The 100 Mile Diet

My buddy Sharolyn made a post mentioning something I’d never heard of before: The 100 Mile Diet.

It looks interesting! I’m going to try it, although I’m not sure how all of this is going to work out. I still have a lot of stuff in my pantry that obviously isn’t from within a 100 mile radius (no, there are no dead hookers. Geez). It would be very wasteful to just chuck out all of that in the name of doing something better for the environment while improving my diet.

Here, then, is what I propose: I’m going to introduce elements of the 100 Mile Diet. Everything that comes into the house from here on out will, hopefully, be from within that distance. I’ll also start using up the stuff that I now have. Eventually, my fridge should be stocked with local goodies (again, NOT hookers).

I’m thinking that the most interesting thing will be how I manage to eat out, if at all. This is especially important to me right now, because I’ll be in my hometown in a few weeks. There are restaurants there that aren’t present outside of that city. I know I will kick myself twenty ways to Monday if I skip out on potato rolled tacos.

So, here we go…

Speaking of, “Out, damned spot” -

The first thing to come to my mind when I think of stem cells is Eric Cartman of “South Park.” In the thirteenth episode of season five, “Kenny Dies,” Cartman goes on a quest to legalize stem cell research. Ostensibly, this is to find a cure for Kenny, but come on: this is Cartman that we’re talking about. Although Kenny ultimately dies, Cartman finds his true goal accomplished by using accumulated stem cells to create his own pizza parlor.

Why am I thinking about this now, when it’s been about seven years since that episode aired? Thanks to the wonders of the internet and friends, co-workers and people that I may or may not have asked to hold back my hair at a high school house party, I received this link to a C’elle Client Testimonial.

After I got past that these stem cells are harvested from a woman’s menstrual flow (hey, what can I say? Growing up in North America has made me squeamish about all things having to do with my bodily fluids. Then again, maybe that’s due to being raised Catholic), I decided to look into what, exactly, are stem cells.

In a nutshell, they’re the building blocks of every part of our body. Every organ and tissue started with a stem cell. Scientists have been studying how these stem cells may be able to repair - or possibly even replace - damaged tissue. As such, there is the chance that they could reverse diseases or injury by helping to replace whatever cells are damaged on a particular organ or other body part.

This sounds great, right? Why would anyone not want further stem cell research and technology? Given that the most commonly known way of obtaining these cells is through embryos, the subject has gone from a scientific miracle to a moral dilemma.

As mentioned earlier, however, C’elle has developed a way to obtain samples from monthly menstrual flows. In a 2007 article on MSNBC (“Menstrual blood tapped as source of stem cells,” by Steve Mitchell), Xiaolong Meng of the Bio-Communications Research Institute in Wichita, Kan. also points out that these cells are easier to collect compared to bone marrow and cord blood and “do not cause any harm or pain to the donor.”

The Art of Being, Day Two: We All Live Downstream

Life really is a stream into which we pour our beliefs, and all of those who come after us will be the direct beneficiaries of what we believe.

In your mind’s eye, revisit the legacy of consciousness you inherited from your primary caregivers, be they your parents or others. Have you been living from the beliefs given to you without questioning them? Do they serve you well and wil you pass them on to others downstream?

I wasn’t sure how to answer this. A good place to start seemed to be with the first childhood memory to come to mind.

I remember my dad pulling our brown Datsun station wagon into the driveway at around 4 p.m. in the afternoon. He opened the driver’s side and stood just as I ran to greet him.

Whether or not he hugged me isn’t clear. I would say probably not, because my family was not very demonstrative. His wide smile and crinkled eyes made it clear that he was happy to see me. I got into the car, and, as was our ritual for Friday afternoons, went to McDonalds.

This mental image segues into a day at Disneyland. Let me say that the final leg of the Matterhorn is a lot faster than it looks from a distance. My mom and I both learned this the hard way. All the length of the descent, her arms held me tightly from behind.

It is only now that I realize how terrified she was as she yelled, “IT’S OKAY! WE’RE GOING TO BE OKAY!”

I didn’t question that we’d be okay, because, not only was my mom with me, but she said we’d be all right.

This is part my legacy: your family is the people that love you unconditionally and will always protect you. I try to maintain this, not only because I believe that love is what keeps everything from devolving into ruin, but also for the more local result of security. That I was and would always be loved was not something that I doubted. This knowledge continues to give me hope, even when I don’t realize it.

The other part is less cheery. I write without malice that my parents were both good people, but perhaps not good together. My mother was a women with much ambition and many wants. My father was content not only to roll with things, not to mention be content with what he had.

From this, I learned to be contentious in my relationships. I still strive for my version of perfection and, should I get it, find something else that isn’t right. It’s hard to be grateful for what I have. I’m always wanting more.

I try to curb this. I often fail, but I do try. In my calmer moments, I imagine how I would feel if my son was dating a girl that treated him like I do my husband on my worst days. I wouldn’t like that - I wouldn’t like her. I struggle to create a relationship that models one that I would like for my child.

