There's That Whole Time Thing... Again!!

If there is one thing that I could tell you not to be austere with, it’s time.  I am so obsessed with time – how fast it’s passing, how old I’m getting, how much I’m wasting, how long till the weekend, how long till I retire… it’s endless.  I am so warped with my relationship with time, I can’t fully be in the moment wherever I am.

Growing up, I was also obsessed with time.  How long till I could move out of the house, how long since I’d talked to my parents, when is that guy going to phone me, how long till my favorite TV show is on?  I garnered really bad habits that are still with me to this day.  Generally, I sit a lot during the day.  I’m busy on the computer doing work for work, or other things.  But the gist is, I’m sedentary most of the day.  At my new job, I am trying to change that.  I have free use of a small gym with stairmaster, elliptical, treadmill, and weights that I could use anytime.  Have I?  Not this year.  I did a few times last year and noticed a great improvement in mood, stamina, breathing, the whole shebang.  Why not continue?  It takes too much time.  I don’t like to sweat.  My hair gets icky.  Pathetic, huh?  That is my main excuse for not exercising.  I hate washing my hair.  My hair is dry and I hate how it feels when I wash it every day.  On the whole, I’m pretty French about my hygiene.  I dry out pretty easily in the California sun and showering only adds to that.

The point is, even if the whole “it takes too much time” thing was valid for exercising, I would feel justified in taking that stance if I did something else with the time I saved.  I don’t.  Often, I’m so grateful to arrive back home unscathed from a road rage incident, or the trip to the crazy grocery store with the overly friendly and severely underefficient checkers, that all I want to do is flop on the couch and just decompress.  My husband gets home before I do, and I miss that 15 or 20 minutes to myself.  Of course there’s the dog who wants to eat, and go outside, and the cats who are jumping all over looking for treats and basically just saying “hello!  We missed you!”  And, do I ask for that 15 or 20 minutes?  NO!  I just try to work around it, because I think I should be grateful that my hubby and my pets are glad to see me (which I really am grateful for, BELIEVE ME!). 

This journey has been all about doing what’s best for ME.  I am really learning that I am no good whatsoever to other people if I am not happy and doing things that are good for me.  I can’t be effective in anything I do – job, wife, friend, worker – if I am not taking care of the spiritual side of myself and the inside of me.

I’m well in to my 40’s now… you’d think I wouldn’t give a crap about what people think about me.  But I really do, sometimes.  This is the Chinese year of the Dragon.  I think it’s time to be dragon-like, in a lot that I do.  I finally have stopped sabotaging myself with my artistic nature.  I joined the chorus that was just started at work; I made contact with the amazing pianist I knew in college, who invited me to sing at the piano bar he works at; I have opened myself up to singing for the women’s conferences I am part of; I am writing on a regular basis – to open up that channel and get myself happy again.  Because, I am happy when I’m singing.  If you don’t like it, too bad. 

I remember as a kid, like a really young kid, 5 or 6, sitting on the hump seat of my parent’s lime green Plymouth Duster with the 8-track playing Engelbert Humperdinck or Johnny Horton.  They loved both of these.  I would throw my head back and croon “Pleeeeeeeeease Releeeeease Meeeeee, Let Me Gooooooooo” with all the poise of being onstage at Carnegie.  I was a performer even then, and my sisters would just be horrified and embarrassed, and elbow me in the gut, and look right in my eyes and say, “SHUT. UP.” 

I’ve always been moved by music.  Before the internet, we actually had to take our LPs and listen to our song over and over and over and OVER to learn the lyrics.  We couldn’t just put in the first few words to Google and presto.  I was in love with lyrics.  Thank God I received earphones for a gift or my parents would have probably murdered me during the “Cool Change” phase by Little River Band.  At least 100 times, I’m guessing, over and over.  And, I do think it was a little suspect for a young girl like me to be so fascinated with Joni Mitchell.  It definitely changed my persona, but probably for the better.  I remember the first time I heard “Cactus Tree” – although it was written only a year after I was born, I didn’t really hear it till I had moved to Boston in my early 20s to go to school.  I heard Joni’s song –

She has brought them to her senses
They have laughed inside her laughter
Now she rallies her defenses
For she fears that one will ask her
For eternity
And she's so busy being free

She will love them when she sees them

They will lose her if they follow

And she only means to please them

And her heart is full and hollow

Like a cactus tree

While she's so busy being free

and recognized someone – myself.  You can touch me… but you can’t touch me.  I have never felt a “part of” wherever I have been.  A lot of that is definitely me, but I really did feel like I was looking down on the situation and seeing myself react.  Strangely enough, in a lot of memories I still have that vantage point – I can see myself, and the other people in my memory, but from the outside, not from my eyes.

