I Don't Like Food

I don't like food.  There.  I said it.  Now it's out there.

I believe there will be some who read this and accuse me of being anti-American or from another planet or something.  I've asked around, and this just isn't one of those things that makes people around me say, "Me, too."  This is weird.  It's just not right.

And I agree.  It's not right.  In fact, it kind of sucks.

It seems that food and I have a different relationship than just about everyone else on the planet.  I listen to people talk about food.  They oooh and aaah like it's magic.  Like it casts some kind of spell on them.  I watch people at restaurants, struggling to choose something because it all looks so good.

I envy that.

I look at the menu and spend a good ten minutes trying to find something I can eat.  Something I might enjoy. 

Sometimes I can eat food just like normal people.  I get hungry, I get something to eat, the taste is pleasing, I am filled.  But that's rare.  And even when things go well I don't seem to be getting the same pleasure from it that others do.  It's not a glorious experience for me.  The food was good.  Now I'm not hungry.  That's about it.

And other times, if I think about it too much, I can't really eat more than a few bites.  I'm not a big fan of the process of eating.  I can be chewing along, eating my meal, and then I think about what I'm doing.  I pay attention to the food in my mouth.  And I gag.  I'm done.  No more food for me.

I go hungry a lot.

It's not uncommon for me to realize it's four in the afternoon and I haven't eaten anything that day.  My body doesn't like that.  I often eat medicinally.  I usually eat because it's necessary to sustain my body and because my headache gets worse if I don't.  My life would be much simpler if eating weren't required.

I've seen people look at cook books like they are food porn, drooling and desiring.  That's just never been me.

So please understand if I don't eat what you offer me.  It's not a statement on your cooking.  Chances are it's just not a good eating day for me.

I know it's strange.  I've come to accept the fact that I'll never be like other people in this way.  Food and I will never have that kind of relationship, that seductive romance that I watch others experience.

I'm strange and that's okay.

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To read more about my food issues, go here.
To read more about my resulting psychiatrist visit, go here.

The Dreaded Dishes

I have a confession to make.  I hate doing the dishes.

No, that's not the confession.  The confession is that I hate doing the dishes so much that I bought more dishes so I could go longer without doing them.  My husband hates doing the dishes.  My kids hate doing the dishes.  That means we need more dishes so we don't have to fight about them as often.

Right?

Wrong!

As part of my efforts to live my minimalist desires, we have gotten rid of most of our dishes.  We used to have 2-3 plates per person, probably 3 bowls a piece, and I'd guess at least 5 glasses each.  We have seven people in our family.  You do the math.  That's a lot of dishes.

And when you hate doing them as much as we do, that means you don't do them until you absolutely have to -- when you run out of dishes.  So when you finally do them there are a lot of dishes to wash.

We now have only enough dishes for each of us to have one of each.  Each person has a spot in the cupboards.  This is where they keep their dishes.  They have a plate, a bowl, a mug, a small cup, a large cup, a table knife, a fork, a large spoon, and a small spoon.  There are a couple of extras.  One person got to keep her hot cocoa cup.  One person traded a large spoon for a fork.  But basically that's it.

And this is what that means.  Each person is responsible for his/her dishes.  Some of us wash them right after we eat, so that they are ready the next time we want to eat.  Others stick them in the sink, but end up washing them soon anyway because that's all they have to eat off of.  We wash them by hand because we are washing one or two at a time.  This means less running of the dishwasher (which wasn't as effective anymore anyway since the law required changes in dishwasher soap).  It means fewer dirty dishes stacked in my kitchen.  It means no one is relying on someone else to do their chores before they have clean dishes available.  It means fewer dishes left throughout the house.  It means no more tracking down strange smells because a dish that still has food on it is left somewhere in the house.  It means a lot more personal responsibility.

My kids are older (13 and up) so they can easily do their own dishes.  And they all know how to use the dishwasher so I don't feel like I am neglecting their instruction.

When I first presented the idea my family thought I was insane.  I planted the idea about a month before it was implemented (due to my energy level).  Then one day we went through the cupboards and pulled everything out.  People chose their stuff, it was placed in their spot, and everything else was boxed up and put away.  It's not gone yet.  Not because I'm not committed, just because I haven't made another run to the thrift donation area.  Soon.

Everyone's biggest concern was about guests.  What if we want to have someone over for dinner?

Okay, seriously, we rarely have anyone over for dinner.  When we do it's usually just one person.  I let my daughter keep an extra plate because if someone is going to be here when we eat it's probably her boyfriend.  If it's someone else, they can use his stuff.

We also kept a picnic set.  This is a plate, bowl, and cup for each of us along with silverware.  It's stored in a carrying case that is packed away.  These are emergency settings just in case and will be used when we go to a church function and are supposed to bring our own dishes.  They won't be used often.

