How can the weekend nearly be over? This is absolutely unacceptable to me. Even more unacceptable than the two hours I spent shivering in bed this morning before finally getting up.
Ah, well, too bad the universe doesn’t revolve around my desires. Moving on.
Yesterday, I received this e-mail from my mom:
**** Here are some stars for your nose.
We were very proud of you that you took the “boiled” meal with a grain
of salt or should I say a grain of oil.
It meant a lot to Tatty that his whole family were there. We
appreciate the effort you made to come at that hour.
You know what it says on the answer cards. -An occasion becomes a
simcha when shared with family and friends.
May we takeh only have and share many more simchas together.
Thanks again. Kol Hakovod
I’m not going to bother translating the Hebrew / Yiddish parts of it, because I think the point has been conveyed efficiently enough. On top of this, last night my dad basically reiterated that message to me… and it just feels so weird. It just isn’t something that’s ever been done in this family; nobody actually says “I am proud of you.” I don’t know what to do with that. And besides, I know that had I ordered an entree that arrived five minutes before dessert, like my sister’s did, I would not have been quite so calm. I guess I just feel strange about having my parents tell me that they’re proud / see me making me progress, when I feel like I’m just as screwed up as (if not more so than) ever…
This week we tried hemp milk ice cream:
Personally, I loved this. It wasn’t white like regular ice cream or soy ice cream; there were actually little flecks of vanilla bean in it. It also took a lot longer to soften up after being taken out of the freezer. Nobody agreed with me, but I liked this a lot better than the soy vanilla ice cream. Okay, I’m used to having a different opinion from everyone else!
This is nothing special, really; not generally photo-worthy! It’s just Ezekiel 4:9 Golden Flax granola, banana slices, and almond milk. A lot of almond milk. But that’s kind of the point: it’s pure almond milk. You get where I’m going with this… pure, as in, not diluted.
Does this count as a serving of vegetables? :p The thought of these puffs in a vegetable flavor grossed me out initially, but they’re actually better than the peach.
Continuing with the baby food theme, I mixed up 1/2 cup of oats with Truvia, apples and blueberries, and 1/2 cup water. There was too much liquid, apparently.
It was in the oven for over half an hour, and I would have left it in there until every last drop of liquid evaporated, but… my aunt and uncle were still in my house. I find it extremely uncomfortable to be eating in front of other people like that, so I had to sneak this up to my room when I had the chance. And let me tell you — balancing a Pyrex dish, still hot from the oven, without a table? It is not fun or easy. Especially when I feel like someone is going to barge in on me any moment (justified: my mom actually did)… that always makes me eat too fast, and I hate doing that. :(
I read Insatiable this weekend. I don’t know why I feel so drawn to eating disorder memoirs. (I don’t know if it’s even fair of me to say that, since I like reading memoirs in general, but let’s ignore that for the moment.) It must be driven by my desire to either A) perpetuate denial by proving to myself that I am not / was never that sick, or B) allow my disordered mind to gloat over having reached a “lower low” than the writer has. I actually do not understand why anyone thinks it is necessary to be quite that specific in a memoir as to mention numbers, but never mind. There is also an option C: I think that I expect a “recovery memoir” to supply me with an answer. In doing that, this one was a failure. Of course, every book will be; I can’t find answers in pages, I need to find it in me. But still, I felt like this book spent 98% of the time recounting the eating disorder, but there wasn’t really anything about how she recovered. One page, it was still a big struggle in her life, and the next page, it’s suddenly all about how recovery is wonderful. Um, okay, but how did you get there??
Tonight I decided to go to Blockbuster… the one nearest to my house closed down, so I’ve been going to one near my office, except it’s not exactly near my office. So I drove to another one, which is a couple of blocks away from one of the pet shops I frequent. Since my sense of direction is virtually nonexistent, I enlisted the help of my GPS. Good thing I did — because I was thinking of a destination, but as it turns out, the place I was thinking of? Yeah, it was Barnes & Noble, not Blockbuster. As you can see, it’s been a while since I’ve been to either of these locations!
Then I decided to be extremely disciplined and knock off my “homework” before I allowed any blogging to take place. Apparently, this semester I’ve been lucky enough to have professors who require weekly responses on the readings… I guess to ensure that we’re actually doing the reading. So I had to post my opinions on those three incomprehensible articles I read on Thursday. Exactly how does one comment on something that makes zero sense?? I don’t know… but apparently my bullsh!tting skills are astounding, because somehow, I managed to do it. Just don’t ask me if what I wrote makes any sense; it probably doesn’t. (In which case it jibes perfectly with the original articles, right?!)
Oh, and speaking of school? I got my tuition statement (for tax purposes) in today’s mail. This really, really hurts; I am paying more than half of my annual salary for school. Do you know what I could do with that kind of money?! I could buy ten high-quality cameras, I could go on twenty-five vacations, I could move into a decent apartment, I could get a massage every day, I could get a haircut every six weeks like I really should, I could do a thousand and one things!! I’m really very displeased right now.
From the “Art Therapy Archives” (sorry about the horrible quality… I photographed it because I was too lazy to scan it, and the lighting is all off):
To preface: I used to write a lot of (really bad) poetry. This painting was supposed to be a visual representation of a poem called Into the Sunset.
There is this one small vessel
Which they call a canoe
And the two shadowy figures
Are already inside
And they are my Hope.
There is a ripple in the waters
Otherwise still as glass
And the figures in the vessel
Push it out offshore.
At first rowing very frantically
Keeps them all afloat
And then the tide hugs the vessel
Sending it downstream
And it’s out of my control.
The sun sinks below the water
Kissing the world goodbye
And Hope sails toward it —
Into the horizon —
Into the horizon —
And then It is gone.
All righty, then. In retrospect, I think I took “adolescent angst” to a whole new level. Not that I’m exactly the epitome of saneness now!
Enjoy your Sunday!