I left on a student visa in 1988, and when I graduated in 1990, I decided to stay.  I had no job, no money to speak of, no Green Card.  But I didn’t want to go home.  I knew if I went back to Canada, I would get swallowed up by my family.  My self-esteem was already non-existent, going back would have crushed me.  Not that growing up in Canada was bad – I would not have wanted to grow up anywhere else, seriously.  I had wonderful teachers and long summers full of midnight sun and wicked storms, winters that froze my skin and showed me the lights of heaven dancing above, nature and animals right in my backyard.  I am a country girl at heart, happy to be digging in the dirt and smelling that smell of hot, wet pavement right after a summer storm, or the earthy darkness of black healthy topsoil ready to be planted. 

Boston cradled me, with its easy access to Walden, Thoreau, Emerson, Mt. Auburn cemetery, the open spaces I loved, farms, and respect for nature.  One of my favorite poets has always been Edna St. Vincent Millay.  This poem broke my heart in college.

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply;
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
Thus in the winter stands a lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet know its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone;
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.

I know that all of this… all of this, can be taken away in a gnat’s wingflap.  Gone.  And even on the worst days, life is pretty amazing.  The sun in the sky, the smells in the air, the love in your husband’s eyes as he sees you for the first time in a week and holds you in his arms… that’s God.  Those tiny, moment to moment blips that get in the way of everything else going on in your life, like a dog nudging your hand with his wet nose, propelling you forward when you don’t want to go, or witnessing small acts of kindness and smiles between strangers.  That’s God.  That’s love.  It’s so easy to choose it.  There’s too much hate in the world already.  I don’t need to add to it.  It’s too easy to retort and hate and spit venom like a viper disturbed. 

Unfortunately, in the three “types” that is me.  The first is the Turtle, who retreats his head and limbs into his impenetrable shell and refuses to deal with the world.  The second is the Skunk, who instead of dealing with the world, shoots pheromones out of his ass that choke and offend you and make it impossible for you to stick around.  The third is the snake, and, in my case, the Viper.  I know I’m a Viper because I’ve seen other snakes and there is something different about the Viper.  Snakes strike at you to warn you, and for their self-defense.  Vipers strike quickly and with the intent to cause as much damage as possible.  But I’m trying to be different. 

It’s really, really, REALLY difficult to stand in your shoes and have people verbally attack you and not do anything except let them spit.  I have had my own sister call me a “Fucking Cunt” and not reacted. (In the subsequent dream sequence, I True-Blooded myself across the room and beat her like a red-headed stepchild, but then, like all Al-Anons, the dream sequence continued on to her calling the cops, pressing an assault charge, me landing in jail, and having my Green Card revoked and being stuck in Edmonton while my husband, the love of my life, was destroyed over it.)  So, I stuck with setting my jaw, breathing, and letting her spew.  And spew she did.  Something odd happened about minute 9 of the tirade.  I saw her.  The shell fell away, and I really saw her.  The bottom teeth worn down to nubs, from clenching and swallowing the anger.  The skin pale and dull.  The eyes, which were once deep cerulean blue and made you fall into them, now also dull and lifeless.  I had compassion for her.  I have known her anger and it is ugly.  But it is without teeth.  I knew it couldn’t hurt me unless I let it.  And she needed it to hurt me.  So when it didn’t, she floated away like a leaf on the Autumn wind.

Fear and stress hormones do the weirdest things to your body, though.  I stunk afterwards.  The smell of it was all over me, my hair, my breath, my pee.  I had to shower for half an hour to rid myself of it, and drink a ton of water to flush the toxins out.  But I came through.  I put up with 15 minutes of Viper Venom to get an hour of my parents’ time.  It seemed like 24.  I can count on one hand the times I remember my mom saying she loved me, or embracing me.  She did both after our talk.  And so did my dad.  They were the most honest I can ever remember them being.

I was not looking forward to saying what I had to say, or walking through this part of adulthood.  Time had stopped for me and to see what it had done to my parents was harsh.  But I had to see it.  And they had to see me.  They still saw me as the little naïve girl who left 25 years ago, who didn’t stick to her word, just wanted people to like her, was waiting for someone to stand up for her.  I’m not that girl anymore.  I’m a grown woman, with faults, disappointments, bad habits, regrets, the whole nine yards.  But I’m more real now than I ever have been.  I’ve stopped waiting for someone to stand up for me and started doing it myself, respectfully.  I’m no longer the girl from the Cactus Tree song, who fears that someone will ask me for eternity, who doesn’t know her value and her place in the world.  I’m no longer busy being free.  I’m busy being exactly who God always wanted me to be, and that’s just me, with all my quirks and faults.  I have found friends who have stood in the gap for me and raised me up, cared for me enough to help me change. 