I have not solved the problem with the dishes used for cooking.  Since we no longer have a lot of dishes our old assignments for dish washing don't quite fit.  I'm working on a plan for that.  We already don't own a lot of food preparation dishes.  That means that even if people don't wash as they go, things don't stay dirty long. 

We've only been living with this setup for about a week, but so far it seems to be a great success.  People are happy with it.  I haven't heard a single complaint.  (Before, yes.  Since, no.)  It's working.

And how can you argue with the system when it works?

Letter to a Friend

Activity 1:  Write a letter to a friend as if she is sitting beside you.  How is this writing different from your blog posts?

This prompt immediately brought to mind an incident from high school.  A time when my life was in flux and I chose to exclude a friend.  I did not get the chance to resolve it then; I would like to address it now.

**********

Dear Carol,

What would I say to you if you were here now?  I have regretted my decision for so long, but I don't know if I could find the words.  I don't know if I could even speak.  I think I would have difficulty looking at you because of my shame.

The guilt of our decision, our pact, was weighing heavily on me.  I couldn't keep silent any longer.  I couldn't keep lying.  I knew I needed to tell the truth.

But I should have talked to you before I did so.  Instead, I hung you out to dry.

Why didn't I talk to you first?  I'm not sure.  I think maybe I was afraid.  I was afraid you would get angry with me.  I was afraid you would disagree and talk me out of it.  I was afraid I was too weak to stand up to you.

And I was selfish.  I was more worried about clearing my conscience than protecting my friend.

I don't know how we lost each other so quickly.  One minute we were inseperable.  The next minute you were gone.

I have searched for you.  I have watched for you.  I think of you often, and my heart is filled with regret.

I may never see you again.  I may never have the opportunity to make things right.

But if you were here now, I would tell you that I am so very, very sorry.

Love still,
Robin

Why the Cue Ball is So Sexy

Cue Ball.  Chrome Dome.  Mr. Clean.  Whatever you call him, if he's bald then he's sexy.

I am ready to declare publicly my affinity for bald men.

I have found bald men sexy ever since high school.  Today I tried to figure out why.  I analyzed it and found out some surprising things about myself.

I reject the idea that I like bald men because my dad is bald.  Trust me, I have daddy issues but this isn't one of them.  Sorry, Freud, no Oedipal complex here.

I do like older men.  Even in high school I was attracted to older men.  Not a few years older, 15-20 years older.  I liked the idea of someone wise.  Someone above the need to impress.  And, yes, someone who could protect me (the feminist part of me gives way to the injured little girl part in this instance).  So maybe this is part of it.  Bald usually means older.

But there's more to it.  Especially now that shaving their heads is more common among men of every age.  It's a hairstyle choice.  Now I see thirty-year olds with bald heads.  That's younger than me.  Do I find them sexy?  Why, yes I do.

So it's more than age.

It's confidence.  Men who are going bald naturally and embrace it rather than fight it with the dreaded comb-over, hairpiece, or plugs.  Men who know that they are not defined by their hair, something so arbitrary.  Men who roll with what life hands them.  That is sexy.

There's also an element of honesty.  This is who I am.  Honesty is sexy.

And then there's the elusive element.  Why do we like anything?  Just because we do.  Sometimes there's not a logical reason behind it.  A certain smell or taste pleases me just because it does.  I find bald men sexy just because I do.

You can keep your Hugh Jackman and Brad Pitt types.  I'll take Sean Connery, Patrick Stewart, and Anthony Edwards.  Men who are confident in who they are and wear it well.  I love bald men.

Now, Johnny Depp is a rare exception; him I'll take.  Sometimes attraction just doesn't fit the rules.

Mama Bear Goes Crazy

I tend to be a very logical person.  I'm not super emotional most of the time.  I don't get flat out angry very often.  I get irritated.  I get frustrated.  I snap at my family.  But it takes a lot to provoke me into a full blown chew out of someone outside of my own home.

(I am a very direct person, so I think people feel like they are being chewed out by me more than I do.)

But every now and then something happens that I just can't let go.  I process it.  I stew over it.  I can't stop thinking about it.  If I can't let it go, I believe it's only fair to the person to let them know that it bothered me.  That way, if there's been some kind of mistake or miscommunication they can clear it up.

When this happens I try to really think about it first.  I try to make sure that I can communicate my feelings accurately without attacking or accusing them.  I try to find a place of peace in myself.  I try to communicate with love and a desire that everyone involved grows from the experience.

And then there's Mama Bear.  Every once in a while something will happen that I sense is a threat to one of my children.  Maybe it's a physical threat.  Maybe it's a spiritual threat.  Maybe it's a psychological threat.  Whatever the case, if you cross this line -- WATCH OUT!

