FOR SUNDAY--Obligatory Tracking

Black garb.
This is such a scary image, I am scared to paste it here.
I like pictures of pretty things.
I am still afraid of "The Wizard of Oz."
Image from HERE.

I'm still shrouded in darkness, cloaked in isolation. I have been talking to my nuclear family, to my Sis, but I cannot manage too much other communication. Could not return Mother's Day greetings by phone or text, except one. Too hopeless. Too false.

It's a bulky coat, but I want to leave it on--all the while knowing at some level that self-pity is the worst disease of all and that others have problems much heavier to bear, and wear.

I remember once, a few years back, being so depressed that for days, I did not remove the snow-white acrylic fur-trimmed hat that my grandmother bought me at the Florence Shop in Bergenfield. I even slept in it.

So, it's only been what? A week or so or recording this? And it is hella hard to keep up with while dealing with what 12-step programs call "Life on life's terms." But I'm doing my best to record Food and Money even through the depths, where visibility is bad. Or maybe it's crisp and clear, and that's why I'm in pain.

FOOD SUNDAY

• Sal's Gastronomia bagel and lox. Each kit came with bagels, sliced lox, little cups of best smoked whitefish, egg salad, cream cheese and everything bagel seasoning, plus sliced tomato and red onion. My friend recommended it. Over the course of the day, I had 1 3/4 bagels with fixings. 
• Roasted cauliflower with lemon.
• Roast marinated turkey.
• Piece bread with pesto.
• A little mascarpone.
• 4 smallish? Hungry Jack pancakes with butter and pure maple syrup.
• Sliced provolone, multi-grain saltines.
• Glass of milk.
• 1/2 small beet brownie.
• Coffee with whole milk.
• Ice water.
• Cup of iced pink lemonade.
• Glass of Prosecco.
• A little KETO coffee ice cream. Hard as rock. You must let it soften or zap in microwave for maybe 20 seconds. No sugar added.

$ MONEY SPENT OUT OF POCKET

• Sal's, again trying to support local Montclair restaurants, and here, you can also get groceries, so I got 2 balls burrata; tofu; head of cauliflower; blackberries; and raspberries x2. Two bagel boxes at $18 each. A treat. Thank you, Punch said, enjoying a bagel w lox. That was a bright spot. $71.42.
• Nordstrom credit card, hair accessories, including one by Marimekko, $32.80.

Ongoing monthly spend as of May 10: $990.48.

Avg daily spend: $99.05.

________________________________________________

Keep an eye on/compare to previous months:

April: Total monthly spend: $2,143.19.
Avg daily spend: $71.44.

March--the effect of coronavirus quarantine and not working in NYC for now

Total monthly spend as of March 31: $1,916.15.

Avg daily spend: $61.81.

February

Total monthly spend as of Feb. 29: $2,480.34.
Avg daily spend: $85.53.

January

Total monthly spend as of Jan 31: $3,063.60.

Avg daily spend: $98.83.

December 2019 [Christmas and all that entails]

Total monthly spend as of Dec. 31: $3,998.16. 

Avg daily spend: $128.97. 

November

Total spend for November (30 days): $2,979.03. 

Average daily spend: $99.30. 

October

Total spend for OCTOBER 31 days: $2,495.36.

AVERAGE DAILY SPEND: $80.49.

September

TOTAL SPEND FOR SEPTEMBER (30 DAYS): $2,214.43.

AVERAGE DAILY SPEND: $73.81.

August

TOTAL SPEND FOR AUGUST (31 DAYS/PLUS VACAY IN HERE): $2,895.06. ⬆️

AUGUST AVERAGE DAILY SPEND: $93.39.  ⬆️

My Heart Feels Small

But these things happened:

• Dan brought me a bouquet of red and white roses.
• I took a hot bath.
• Applied a few drops of Detox Balancing Facial Oil to my cheeks, chin and forehead, and it felt good and looked even better. [The little bottle with dropper arrived in a box in the mail basket Saturday.]
• Started raking leaf-carpeted backyard.
• My dear friend/sitter Elaine delivered a big tray of homemade manicotti and a loaf of bread from an Italian bakery. She does this as a birthday gift every year. She makes the crepes by hand. Tastes so good. Angel.
• I ate some broccoli.
• I did not get a cupcake.
• Had some ice water.
• Read Travels with Alice by Calvin Trillin.
• Reached out to pursue a job opportunity.