Life happens to all of us.  It’s always messy, even when it’s good, and the bottom line is we don’t get out alive.  None of us.  So why starve?  Step up to life’s buffet and dig in.  There’s no need to deny yourself its experiences.  There’s plenty of love, laughter, fun, tears, God, sunsets, dog kisses, and emotion for all of us.  It’s going to happen regardless, you can’t bank it and come back another time.  Make the most of it.

Austerity and Emotions

I so do not want to write about this.  I have put it off and put it off, and the funny thing about putting things off is that they never stay down.  Like a balloon underwater that you try to sit on and just keep yourself afloat on, they roil up and upend you into the ocean and become visible and out there and noticeable.  They scream “deal with me!” until it’s all you hear in your head, day in and day out, no sleep without dreaming of it, no real rest, just fitful spurts of unconsciousness.

Obviously, emotions are a big deal for me.  I don’t know if that’s because they were off limits growing up – don’t cry out loud! – don’t be angry – you’re not a nice girl – there was no room for emotions, even though the room was full of emotions.  It was unsafe to have any.  It was like being on Prozac without being on Prozac.  There were no highs, no lows, or maybe there was, I just didn’t feel them like that.  It was just like being on a long pier that was constantly just above the water, no matter how high the tide got.  I could walk forever and never touch the feeling, even though I knew it was there.

I was five when my paternal Grandfather passed away.  I know now that my love and admiration may have been misplaced; but to me he was a great man, and at five I loved him something fierce.  He would lean over with his hands on his knees and look me in the eye and say, “You’ve got a big cowlick there!” and I would say, “Where, Granda?”, and he would lean in and lick from the bridge of my nose all the way up my forehead.  Every time.  I never learned!  I was devastated when he died; hid in closets, under beds, cried constantly.  I didn’t understand death.  I was excited to be riding in the big black limousine and didn’t understand my mother being so cross with me for my happiness at it.  When she yanked my arm so hard it felt like it would come out of the socket as I skipped walking towards the church, I didn’t understand what was going on.  When my dad picked me up and leaned me in over the casket to give my grandfather a kiss on the forehead, I said, “Granda is so cold, Daddy, we better get him some more blankets.”  Weeks later, when I asked when he was coming back, there was that uncomfortable silence, and the looks between my mother and older sisters, on how to tell me he wasn’t coming back, that he was in heaven.  I still didn’t get it, really.  How could I?  I was just a child.

My Uncle Bernie died in a mine collapse in Grand Cache, Alberta a couple years after that.  Uncle Bernie was loud and gregarious, always laughing and joking.  I remember sitting on the floor of their house, with the mud of the Rocky Mountains in the Spring surrounding us, listening to my transistor radio with an earpiece and him coming up to me and asking, “Can you hear me?” and me smiling and shaking my head.  Then he turned around and farted in my face and said, “Can you hear that?” and fell about laughing hysterically while I died from embarrassment and mock disgust.  I thought it was pretty funny. I didn’t understand why my Aunt and my cousins were so sad all the time now.

Eddie, my Grandmother’s second husband, died when I was eleven.  He was a nice old man, a bit older than her, but a good companion to her.  He was a Canadian by birth, which is saying something since most of Canada’s population (pre-1950) are immigrants from somewhere.  His family and ours did not mix so well but I enjoyed listening to his stories and seeing the (now) vintage items in his house that I wasn’t to touch but definitely admired, like the wool carding brushes that always called out to me.  One of his grandsons liked me and said hello at a football game when he saw me there.  I didn’t recognize him, and he said, “My Grandfather is married to your Grandmother.” I was embarrassed I didn’t know him.  When Eddie died I was again inconsolable.  I remember being at the funeral mass at St. Anthony’s on Whyte Avenue in Edmonton where my Grandfather’s mass had been said years earlier.  I remember the disgust I felt when I looked a few pews ahead and saw his grandsons shaking with laughter over something instead of paying attention to the mass.  I didn’t understand.  Now I know people have different reactions to death, different ways of grieving.

My mom’s father was next to go, when I was 17.  I didn’t know him that well, had only met him a few times – in Scotland and when they visited Canada when I was 8.  He was a quiet man, kind, funny, with sparkling blue eyes. I know where my mother got her sense of humor from.  He would call things by the wrong names, or different names, sometimes just to get your goat.  To him, ice cream cones were Pokey Hats; potato chips were crisps; and therefore Chipper the poodle’s name was Crisps.  My mom picked this habit up – my sister’s best friend’s boyfriend’s name was Lloyd, but every time my mother said it, every single time, it came out as, “Floyd-or-Lloyd-or whatever-the-hell-your-name-is” in that thick, Scottish brogue.  I think my eyes nearly rolled out of their sockets during my teenage years from embarrassment.  Grampa Smith tried to teach me how to whistle and closed the door to my room with me in it and said not to come out till I could.  But he said it with a smile.  He was a great whistler.  I wish I had gotten to know him better, and learned more about him.  My parents traveled back to Scotland for the funeral and I wished I was going with them.  They didn’t want me staying by myself so each of my sisters took a week to come to the house.  I was upset AND pissed off I couldn’t stay by myself.  I didn’t understand.

