The five fingers of death take a holiday

I have an aversion to eating anything with a face. If a creature would run from me if it could, then I do not want to make it a meal. Even if I were lost in the wilderness, I would have a hard time eating grubs (not in the desert, however, because there are no grubs in the desert, just lizards and scorpions). Maybe I would get hungry enough to gum a lizard. Maybe not. I have a hazy assumption that I would somehow manage to pick, peel, and suck on a prickly pear. Right. Have you seen those things up close? All the flora in Southern Arizona is trying to kill me. It’s like its members spot a person with disequilibrium from afar, like a tick waiting for the unsuspecting hiker to pass by, and then they lean toward me with their feathery stickery arms and quivering bony spikes, hoping to impale me as I struggle to keep my balance.

You can tell I’m feeling persecuted by the desert.

This week when I was on my second road trip to Northern Arizona, I found the perfect place to take a fall and die. Have you been to Montezuma Well? It’s a natural springs that has bubbled up in a rock basin for thousands of years. The native inhabitants of the area used to live near the Well in cliffside dwellings they built from rocks. Even today, local tribes think of the Well as a sacred place. I can see why. It really feels magical, this unexpected oasis in the arid desert.

I was the first one at the gate, that's how eager I was. Being a tourist is fun sometimes. I sat and waited, and then more magic, but of the technological wireless variety. On the dot at 8:00 am, I heard a loud beeping, and the two metal gates swung open just for me.   

Ignorant whites named it after Montezuma, mistaking it for part of the Aztec civilization. On the upside, however, the park service built a meandering staircase of 112 steps so that visitors could descend close to the water. You can’t touch it, and I’m not sure you’d want to anyway, given the pondscum on the surface and the leeches that lurk in the depths. Still, it's water in the desert, and that is always a welcome sight. If you are feeling robust, and if it is still early in the day before the heat bakes you into a husk, it’s a descent worth taking.

So I took it.

Going down wasn’t hard, you know, because of gravity, but there are no handrails, which is when I had the thought that I could fall here, just pitch right off the edge, and maybe that would not be so bad. My soul, if I have such a thing, would no doubt enjoy the dip in sacred waters, in spite of the leeches.

I didn’t fall. 

Coming back up the 112 steps, though, was a workout. I could hear the voices of the two park rangers, who were standing at an overlook at the rim a good fifty yards above me. I could see them from time to time as I paused on landings to catch my breath and wait for my heart to slow. The larger heavier ranger was teaching the younger skinnier ranger about the history of the Well. Their voices echoed in the basin. I wondered if they knew CPR. Most likely, probably it's a job requirement, not that CPR is something I would want, given what I now know, that CPR is not a thing most people survive, nor would they want to, if they knew what I know now.

Better to let me slip under the green and blue water and let the leeches suck my soul while the ducks nibble on my toes.

I didn’t fall. I didn’t have a heart attack and die. I made it to the top. After a good long moment to rest, I took a trail down to the place in the side of the hill where the outflow (the swallet) emerged through a narrow channel made by long-dead indigenous peoples. That water was used to irrigate the “three sisters”—corn, beans, and squash. This practice endured for generations, until the tribes decided to uproot themselves and move south to join some villages that I guess seemed like more fun than farming the desert.

The day before I visited the Well, I saw the other part of the park system known as Montezuma Castle, which is the cliff dwelling clinging to the side of a high cliff about eleven miles away from the Well. That was an impressive construction feat, but as a visitor, I was disappointed, not by its construction, which is amazing, but because park visitors are not allowed to go up and walk around that dark castle, I guess for obvious reasons, but still. It would have been cool. Literally, it would probably have been much cooler up there in those carved caves—at ground level, it was easily 100°F at 4:30 when I was visiting just before closing time.

Montezuma Well was more satisfying in the sense that I could imagine I was walking in the footsteps of people who used to live and work there, finding physical and spiritual sustenance on the land because of that sacred water.

To celebrate my vacation, I did two food-related things. I ate ice cream. And I ate an English muffin. I know, I know. Some of you are saying, Carol, jeez, lighten up, no wonder you are so uptight, you need to eat more ice cream. And some of you are saying, oh no, you ate two of the five fingers of death! It’s curtains for you. The five fingers of death, if you don’t remember, are the invention of the erstwhile Dr. Tony, naturopathic bully: wheat, corn, soy, sugar, and dairy.

I try to minimize my intake of these foods. I hate to give Dr. Tony any credit for saving my life, but among the many wacky things he said and did, telling me to eat good food and drink water probably deserves a thanks. It doesn't mean I don't indulge in sugar in my oatmeal and soymilk in my tea, but I always feel a twinge of guilt, like, oh, no, what is the arrogant bully going to say this time as he sucks the money from my bank account? He has since retired to the godforsaken hinterlands of Oregon, also know as Bend, where I assume he is tormenting other willing victims who haven't yet caught on to his subtle yet nefarious passive aggressive quackish homeopathic ways. Me, resentful? No, but thanks for asking.