It is /is it? entirely possible that my heart feels small because I miss fine dark chocolate, marshmallows, cake, cake pops, cookies and pie. I did not make a Little Daisy Bake Shop stop, as I might have in the past if I felt low. Change is hard. I say fashion softens life--fluffy sweaters, smooth suede pumps are an asset to help you ease on down the road.

For a sugar addict, a pillowy donut or tender butter cookie holds the same allure. But the bitter truth is that the white stuff may feel like armor when life is hard but it really is not. For me, it tends to lead to the next bar, the next cake pop....and then I'm in a battle, a struggle to be free.

I can roll in a huge Trojan horse, Twinkies golden sponge cakes and Devil Dogs concealed inside, but in the end it's just me facing the sugar force. I cannot hide in a fake structure, a decoy. If so, I'm a moving target.

My ticker might also feel small--like a hardened Necco sweetheart/conversation heart--because of trying times with the short person to whom we are legal guardians. Tough times, some sweet messages in between. BE MINE.

$ MONEY OUT OF POCKET

• Java Love, 5:15 p.m., large decaf latte; slender, crunchy chocolate biscotti; $3 Valentine's Day donation to help a group that supports adolescents in need; and $1.11 in tip jar. $11.11.
• CVS w Punch for cough drops since her throat hurts a little and I also let her choose a candy bar [Payday]. $2.85.

TOTAL: $13.96.

The Man in the Blue Shirt

It's a really nice Lands' End long-sleeve blue shirt that Sis got Dan for Christmas or his birthday. He looks handsome in it.

He came home from working in the city yesterday--he had a fruitful meeting for a New York Times Magazine article--and tried to talk me out of my depression with the kind of no-nonsense advice he might give as the yellow-hatted, bow-tied 60-Second Novelist--on the rare occasions that he gives advice, rather than telling each subject's story.

It reminded me of the hard-won wisdom from his Grandma Millie, who had a hardscrabble Hell’s Kitchen childhood and later worked in the Tootsie Roll Factory.

Ya don't work, you can't eat. Ya don't eat, ya can't work, she would say. This from a woman about 4 feet tall.

I heard his footsteps coming up the creaky wood stairs in this old house, calling Ali. With Punch away at Mimi's till Thursday, we had time and space to talk frankly.

I could barely get out of bed yesterday. It was superhot. My heart shrunk 10 sizes. I felt bitter, sad, disappointed, disillusioned. Angry. Powerless, I guess. Confused. Everything seemed broken or dead, from the dishwasher to the garden. Poor Sug, she lay in exhausted position by my side, loyal and true. I had to get up a few times to let her out, to feed her. I couldn't answer texts from my Sis, Moey and Lorraine. Could not make plans. Skipped my appt for annual physical and did not call. Could not confirm I would go to therapy today. But then I texted I will come and now I have to get in the shower and go--out in a crackling thunderstorm. It's probably appropriate, to snap me out of my inertia.

Today, Dan made me a list. I normally do this myself. He brought me coffee. I appreciated his kindness. I felt so lost.

TTYL.

The White Led to the Dark

I'm at Sandwich Theory in Montclair now, working in A.C., trusty iced coffee by my side. Punchy is at her friend's, gleefully making slime. We provided some ingredients this time--cornstarch, 3 bottles of glue. I'm picking her up by 5:30 to drive her to 2-hour gymnastics team training.

I may look like a nice woman, saying thank you for my Avocado Dream sandwich [a grilled veggie extravaganza on GF bread] when the young woman with dramatic dark eyelashes brings it to my table; smiling at someone who catches my eye to engage me; greeting Paul, the talented floral designer and candy maker in town when he says hello.

But I am a villain. Trust me.

It began innocently enough. You know I have been doing my best to skirt flour, sugar and alcohol consumption since April. You may have noticed I have not been falling into dark depressions, the ones I have sometimes written about. I have lost about 15 pounds, maybe more. My blood sugars are better. My mood has been calmer and kinder.