The first time I remember actually seeing my father being upset and sad was my Uncle Jim’s death.  He wasn’t really my Uncle, but a close friend of my parents.  He and his wife, Aunt Jean, were the kindest, funniest people I knew.  We didn’t see them a lot, even though they only lived a 45 minutes away.  Usually every Christmas or New Year’s we would go to their house, or they to ours, and each time I would hear from both sides that they needed to get together more.  On occasion they would come over to play whist or cribbage, betting pennies that no-one kept at the end of the night when they won.  I would sit silently and watch and listen, helping to make highballs and pour beers or bringing in snacks.  Uncle Jim would whistle through his nose and it completely fascinated me; I would stare at him trying to figure out where it was coming from.

Aunt Jean called one afternoon after I had gotten home from work at the Steel Mill.  It was summer, blazing hot and I had been napping.  I was so glad to hear from her, and excitedly asked how she was. “Not very good, hen…is your Dad there?”  I told her he was picking my Mum up from work.  “Oh, OK then… well can you tell him that your Uncle Jim has died?”  I immediately burst into tears; first from the shock of losing Uncle Jim, but then from feeling stupid that I didn’t innately know that something was wrong.  I waited for my parents to get home, and I told them Aunt Jean had called… and Uncle Jim had died.  The look on my Dad’s face… I never want to see that look on anyone, ever again.  Like a wounded lion…I saw the knowledge register on his face and change him.  He was incredulous; disbelieving. “It cannae be, it CANNAE be!” with his voice cracking and tears pricking his eyes, dialing the phone and finding out that indeed, it was.  Uncle Jim was buried in a plot 50 feet from Granda.  You can see his beautiful black marble headstone as you stand looking at Granda’s grave.

Which brings me to why I’m writing today.  All of these deaths were men that were important to me, help shaped me in one way or another. 

The last six or eight months have been grueling emotionally for me.  We lost power for a week in a huge windstorm right after Thanksgiving.  I had to cancel my annual Holiday Tree Trimming because of it.  The house was freezing because we had no heat, which contributed to my pinching a nerve in my lower back and being in excruciating pain for weeks, and completely out of it from the pain meds.  Christmas and New Year’s are a blur.  I didn’t get to do the things I liked to do at that time of year, and I’m resentful of it. 

We usually get a card from our friends Pat & Jeff up in the Bay Area.  It includes a letter of all that’s gone on for them during the year.  I like getting it because they lead interesting lives that touch a lot of people, and travel a lot of places.  I remember I didn’t get it this year; I didn’t understand.

I look up to them and their marriage; it helped me see what I wanted from my own marriage.  They were Sean's and my witnesses when we took our vows at City Hall in San Francisco; doubly happy for us because we got married on the same day they did, seventeen years prior.  Pat and I had worked for the same company; she in San Francisco and I in Los Angeles, and became friends on the phone first, then having dinner or lunch together when she was down here, even after we both left the company, and I would stay with them whenever I got up to the Bay Area.

When I first moved to Los Angeles, I was still hung up on a man I knew in Boston who moved at the same time to become a Navy SEAL.  I carried a torch for him and tried many ways to get in touch with him – even though he was deep in training and unreachable.  Pat suggested I talk to her husband Jeff about it – he had been in the armed forces and might have some ideas that would help.  So I called her one evening and she introduced us over the phone.  Jeff and I talked for about an hour and a half that night, about men, the Navy, about marriage, and everything in between.  He gave me the tools I needed to get a message to my “him”, and we did end up getting back in touch.  It wasn’t to be, but I am glad I was able to shut the door on that instead of always having that niggling, “what if?” to eat away at me.

I loved being with Pat & Jeff so much, I drove to San Francisco on Christmas morning one year just to have dinner with them.  There was such an ease about him, a manly way of confidence, it was enjoyable to just sit in his presence.  He loved mystery novels, TV shows about serving – whether in the Armed Forces, or in the police or fire departments; and he loved Tom Petty.  He loved to cook, and he loved martinis and good red wine, and he loved his comfy leather armchair and ottoman to watch his shows from. 

After Sean and I got together, we loved spending time with them finding new out-of-the-way cafes and bars.  They were always up for enjoying life.  One Saturday we all decided to get a pedicure.  Sean was not into this at all, but Jeff told how when he served in Vietnam, the first thing he did when he got time off was to take care of his feet.  There’s nothing worse than trouble with your feet, he said.  And Sean was a convert after that.  Especially after seeing how the (usually) Asian women totally fawned over Jeff and him when they walked in.  Pat and I were collateral customers.

