twice so far, last winter.  First was to a performance at the local performing arts center.  When I sat down, the lady next to me commented to her friend "oh, look, I get to sit next to the COAT!"  And the second occasion was a rare dinner at a local restaurant, and I got stopped on the way out by a woman who thought it was real.  It's a doozie, the COAT.  And yes, I think I will wear it.  It will be cold on the way home, and I love the softness of it against my cheek.  Not like I can disappear in a crowd, anyway.  I have always stood out, whether I was trying to or not.  And the payoff of getting old is being as outrageous as one can be.  Really, on a scale of one to ten, I have not even hit five yet.  Time to up the ante.