Yet here I am again in a cycle of vicious anger, now sadness, guilt, regret and shame.

My OA sponsor's point is that cravings get reduced, disappear, when you stop eating the triggering stuff. That has been the case. How else to explain no urge for the very best fudge, lined up in pans, and an Iced Mocha Sparrow on Cape Cod? No yen for buttery gingery snaps, ice cream and brownies in Maine? It's not as though I felt deprived.

But Saturday night, I had a little fresh cherry crisp at Dan's sister's; no ice cream with it. I wasn't going to, but then rationalized that it was ok, since the topping contained oats and the filling, many freshly pitted dark cherries. Then Sunday, when the family was coming for breakfast before we hit the road, I went to bustling Chase's with Punchy. I didn't feel like cooking when we had to pack up for 450-mile drive. I figured I could stick to a piece of the buckwheat blueberry muffin and small scallion/corn tart. [Buckwheat bread, toasted and buttered, worked well earlier in the trip.] I got a few white flour blueberry muffins, too, and one Cheddar apple scone. I nibbled here and there.

Then, the hellish drive home....11.5 hours....accidents ahead of us and back-ups....fights about cell phone use with Punchy [she uses mine periodically, and I worry about the amount of time and some inappropriate sites]. And....I had not planned my food. So instead of getting the little salami and cheese tray in the food store at the crazy-busy rest stop, I got a Whopper Junior at Burger King. Small, but still white roll. When we stopped for dinner in Massachusetts, after getting the flat tire changed, I got a medium toasted "Thanksgiving sandwich," with turkey and stuffing. White roll. I did not eat sweets, stared down donuts and candy and ice cream. Had pistachios, almond crackers, local goat cheese from a Maine farm. I had many large cups of ice water.

But under the best of times, driving with Dan can be bad. Add some white bread to that mix. It was not pretty. All hell broke loose. [Yet I have noticed that when we drove back from the Cape in May and June, for example, it was not hellish. It must be what I bring to the mix.]

I thought to myself, Figgy has been good. Don't attack her when you get home. But once I saw she had not taken out the bottles from the gathering she had July Fourth or carted the pizza boxes to the curb, I was pissed. Then I noticed that my large, expensive impatiens plant on the stoop was shriveled up and dry. The sink was full of dishes. I saw red. I was even angrier. It was very ugly. I became a she-devil.

And I was still a she-devil this morning.

And here I sit, still wearing a heavy black she-devil dress.

Yet I must work. I will have to figure out how to move through this mess.

The most painful part is that I can never take my cutting words back. Never. Even if there is much beauty I offer and share, will my family be able to see beauty above evil?

Thank you for listening.

P.S. Fig did get all boxes and bottles out last night and did all dishes this morning.

Newport News: #MealAsMedicine, Teen Rehab

Newport Academy believes in the superpower of healthy food.

The press lunch drew writers and psychologists and psychologist/writers,
such as the bearded fellow on the left. Please notice the party favors--lovely little burlap pouches
that held sandalwood mala beads handmade in Nepal for Newport Academy.

I've been to many press events and media launches, from seeing sultry Catherine Deneuve in the 1980s at the French Embassy [to celebrate her new fragrance] to nibbling on button-size cupcakes with Lilly Pulitzer execs at the LeSportsac store in SoHo the year the bag company rolled out floral Lilly patterns. I bought a crossbody that night, and still love it. [It's machine washable.]

Whether working on staff or as a freelancer, my Inner Marketer has always loved these parties. So clever, the way the PR firms pull off events and deliver the message. Jane Cosmetics once took a busload of magazine beauty editors to Gurney's in Montauk in the Hamptons for spa treatments and a lobster dinner [I, the Lifestyle Writer, went by default]. I tasted my first fabulous Better Nutter [big exquisite PB sandwich cookie by Thomas Keller] from Bouchon Bakery at a press event for Samsung when it had a big space in The Shops at Columbus Circle, where the bakery still is.

So there I was Wednesday in NYC at a press lunch for Newport Academy, a place that treats teens with substance abuse problems, anxiety, depression, eating disorders and more. It's a rehab facility with locations in beautiful areas such as Newport Beach, California and Litchfield County, Connecticut. 