Sean and I traveled up to San Francisco in October last year to see a CAL football game, and had dinner with Pat & Jeff.  Looking back, there are always little signs that something’s about to change.  You just have to listen for them.  While waiting for the valet, Jeff mentioned his first wife.  I thought he meant the woman before Pat, whom he had children with, but he meant the Vietnamese woman he married while over there and lost in a firefight soon after.  I was shocked, not for the content, but the fact that he had brought it up.  Jeff was an extremely private man who didn’t talk about that part of his life very much.  If you asked him a question about it, he would haltingly answer, but you knew not to pry too much.  We had had an amazing dinner with excellent martinis and headed home in our car.  As we went to say goodnight, Jeff asked us to come up to share a bottle of wine and more conversation.  I thought in my head, ugh, those STAIRS!, as he and Pat shared a condo that to get to, required oxygen and crampons and belaying.  Not really, but I was tired and wanted my hotel bed.  I felt bad about saying no but they understood.  We said goodnight, and that was that. 

The first week of January, I got a call on my cell.  I didn’t know the number, but the area code was 415, so I knew it was San Francisco.  It was a friend of Pat’s on the line, and she let me know that Jeff had died of a heart attack on December 16^th.  I knew exactly how my Dad had felt when I told him about Uncle Jim.  And the pain of not climbing those stairs like Hillary climbed Everest to have had one more hour to share in Jeff’s life, has left me broken.  Not just of heart, but of life.  I am lifebroken.  The whys, the unfairness, the sadness that I feel, and then coming round to the realization of the depth of my friend Pat’s pain.  I don’t understand death.  I never have, I never will.

So what’s the lesson on austerity here?  There are some things that you should never, ever be austere with.  The first is your love.  Love is all there is.  Love is all you need.  Love lifts us up where we belong.   Trite, but true.  The second is your time. You will never get any of it back.  You will never get another chance.  It may be a different chance, but it will never be the same chance, to share your life at that moment, with another human being that you love.  Do you understand?  I do.

Peace, via Kitty Grass

This week, I finally got back to my usual routine of going to the Farmer’s Market early Saturday morning, followed by Trader Joe’s to supplement the grocery shopping.  I’ve been dreading it, because the power outage on November 30 decimated our condiments, or what I like to call “pantry staples” with the fridge being unable to keep them at the required temperature.

Pickles; HP, Frank’s Red Hot and Worcestershire sauces; mayo.  Mustard, Wasabi, Teriyaki and Ponzu.  Those are just the short list.  All gone.  That’s a lot of condiments when you think about it, huh?  Maybe I don’t need to replace everything.  Maybe I need to be a little more austere with my sauce?  We certainly can’t afford to replace everything at once.  Have you seen what Mayo costs?  Apparently it’s fairly easy to make, but that’s one thing I do not want to mess with.  Salmonella poisoning is not something I enjoy.

With a clean fridge and time to wander about slowly, I set off.  Grocery shopping is something I really enjoy, and let me tell you why.  Every Sunday, my Mum and I would have my Dad drop us off at the Safeway down the street and we would shop.  We would take our time, and it was the best Mom-Daughter time I ever had with her, because, for that two-hour span, she seemed genuinely happy. 

She grew up in Scotland during the Second World War.  She and my Dad tell stories about how hard it was; they tell them with humour, but underneath there is still pain.  Example: one morning my Dad went out into the garden to feed his pet rabbit, but it was gone.  He went down the shops with his Mum later on that morning, only to see his lovely rabbit hanging in the butcher’s window, poached.  Ugh.  Think about not having any access to fresh eggs, milk or meat.  What kind of culinary whiz would you have to be to feed your family then?

Sometimes, I can’t even fathom how hard it was for them.  And see how lucky I really am.

This was why we usually had six or seven tins of baked beans in the house.  And if you were at the store and passed by the beans, we usually picked up two more!!  Because you didn’t want to be short.  I think my Mum felt good being around such bounty as the store.  Safe, for once.  We’d wander the aisles and she’d wonder at the spread, what delights she could make with cheaper cuts of meat, like chicken thighs, calves liver, pig’s trotters.  I still use her recipes for chicken thighs in mushroom sauce, and her Swiss steak (anger therapy – try tenderizing that cut of meat with the edge of a saucer like she did).

I have inherited this love of grocery shopping.  My husband cannot abide being in the store for longer than absolutely necessary.  So I’ve stopped asking.  He doesn’t like it, so why force it?  Instead of feeling resentful because I feel rushed when we shop together, I just shop alone.  I’m much happier wandering around, taking my time. I think I make better choices too.