This is when I lose my mind.  This is when I say something that is pure vile.  Totally mean.  With every intent to make the receiver incredibly penitent.  And sometimes I even take that jab in that tender place that I know will hurt their feelings.

My weapon of choice is generally email.  Words are my strength so I hit hard.  And that way the tears of anger I'm crying don't weaken my position or make it so that I can't speak clearly.

In an intense heat of fury I rattle off a scathing email.  I can almost feel the fire under my fingers as I type.  I feel as though I am channeling a demon out to destroy.

And I have that moment.  The moment when the email is finished, fully composed, and I have that little voice that tells me to think a little more before I send it.  Wait just a while.  You might regret this.

But my darker angels win and I hit send.

It is usually within a day that I begin to regret it.  And I compose another email.  This one says, while I still mean what I said about the problem, I do not think you are the devil incarnate and I hope we can still be friends.

I am not proud of this behavior.  It is animalistic at it's purest.  And so far people have been understanding and we've been able to work things out.

But I have learned one very important rule:  You'd better respect Mama Bear.

I'm a Blurker

Okay, I admit it.  I lurk.  I stalk.  I read and run.  I am *dun dun dun* a blurker.  A blog-lurker, if you will.

Why do I do it?  I am a blogger.  I know how much comments can mean to the author.  So what is so hard about taking a minute to add a line or two of my own thoughts on the issue or my praise for the insight or just two thumbs up?

Good question.  I have pondered this.  And the answers are as varied as the blogs I follow.

Sometimes many people post on the same day and I'm short on time.  Sometimes it's because I'm not in a writing mood -- not even a comment.  Sometimes it's because I'm very snarky at the moment and don't think the person would really like my snotty little comment.

And sometimes, often actually, it's due to my nature.  I have a tendency to play devil's advocate.  All the time.  With nearly everything I hear or read.

Now you may think that what you say couldn't have another side, there is no argument to be made, it's just you expressing your feelings.  I think you'd be surprised at the things I can find to argue with.  Stupid things.  Very unimportant things.  Not at all productive things.  But once that thought enters my mind I have difficulty letting it go.  Do you really want me to comment on your post telling you all the things I disagree with?  That's not very supportive or helpful.  If the post seems to truly invite contrasting opinions, rest assured, I will probably offer mine.

I am also not one to give the courtesy comment (like a courtesy laugh).  If it comes from me, I want it to be my genuine feelings not just ego stroking.  I apologize if this is difficult for some.  There are plenty of people out there who will tell you what you want to hear and make you feel good.  I will only be one of them if the planets align.  It's who I am.

I try to comment on the first post I read so that the author knows I'm following them.  Afterward, it's usually just as the mood moves me.

So, if I've ever commented on your blog I'm probably still following you.  If I don't comment it's not because I don't like it, just because I didn't feel like it.  And if I do comment, you will know that I am completely sincere.

And thanks for all the comments on my blog.  You're all a better audience than I am.

My Name is Robin and I'm a Trekkie

All chorus, "Hi, Robin."

"It's been a week since my last episode.  It might have been two or three episodes.  Okay, it was lots of episodes and a movie.  I'm so ashamed!"

*sobs into cupped hands*

Sometimes I'm a social Trekkie; others are watching and I find myself watching with them.  Other times I'm a closet Trekkie.  I watched all 172 episodes of Star Trek: Voyager in a two week period and no one knew.

Not really.  I mean, I really did watch all of Voyager in a two week period, but people knew.

I am a Trekkie, but I am not really ashamed of it.

Compared to "normal"  people (non-Star Trek people; the Star Trek version of a muggle) I would be considered pretty geeky.  I own all of The Original Series, The Next Generation, Voyager, the movies, and one season of Deep Space Nine (this one didn't grab me as much).  I own a bunch of action figures.  I own the customizable card game.  I own a plethora of books, because when they aren't making any more shows you get a "new episode" fix in a book.

But compared to Trekkers, the more serious end of the spectrum, I barely qualify as a Star Trek fan at all.  I have never been to a convention.  I have not staged a recreation of a Star Trek scene in any form:  live action, clay, action figures, pets.  I have never named a child or even a pet after a Star Trek character.  I have never written an episode or fan fiction.  And I do not have the schematics of any version of the Enterprise memorized.

But I do like Star Trek.  I like its hopefulness about the future.  I like the way it tackled tough social issues.  But mostly, I like it because it makes me think.  I don't like entertainment that is just fluff.  I want to think.  I want to puzzle.  I want to have a challenge to solve.  I like figuring things out.

And I like imagination.  Star Trek is nothing if not imagination.  (Sorry, Trekkers.  It's not real.)

I am exposing my children to Star Trek and will let them choose for themselves. (Choose wisely, little ones.)  I will hold my head up high and proclaim myself a Trekkie for all to see. 

Let the mocking begin!