I had/have looming work deadlines, should have sat at my desk to write but something about this invitation intrigued me. My own beloved daughter, Figgy, dealt with an eating disorder starting in high school that could have taken her tender young life. Dan and I, but mostly Fig, I think, had to do hard work to fight that--with a team of experts. Fig is thriving now at 22 as a biology major at Montclair State. We are very proud of her and she is very proud of herself. So when Newport Academy press releases pop up in my in box, I find it hard to click "delete" before reading them.

I took notes. I met many Newport A. staffers, who wear preppy navy blazers with the academy emblem. If you check the website and "meet the team," you will see the blazers, sweaters and shirts. I like them. Jamison Monroe, Founder and CEO, told us from the head of the farm table that he had abused his Adderall and Ritalin through high school and college and that it was a "dark time for my family and me." His family sent him to several residential places. So he understands.

Check this:

• Jamison called the philosophy "unconditionally-loved driven treatment." Yes. That is important. Your beloved child may be trapped in a maze of dark walls in her mind, unable to escape. You love her anyway, and always, even if that darkness makes her behave in troubling and scary ways. It is hard. It can be terrifying, truly, for the parents. and of course for the teen. I remember once, our dear Figgy lying on a hospital gurney at a rather rough E.R. near the excellent residential program where she was for around 10 days. "Mommy, promise me you will never leave me," she said. I promised.
• Newport A. offers equine-assisted psychotherapy, yoga, art, music. I won't lie. It does sound pricey. "Ninety-five percent of the fees are paid by insurance," said Jamison, a blue-eyed native Texan--good-looking in a clean-cut, astronaut kind of way. He has a 1-year-old baby.
• The food served at Newport A. is pure and healthful. The point is that when triggers like sugar, caffeine and processed junk foods are removed, it "quiets the front part of the brain," so that teens have a better chance at calm and mindful recovery.
• We also heard from Jeffrey Zurofsky, who co-founded 'wichcraft and masterminded the fabulous lunch. He directs the food programming across all nine Newport A. campuses. He talked about the holistic approach to well-being, the farm-to-table movement [chickens roam, eggs are used for meals] and--the way things are done at dinner. "Serve your neighbor first, you don't serve yourself. You serve the person next to you. And listen when the person says 'I would like less' or 'I would like more.'" [Remember, dealing with eating disorders and healthy balance.]
• Regarding the mala beads, which I absolutely love and am wearing now with my black, bell-sleeved dress as I work at home, the advice was to take a 108-bead rest before you make your coffee, send a text, etc. The strand is fashioned from 108 beads and the idea is to touch each and breathe in and out, being mindful.
• Oh, the meal? So good. No alcohol, but iced green tea or refreshing grapefruit spritzer and sparkling or still water. Excellent salads, one with nice shavings of Parmigiano-Reggiano. Bowls of lentils and legumes. So beautifully spiced. Lots of fresh, fragrant herbs. And for the meat eaters, large, shallow bowls of chicken [pictured above]. And by that time, I remembered to pass it to the person next to me rather than dig right in. 
• Dessert? Nope. Also felt cleansing and good. Just a coupla plates of fine dark chocolate bars with nibs, broken into squares. "It's from Seattle. Theo's," said Jamison. Yes, I know my chocolate. Only problem is, now craving the cookbook sold on Theo's site! I also scored a cup of contraband coffee, which was very, very good.
• I saw a couple of extra pouches of mala beads and the Newport staffer next to me, a kind and pretty blonde named Cara [sp], gave me the nod to take them for my two girls. Punchy and Figgy both loved them. Punch wore hers to school yesterday. And I took them to her therapy appointment on Wednesday afternoon, so Dr. G. could address mindful meditation. Believe you me, all of us in this family can use some mindful meditation.
• TBH, this whole lunch sparked a healthy dinner-table conversation in my home. While Fig had her pan-browned tofu and her friend, Punch and I had my delicious, healthy version of Silver Palate Chicken Marbella, spinach salad and baked yams, we talked about the philosophy. Figgy said that in her programs, dessert was served--after all, most of the girls were anorexic. So she found the no sugar rule no good. But I get it. As someone often unable to stop with sugar intake, I see that it is related to substance abuse, and I like the idea of clearing the front of the brain for mindful thinking. Below, our beautiful Figgy pictured on Christmas Day in Belfast, Maine and my Dad, a chemist in the lab in the late 1940s. Turns out Fig loves studying science just as her Grandpa [and Grandma, my mom] did.