On to the Farmer’s Market – I was astounded at the beautiful cornucopia of produce that was there.  This week’s bounty seemed to focus a lot on root vegetables.  There were all types of carrots – white, orange, purple.  All types of squash.  Lovely, creamy parsnips.  I bought a heap of the parsnips and put them in my bag.  I also added Swiss chard, kale, celery, fennel and Italian parsley.  4 types of fingerling potatoes – Peruvian purple, French pink and white, and Red.  Two of each of those, and then two bunches of radishes – the regular red, and tri-color, pink, white and coral, each with a slightly different heat and flavor.  My hubby loves to chop them in half, add a little butter and salt, and pop them in his mouth.  Beautiful golden beets were added to my bag, and a little tray of kitty grass for the cats as well.  They love the fresh greens; it helps with their digestion and makes them really, really happy.

(Look, a Switzerland moment - the white cat ABHORS the other one!  Kitty grass peace!)

The challenge is to not go where my Mum went and buy too much of something because I’m afraid it will run out.  Only buy what I can use in the week.  There’s nothing worse than having a really healthy compost pile because you can’t use produce before it rots.

My last purchases of the day I had been waiting for – eggs and bread.  I have never really been a huge fan of eggs when I was younger.  But these eggs are a revelation.  Seriously.  I challenge you to buy eggs from your regular grocer, Trader Joe’s, and Whole Foods, and compare them to these.  They are free range, organic hens from a farm less than 60 miles away and they are amazing.  Two dozen Jumbo brown A eggs, $5.50.  That’s $2.75 each.  Even in Vons the free-range, healthy-heart added-Omega ones are over $3.  These don’t run all over the pan when you break them, and the yolk colour is gorgeous, an orangey-yellow, not sunshine yellow.  Poached eggs on toast?  The perfect meal.

Finally, the bread – from a bakery in Rancho Cucamonga, who give you a discount if you don’t need an additional plastic bag to carry your bread in.  There is a whole table full of real, hand-baked and made bread.  We usually get the rosemary-garlic sourdough in a loaf.  They also have sourdough in a round.  They have all types of other bread, including cinnamon raisin, sweet brown bread, wheat, pumpkin, zucchini and more.  It is very minimally processed and you can taste the difference.  That loaf was $4.50, and it lasts the whole week as usually we don’t need more than one slice because it is filling.

All in all, I spent $46 at the Farmer’s market.  I spent an additional $130 at Trader Joe’s, most of which was meat – chicken, a whole turkey breast, some pork chops.  And they do have great cheese.  Not as varied as Whole Foods, but still great.

Total this week: $175.  It seems a bit high, but it’s been all fresh, not processed, and it’s also forced me to go outside my comfort zone with recipes.  I’m finding I’m wasting less food.  And I know I won’t be buying the same items every week so the total will even out.

So far, I have made an AMAZING Tuscan bean soup with the Swiss chard, fennel and parsley.  I say AMAZING because I’ve always wanted to eat Swiss chard but never knew what to do with it. 

www.allrecipes.com has been great because I can just put in one or two ingredients and it will pull up all types of recipes that have those ingredients in it.

We have also had Wedge salads, baby greens salad with herbed goat cheese and golden beets, and seasoned pork chops with fingerling potato crisps.  Tonight I will make the turkey breast, roasted parsnips and steamed broccoli crowns.  I think for a snack, if we’re not too full, will be kale chips – kale torn into pieces, tossed with olive oil, salt and garlic powder, then broiled in the oven for about 10 minutes.  They are addictive and so much better than potato chips!  Mornings have been heaven with scrambled eggs and herbs.

I’m not missing all the sugary, calorie-laden condiments so much.  But I’m not giving up my yellow mustard.  God, I love that stuff!!!!  The salt is slowly getting less and less too.  I can definitely tell the difference in my blood pressure. 

Devil in a Purple Dress

What if there was a dress you really loved… you saw it more than six months ago, and it has been out of stock online pretty much all that time?  Then, just for shits and giggles, you bring up the website… and it’s ON SALE for 50% OFF.  And THEY HAVE YOUR SIZE.  One more thing, FREE SHIPPING!  I still liked the dress very much.  In fact, it made my throat catch when I looked at it again, even before I saw they had my size, and that it was half off, and free shipping.  It’s beautiful, and I’m not going to feel guilty about buying it.  It was a decision that I thought a lot about, and all the other factors fell into place as well.  I'm definitely glad I waited.  Now, I might be able to afford a delightful fascinator to wear with it at a friend's wedding!

