Recently, we did a podcast about dreams, during which I had a complete blank on any of my recent dreams and ended up being all psychological and boring instead (which is the truth of Real Life With Weetabix: sometimes I gank out on the dorkiest subjects, instead of yelling “Fart! Rock star princess candy face!” as you might think from reading this page), and immediately after hanging up the phone, I remembered two that I had recently. One involved me traveling back in time and meeting Gwen, who was pregnant with her first child and married to her trollish husband. I knew what was coming, and was torn between trying to break them up and causing her second and third children to never be born, or just sitting by and being her friend and telling her that she was going to be a published author someday very soon. It was kind of cool, because hey, it was Gwen. I’ve only met Gwen once, and while the memory of the meeting, like most of Journalcon Austin, was shrouded by the ridiculous amount of pain I was in from the knee situation, I was really impressed by how gracious and polite she was. I walked away from the introduction feeling very much as though I had just met Grace Kelly. Anyway, the dream was full of stress, because her ex-husband (whom I’m sure is a decent human being, despite having had a relationship that didn’t work out) was straight out of Lifetime TV Network’s central casting, complete with banging on the door of the trailer, yelling “Woman! Let me in! I gotta right to see mah kid!” while we huddled together in a closet, scared out of our mind.
The other dream I had recently was that I found out that I was not the daughter of an emotionally retarded and distant father as we have thought for all these years, but actually, my real father was Kenny Rogers. Who knows when to hold them and also when to fold them. He proved paternity by asking me to sing a little something, and when I picked a Patsy Cline song, he said that it was the only proof he needed. That and I had his cheekbones (although honestly I have my mother’s cheekbones, not that you can see them). He was wearing all white in the dream, like he was during every performance of “Islands In The Stream”, but with his scary post-surgery face and no beard. And he called me “darlin'” which is, honest to god, one of my favorite things about the South and also Texas. I know that it’s horribly sexist, but I sort of love the “darlin'” thing. However, I will not own up to adoring ‘little lady’ because god, this is the 21st century, you know!
Rereading this: hello leftover childhood issues!
Speaking of painful injuries, I mentioned in the California travelogue that I spared my camera at the cost of my body when I took a spill in Muir Woods. After a week spent walking around California and Utah, the foot was still swollen and painful. I chalked it up to the fact that I never really allowed it to recuperate and also, had stepped on a thorny thing that had some kind of toxin inside of it, so maybe the swelling was due to that? Except that after a week back home, it was still all kinds of painful. Then I limped all over Chicago and by Saturday, it had swelled to the size of a small ham. And there was a thing sticking out of the top of my foot, a sort of painful crest. Oh shit.
I went in to see my new doctor, who took a look at the swelling, called me a maniac for continuing to walk on it. I’m always nervous about this new doctor, and slender and I still don’t know where she falls on the paranoia about being overweight. Of course I had gained weight on vacation. I ate In n Out burger and a lobster club sandwich and also an assload of wine and fancy cheeses, and I’d do it again because it was awesome. But I’ve had doctors tell me that my ear infections, a dislocated shoulder and a urinary tract infection was caused by my weight and I was worried that she would somehow tie it to my jacked up foot too. She didn’t. Maybe the only thing that saved me from getting a lecture was that I had hurt myself hiking in the woods, which was exercise, and the doctor mentioned that she had seen Esteban and me shopping for vegetables at the farmer’s market one Saturday. Ha! Look at me with the healthy! I’m practically soaking in it. Now give me some candy.
Actually, I’m the first to admit that I eat too many refined carbs. Hell, if I could eat anything without consequences, I’d probably live on bread, strawberries, peanut butter, bananas, chocolate and the Original Recipe coating on fried chicken. And what a fine life it would be.
I’ve voluntarily cut out most of the sugar in my diet and balancing the stuff I do eat with protein. The idea behind this is that it’s like Atkins or South Beach, except not being Atkins or South Beach. I’m not restricting fruit or vegetables, because damn it, sweet corn and green grapes did not make me fat. And I’m not cutting bread out entirely because it will just guarantee that I make a big loaf of homemade bread and then cover the entire thing with butter and wildflower honey and swallow it whole. But I’m balancing things, watching nutrition labels and eating more protein than I normally would and have eliminated all diet soda unless I’m eating (there is a theory that your body treats it like sugar anyway). Right now, the only sweetened thing I’m consuming is my morning mocha, which has a decent amount of protein in it on its own and then I pair it with cheese. That’s breakfast. Coffee and cheese. Hey, you got espresso on my Babybel! Hey, you got Babybel in my espresso!
The plus side (ha! Plus size side!) is that after awhile, you stop craving sweets. It’s like magic. I sort of love that. Be gone, sugar devil, be gone!
Lest you think I’m taking the high road here, I should probably tell you that I have a terrible crutch and it is Dentyne Vanilla Chill gum. I hate gum chewers and think they look sloppy and uncouth and a bit like cows chewing their cud, and yet’I am lost without the stuff. I only chew it at work (where I face into a cubicle) and in the car, except that comprises so many of my waking hours that I forget I’m chewing it and smack unapologetically when I’m with friends. Which is, in a word, inexcusable.
Between the dream analysis and the oral fixation, Freud would be feeling very smug right about now.