Food for thought. All food for thought. I spent quite a while writing this, but I think the time investment was important. The topic is real.

Good day to us all.

Can Gorilla Super Glue Hold My Life Together?

Check it out at gorillatough.com.

The graceful pink ballerina has been dancing
on our Christmas trees for 17 years.

Where do I begin? Since February 5, 2010, I've blogged here daily, or even more frequently. This is published post number 2,624. I've blogged about fears, struggles, capsules of happiness. About cupcakes and chocolate and, eventually, the quest to keep them in check. About writing and cooking and mothering. The seashore on the Cape, coastal towns in Maine. About our family losing my good Dad, and gaining rambunctious Punchy, the foster child who returned to live with us the very night that we dropped Figgy off at college in August 2013; we were empty nesters for under 10 hours until the little brunette, age 6 1/2, rejoined us.

But this past week, what should have been the pure white snowy peak of Christmastime, I was silent. I blogged one dreary word on December 24 and a photo and a sentence on December 27.

That is about to change.

I can't write about what happened, not now, not yet, maybe not ever. Sorry to be mysterious; that must be frustrating to you, the reader. But I can only bare so much of my soul in this public space.

But I can blog about some precious things that H. has mended over the last week, using Gorilla Super Glue to put all the pieces back together again. [The question is, can that glue work for life, for reattaching and reinforcing family relationships? Can it gloss over the darkest nightmare of your life?]

1. Figgy's beautiful pink blown-glass ballerina ornament from Bergdorf Goodman. The piece of lined notebook paper attached to the tag says, ANNIE/I love you/Santa and on the other side, Annie, 1999, age 4. Mrs. Claus thought/hoped then that she would have more children, and so her first baby's ornaments would have to be marked. You see, Santa gave Figgy and then later, Punchy, an ornament every Christmas, hanging them on the tree, whether we were at home or up in Maine at Uncle Mike's, Uncle John's or Aunt Eileen's or one year, down in Florida at Mary Jane's.* Oh, the parade of ornaments, from a porcelain angel snagged on Christmas Eve in Maine to a tiny Hallmark baby in a white bassinet, for Punchy. The ballerina has fallen off the boughs and broken several times, but H. has somehow always managed to repair her, using Play-Doh to stick the delicate legs back on and Gorilla Super Glue for the rest. She is pictured above on the tree this year, having survived ornament hospital [on the kitchen table] after our entire decorated tree independently toppled to the floor with a crash one night. We had to secure it by tying a piece of string on a bough and fastening it to a small nail on the wall.   
2. Punchy's little red Elf on the Shelf ornament from a couple years back.
3. A classic pale blue and white Wedgwood snowflake hung on white satin ribbon--Sis got it for us on a trip to London one year. 
4. The slender white Christmas angel figurine on my dresser.
5. The antique blue and white china pottery jar filled with our kitchen utensils. It says Hominy on it, and I bought it on a trip to an auction with my friend Anne. A piece of the bottom broke off. Gorilla Super Glue to the rescue.

And last year, when we returned home from Christmas in Maine, my cherished vintage Santa tray fell in the street and broke. H. also glued that back together.

I am grateful for those fixes, for preserving beauty, for taking something broken and making it whole again--and for getting to 8 a.m. yoga class, attending my support group and taking a long hot bath. Also for playing school for an hour or more with Punch [she is a great teacher], raking and bagging dead leaves out front, sampling H.'s homemade latkes, playing with the adorable realistic baby doll Santa brought Punchy and beginning a conversation with Figgy, as truncated and mired in hurt and resentment as it was and will be for both of us now.

I am not at the festive and lavish neighborhood party tonight, but H., Punchy and the latkes went--along with applesauce and sour cream. Figgy is out with friends. I was not up to mingling. It is 11:15 a.m. and I hear fireworks going off outside.

Good night, God bless us everyone in 2017.

*Santa did not get the girls ornaments this year. That is the kind of Christmas this was. May the lights go on next year.