Speaking of whom, I hear him babbling from the couch as he lounges in front of The Corpse Bride. I’m reminded of something else from my childhood: doing things on my own because Dad was caught up in his reading or Mom was frantically cleaning to get things just right. On the one hand, it made me better able to amuse myself. On the other hand, it’s awfully sad to think that a Louis L’Amour novel trumps you.

I’m off to break another legacy and play with my kid.

Blog Share 2008!

Since signing up for BlogShare two days ago, I’ve been wondering what exactly to write about. I thought about my life, and what I don’t regularly share on my blog. And then I thought about whether or not I really wanted to be all angsty and emo-like, and I decided (thankfully?) not to go there.

So, I’ve decided to “confess” something that I would never admit to if I had a name attached to me, something that I wouldn’t even “confess” to myself until recently. There’s nothing quite like writing under pressure to get the creative juices flowing huh? Yeah, I thought so. So, *gulp* here goes nothing.

I have no ambition for my life.

Whew. That one’s a doozy, isn’t it? Talk about melodramatic, really. Yet, it’s true, and it’s a statement I find slightly terrifying to see on my screen. In fact, it’s taking all I have right now not to erase all of this and instead talk about unicorns and ponies and rainbows and sparkly things.

I don’t know why I don’t have any ambition. Maybe because I’ve already tried the college route and failed miserably? Maybe because I think about what my passions are, and, besides blogging and making my house a home, I come up empty. But I’m a mediocre blogger (at best) and children aren’t in the picture for (quite) a few years yet, so both of those “careers” seem to be dead-ends, at least for now. Another thing I’ve been struggling with this whole thing is that it’s never been me, to not have ambition. I used to have it in spades. Why the sudden lack? It’s something I don’t think I’ll ever quite figure out, so I won’t go into detail about it here.

I guess I could tell you why I find it so terrifying – but I think you can figure it out for yourselves? For me, to admit that, not only do you have absolutely NO CLUE what you want to do with yourself and your life, but that you don’t really CARE about doing anything with it, seems extremely self-indulgent, almost rude, in a way. Certainly not what our forefathers (four score and seven years ago) had in mind while fighting for our country to remain free. (At least, I don’t think so) (It’s hard to tell for sure, because, I wasn’t exactly around back then)(and I’m no war-buff)(but you get the general idea) (so I can stop doing this) (Yes?)

Don’t get me wrong, though, I’m not saying that I don’t want to work, or accomplish things with my life. While I don’t believe that money makes the world go ‘round, I’m enough of a realist to know that it certainly can grease the wheels quite a bit. And I’m not saying that I won’t have a fulfilling life, because, really, fulfillment falls squarely into the self definition category of life’s little quirks.

I’m just saying that I won’t be reaching for the stars here. I’m (working on being) just perfectly content right here on the ground.

Sharing, But Not Like With Needles

I just finished my post for this year’s blog post. It was a lot of words! I’m now too tired to make the personal post that I’d been tossing around since last night.

At any rate, below are the other blogs that are participating in the exchange. All posts should be up by tomorrow at noon EST. If you can guess which one is mine, I will do a shot of tequila.

Vent Vox
Turn On The Stars
Trudie - Life After AC
Swimming With Sharks
Stefanie Says
Shhh! Librarian-In-Training
Sauntering Soul
Sass Attack
Reflections in the Snow Covered Hills
Red Red Whine
Our Simplicity
One New Duck
Oh My Seven
The Occasional Truth
No Lady
Nancy Pearl Wannabe
Muse On Vacation
Messing With Texas
Melliferous Pants
Lizland
Live Work Dream
Just Below 63
Jonniker
Java Literally
Heidikins
Full of Snark
Face Down
Ex Everything
Everything I Like Causes Cancer
Did I Say That Outloud?
The Daily Tannenbaum
The Coconut Diaries
Citystreams
Catheroominations
Bright Yellow World
Breath Smiles Tears
And You Know What Else
Alyndabear
3 Carnations

The Art of Being: Day One, or “What Gift Do I Bring?”

“As we explore the nature of our gift, our goal is to move towards this kind of giving: cheerful giving that flows gently and easily, kingly giving that flows surely from who we are. As we encounter the questions - Who are we? What do we love? - the gift we bring will be easy, because our gift naturally emerges from who we are. The offering we bring is ourselves, just as we are. Our gift is our true nature. There can be no greater gift than this.”
- Wayne Muller

Today’s exercise was to find what I had to give back to the world.

My initial response was, “A whole lot of nothing.”

I’ve spent the past seven years adrift in some form or another. For almost the past two years, I haven’t just been floating: I’ve figuratively had my eyes welded shut from the glare of my losses and was letting the tides carry me wherever they would.

I let myself be lost. The questions above offered me a chance to try and find my way back.

For the first several minutes, I could see only what was wrong with me. Not for the first time, I thought about how revolted my childhood self would be if she saw what I had grown into. The thought of that girl made me sad and disappointed with my current self. I decided that I didn’t want to be this version of me anymore.

I pushed. I put my weight against all the fear, disappointment and loneliness that I hid beneath after my parents died. There had to be something more for me, to me. I couldn’t go on like this.