I also went to the grocery store yesterday, and what struck me as really, really odd, and slightly off-putting (besides the fact that there were strawberries in the store, 5 months past prime season), was that the majority of the produce had been imported from Mexico.  I don’t have a problem with Mexico, but I do have a problem with my vegetables and fruit being grown in another country with less stringent laws about pesticides and GMO’s, and the fact they have to travel maybe 500 miles to get where I am.

I miss having a garden for this exact reason.  I know what I put into it, and what I get out of it.  The apple tree in our back yard is pesticide free and pretty organic – there is mulch from the compost pile put on it.  This past summer there were so many apples I was bringing them everywhere I went by the bagful – work, meetings, friend’s houses – parties we had over the summer, we literally told people to bring a shopping bag for the fruit.  Those apples were all a uniform size, they tasted amazing, and the only thing that was “wrong” with them is that there was a small brown hole near the top by the stem where an insect got in and took a little bite.  Virtually all of the apples had them; it didn’t stop me from eating them – I cut that bit off!  I think this is why farmers feel compelled to use pesticides – if the produce is not STUNNING and “perfect” we have been conditioned not to eat it.  When in the long run, the food is probably better for us because it has less chemicals, even though aesthetically it may not be as complete.  One of our organic-minded, vegetarian gardener couples we know told me that to get the nutrition today from the same peach ten or fifteen years ago you would have to eat more than a dozen today. 

Wouldn’t there be far less waste of food in the world if we stopped looking for “perfection” and made do with what we had?  When you’re starving, food looks good, no matter what little blemishes you have to cut away.  I remember being a kid, and come late June or early July, getting those first treats of luscious strawberries after Sunday dinner.  My mum would dust them with confectioner's sugar, lightly, and they were ripe, juicy and so much more satisfying with just a handful.  Now, even the farmer's market ones are mealy and tough.  Quality!  Not quantity!!  As Michael Pollan continuously espouses - moderation in all things.

On another holiday bloat note, I really have to start being austere with salt.  I feel like jerky.

The First Challenge

Already!  A challenge came up right away, after writing the “Austere Year” blog first entry.  I came home from work, did the chores, cleaned up the house, fed the Pug, showered and waited for Sean to come home.  We had done a grocery shop on Sunday and had some stuff in the house that we could use for dinner, but I was feeling lazy, and like I “deserved” to go out to dinner because I had worked so hard all day, and then cleaning up when I got home.

My mind was on pizza.  I’m trying not to eat carbs, and when I do eat carbs, I’m trying not to eat gluten.  Well, pizza doesn’t fall into either of those categories now, does it?  And the place we get the pies from is old school – amazing fresh crust, and loads of toppings.  We usually throw a salad in there for good measure (to make sure we get our food pyramid helpings in!).  So, usually, it’s about $40 and will give us a day or so of leftovers as well.  I’m telling you, it was concrete in my head – that’s it, we’re getting it!  But then I thought of what I have been trying to change, and I took that moment to really think.  Yeah, I DID have the $40 it would take… but, I also would not get paid until Friday the 23^rd – and I still have some shopping to do for Sean.  That would mean taking it out of savings (and probably not putting it back) if we got the pizza.  Arrrgh. 

We ended up eating the food that we had bought on Sunday for dinner.  It was a matter of getting my head around it that this was better for me than pizza.  Not just in the health department, but in the wallet department.  I now have freed up $40 for Christmas and I’m not flying into payday by the skin of my teeth.  I also don’t have the carb/gluten hangover that I probably would have had.

As far as presents go, I’m almost done.  I gave in and got some Peet’s coffee and a travel mug for Sean.  But in my head I justified it, because at least it’s not Starbucks.  That one’s pretty lame, yes, I agree.

The other presents, I think I did pretty well.  I wanted to support local businesses, and/or give services instead of “stuff” that he doesn’t need.  So, I got two tickets to see Lucinda Williams at Royce Hall in January.  Unfortunately, I had to go through those muthaf**kers Ticketmaster.  Ticketmaster is the Devil.  They are the epitome of everything corporate and un-artistic and greedy that I hate.  But have you tried to get tickets to ANYTHING without them?  Ugh.  $6 per ticket surcharge, plus $4.95 to print out my own tickets.  Total: $88 to see Lucinda Williams.  I’m OK with that.

Next, we have a 90-minute massage from a very gifted, wonderful masseuse.  I sent her the check (including tip - $90 total) and will creatively make a gift certificate for Sean with all the information on it he needs.  I’m jealous because I definitely need one too!

Finally, a trip to two bookstores – Vroman’s in Pasadena and Webster’s Stationery in Altadena.  They both have eclectic, one-of-a-kind books and writing instruments, etc., which I love, and so does Sean.  I thought about a Moleskine planner from Vroman’s, and some Crane monogrammed cards from Webster’s.