I used to daydream a lot when I was younger. That came back today. I visualized a small and fractured light that began to pulse at the center of my chest. As the brightness grew, I saw myself as I was twenty years ago. Ten years ago. I saw a girl that was brash and outspoken, ignorant of the impression she made on some people, and not caring because she was so sure of herself and her strength. She was brave and proud and certain that anybody that was worth her time would not be put off by what she perceived as blatant honesty.

That girl is still a part of me, and she has, perhaps so silently that I’d forgotten her existence, been pushing me to find a way to be happy again.

I accepted her, and named her: A force of nature, the eastern wind that affects, but will not be affected. Momentum. Courage. Strength.

I poked at her, prodded. I was not content that this should be all.

It wasn’t. I stumbled past the brashness to a part of me that I had certainly forgotten. It was a tiny me, so tentative that a cross-eyed look might make her fade away. She wasn’t brave, but she wanted to love. She had so much love that she wanted to give, but was afraid that it would be returned to her, unwanted. She grew up, and redirected her energy to unflinching words and loud, disruptive laughter that would belie any softness.

To her, I gave validation: it’s okay to care, to love, and to let all of that show. It isn’t your responsibility to give people what you think they can accept. You can only offer yourself and realize it’s not a slight against you if somebody else can’t take it.

Ultimately, I’m not a bad person and really am not a mean one. I’m just me, which is more than good enough.

Please Pass the Aquanet

Today I found myself missing the way that things used to be.

For the record, I’m not talking about my braces or that perm gone awry. I miss the way that I used to feel when my parents were still alive.

I suppose that I’ve been aware of this on some level. Hello: I had a nervous breakdown on the last anniversary of my mom’s death. The part that I didn’t recognize was the depth of this change.

All of this is very hard to write. There is too much that I would have to feel. Figuratively speaking, I really have managed to put all of this in a tiny little lock box in an unvisited portion of my subconscious. If I open it now, will a lion leap out, or the entire sea?

In lieu of psychoanalyzing myself and writing about my feeeeelings, I would just like to say that I had a very good childhood. I didn’t realize this until the people who anchored me were gone.

It’s hard to pick yourself up when you’re kicking your own butt for being an idiot.

HA!

I wrote the above last night. It seems that I channeled myself at age 16 to write that very moody attempt at an emotionally packed final sentence. Simultaneously, my five-years-old self seems to have merged in order to leave the post sort of hanging.

Bravo, girls. It’s nice to see you muddle through all the other voices in my head and make yourself heard.

Anyhow, the part that I left out was that I’m working through my grief, and have high hopes of feeling good about life, the universe and everything (R.I.P., Mr. Adams) soon, or at least within the next couple of months.

Towards that end, I’ve been reading “The Art of Being,” by Dennis Merritt Jones.

My family doctor prescribed an antidepressant for me in February. I took it for awhile, but it literally made me feel nothing at all. In spite of everything, I believe that it’s better to feel like absolute crap than be completely emotionless.

I was also in therapy. The woman with whom I was meeting was very nice and sympathetic. I answered her questions, gave her a snapshot of myself in so many words, and asked her: What do I need to do so that I no longer feel so lost and damaged by the loss of my parents?

She didn’t try to answer me. She did mention that her parents were also dead. Does that mean that there is no answer or solution?

There must be. I can live with my sorrow. It isn’t right, however, to feel too scared to move forward and unable to step back.

This brings me back to the book. The subtitle is “101 Ways to Practice Purpose in Your Life.”

I don’t expect some magical and quick fix. Reading through the exercises makes me feel like this will help me take a step in the right direction. It’s better than what I’m doing right now, which is standing motionless and too afraid to look around.

Theme Thursday: Hot

Yes, I could have posted a picture of my coffee mug. Goodness knows that I’ve been getting more than enough use of it lately.

I prefer to upload an image of the perfect accompaniment to a hot day.

Blame TORONTO!

I used to take the subway from this station every day!

I’m not at all surprised that some person (allegedly) shoved a stranger onto the tracks. Keep in mind, this is the same city where people pushed me out of their way when I was eight months pregnant so that they could board before I could or get to the last available seat before me.

Project 365: Day One

Dear Diary,

Today I found out that my smoke detector does not work.
Love,
A.

I made chicken adobo for dinner. Being a card carrying member of the Asian Armada (well, if an Asian Armada existed, and if the members carried cards), I realized that you can’t properly enjoy adobo without rice.

I’ll admit to not being a very good Asian because I don’t own a rice cooker. I threw all the ingredients in a pot on the stove. Long story short, I headed into the kitchen for something else entirely and found the entire room veiled in smoke.

All the windows were subsequently thrown open and the fans activated. After about an hour, the place finally cleared up.

Now, I’m beat. I think I’ll enjoy the fruits - or carbs - of my labor.

P.S. -Penguin happily chirped, “Hey, the rice has a nice smoky flavor!”

P.P.S. - We’re in the process of tearing down wallpaper and painting. I don’t live in a crackhouse.