…

So much for the Moleskine… Vroman’s was picked over.  And, instead of forcing him to use something he didn’t like, for the sake of just GETTING something, I bought a calendar instead.  A sweet, 4x6 flip-over with vintage photos of cowboys.  I did get my own dayplanner at the bookstore, a nice, hardbound artsy one with a magnetic flap.  Total: $12.95 for the calendar.

I think I’m done with the presents.  The Crane cards will have to wait for another day.

Another victory: waiting for Sean to get home last night (he is working late all this week due to people’s vacations), I thought – do we REALLY need to go out to dinner like we had talked about?  I was thinking Chipotle or something like that, but again, that would be about $25.  I really didn’t want to make dinner, I was feeling lazy.  But, it was getting late, and I tried to put myself in Sean’s shoes… working 2 hours longer than usual, a 10-hour day, tired from a longer commute.  So, I got up off my ass, took my wedding ring off, and mixed up some hamburger with soup mix and shredded cheese and put the patties in the convection oven.  Next, a green salad with what was left in the fridge - green onions, black olives, garbanzo beans.  Complete the meal with a can of Veg-All heated up, and it was practically ready when he walked in.  And when I said, “We don’t have to go out to eat, or even to Vroman’s tonight if you don’t want to.  I made dinner.”  The look on his face made it all worthwhile. “Oh, thank GOD!” he said, as his shoulders relaxed, and he let out a huge breath.  We sat, at the table - not in the living room with the TV on - smiling at one another, and chatted about our day.  It was the best meal!  This follows what my mother always told me – Hunger Makes Good Kitchen.

We did end up going out to Vroman’s, as I wrote above, but were done in an hour, and came home to be asleep by the usual time – 10:00 p.m.  I felt a sense of satisfaction and peace – like making the good decisions started the snowball rolling.  I do know though, that it’s a one day at a time, one decision at a time thing that gets (and keeps) the good habit going.

Welcome 2012

Some years, I really enjoy "The Holidays" and can get in to them, feeling what they are all about.  I enjoy putting the tree up, sending out cards, having people over to catch up and share our hopes and thoughts for the new year.  And then some years, I can't wait for Christmas and New Year's to be over, so I can get to that new calendar.  Start fresh.  Wipe away all the crap from the previous year and move on.

This year, it's the latter.  I cannot wait to get to 2012.  There has been so much going on in 2011 that I feel sideswiped, bamboozled and dragged through a hedge backwards.  Twice.

There were the car repairs, totaling almost $2000; the trip to Denver to visit family; the Santa Ana windstorm that knocked out power for SIX DAYS; more car repairs; the back injury (which turns out was part back, part hip - damn you, iliopsoas muscle); the rain coming in the ceiling; the flood in the 2nd bathroom and utility room; the Pug slipping a disc... I could probably keep going, but you get the picture.

I don't think that I'm any different than anyone else when it comes to the problems department.  I know we all have stuff that comes up and we have to deal with.  Everybody's problems are different, but somehow the same.  Life is in session, and sometimes the session gets hairy.

For some reason, this year, it became really important to me and my husband for us to simplify our lives.  We looked around at what we had, and it was pretty darn great.  A great house (despite the aforementioned quirks), food to eat, a TV to watch - we had quality problems, when we really took a look.  However, we were grumpy, unfulfilled, sedentary and ungrateful.  I didn't like this.

I didn't like that we took each other for granted in a lot of ways.  Those small ingratitudes add up and erode respect and love faster than you realize.  And I really did not want that to happen.  So, after a sit-down with the hubby, we decided to act as if we didn't really have any disposable income to speak of.  We wanted to have to think, and really decide - together, whether we should purchase, keep, store, bring in to our home - anything other than ourselves.

That's what this blog is going to be about - those day-to-day decisions that we just do by rote, without even really contemplating the consequences.  For me, I'm a child of the 70s, and TV and advertising have had (and continue to have) a huge influence on me.  So, I'm pledging to really think about whether or not I need the Downy.  Or the Febreze. Or anything else that costs $5-10 and really doesn't improve how I feel about myself, or when you get down to it, make me a better human being.  That $100-120 a year could be put to so much better use.  And there are at least 25-30 things that each cost about that much that could be given up as well.    As a rough estimate, that's $3500 a year we could have to put towards a down payment on a house, or a car, or for charity, or anything else we put our minds to.  I want to have that choice to what we do with our money.  By really thinking about and being honest as to whether or not we need this thing, I want to know myself better.  And to live more simply and honestly.  I want that freedom.

So... come on 2012!  I believe that the Mayans were talking about enlightenment, not destruction!  I am looking forward to changing the way I see inanimate objects, and opening myself up to new and deeper relationships with the people I love.  My wallet and my heart are going to thank me, I know that.  Let's just give it the chance.