I am curiously waiting to try cultivated meat, vat-grown chicken, what are we calling it? Chicken cells grown in a stainless steel container. The intriguing thing is, no chickens are harmed in the creation of this product, although I’m not sure I totally buy that. No chicken would voluntarily donate its cells for science, even it meant all future chickens could escape the butcher's cleaver. I mean, we like chickens for lots of reasons, right, but we give them too much credit if we imagine they understand the moral and philosophical implications of offering up cells as a ploy to save chicken lives. They default to chicken run every time if given free range.

I want some of that protein, is all I’m saying, and I don’t want any chicken lives to be harmed in my attempt to get enough protein to stay alive, without resorting to eating bugs, grubs, and lizards.

I probably won’t live to see packages of cultivated chicken in the grocery store. I doubt I’ll live long enough to own an electric car. I probably won’t live to see a glut of affordable senior housing spring up about the land, driving rental prices down to the reach of any sad sack who needs a place to live. Too bad for me. I could be sad at the prospect of missing out on future prosperity, or I could be resentful, both really appealing and viable options. I'd like to know what happens after I’m gone, but unless there's something mystical that occurs after we die, probably once I'm gone, I'm gone, and none of this will matter, nobody will care. In a way, it's nice to know that life will go on, I just won’t be part of it anymore.

Searching for stability

I have been ruled by weather and climate all my life. Even as a kid in Portland, I clung to summer. I dreaded fall because it led to winter. I despised clouds. I wrote poems with gushing titles like Ode to Spring. I hated being cold. I used to stare in confusion at people who said they enjoyed Portland's cloudy moist days, people who actually reveled in rain, people who went up to Mt. Hood to—gah!—play in the snow. Even after chasing the sun to Tucson, I get cranky on cloudy days. Most of my adult life, unless the temperature tops 90°F, wherever I have gone, I have worn a hat on my head and socks on my hands. People are sometimes shocked to see I actually have hair. 

Weather is ruling me here in Tucson, just as it did in Portland, and I suspect it is influencing my vertigo. One day when my frustration with the rattling in my ear turned into action, I searched Dr. Google for information and found some articles that linked vertigo to migraines and barometric pressure. One helpful Netizen offered a ton of great information about migraines and air pressure. The place in the U.S. with the most stable air pressure, this amateur scientist said, was San Diego.

I continue to search for home. Is San Diego or environs the place for me? I don't think San Diego is within my budget, but who knows. I could live on the beach in the Beast. People are doing it. 

To help me make my decision, I wanted to find out if what I read was true, that San Diego barometric pressure is most stable, and further, I wanted to know if San Diego barometric pressure was different from Tucson barometric pressure. To answer my questions, I downloaded three days of air pressure data from the NOAA website. I used the altimeter data because it has been adjusted to account for elevation. Tucson is at 2,389 feet, compared to San Diego, which sits at just 62 feet above sea level. Air pressure changes with elevation, and that is what the altimeter readings account for.

I used the same three days for four locations: Portland, San Diego, Tucson, and Yuma. Weather on the west coast tends to move from west to east, so weather happening along the coastline might take a day or more to reach Tucson, but the days I chose didn't seem to be particularly dramatic in terms of storms or high pressure, so to keep it simple, I just used those data. 

I calculated the minimums and maximums for each city and subtracted to get the range, which is one measure of variation. The range (difference between maximum and minimum) for Tucson and Yuma were similar at 0.26 and 0.28, respectively. Portland was higher at 0.37. San Diego came in the lowest at 0.10, indicating that city showed the least amount of fluctuation in barometric pressure over that three-day period.

THREE DAYS	YUMA	TUCSON	SAN DIEGO	PORTLAND
MAX	30.06	30.11	30.09	30.22
MIN	29.80	29.83	29.99	29.85
DIFF	0.26	0.28	0.10	0.37

The data seem to support the idea that San Diego has stable air pressure. San Diego had less than half the variation in air pressure that Tucson and Yuma showed for this three-day period. Tucson had just barely more variation compared to Yuma. 

Portland had a lot more variation, but the waves were very slow, not choppy. You might like a chart.



What does this tell me? It might be true. In terms of my vertigo, San Diego might be better than Tucson. 

Next, I am considering the possible effects of my diet on my vertigo. I personally am not convinced that my vertigo relates to migraine headaches, but the spunky little ENT I visited earlier this month seemed to think I don't have garden-variety BPPV, that maybe it has something to do with a type of migraine. I think she's wrong, but what do I know, I'm just the ignorant person living inside this out-of-balance body.

In my experience, six things affect vertigo:  movement, gravity, sound, temperature, air pressure changes, and stress. I've lived with this condition since 2015. You can go back in this blog and read about it. I've complained a lot over the years. It's what I do.

Anyway, diet. My nemesis. I blame food for everything, even as I whine to the gods about how unfair it is that I can't eat like so-called normal people. If I could subsist on pancakes and ice cream without blowing up like a balloon, you better believe I would. Just looking at pancakes is good for a two-pound weight gain. My problem is I don't know how to stop once I start. I'm such an addict. But what if some of the foods I'm eating—and there are only, like, a dozen of them—are contributing to my vertigo? That would be sad, if I'd had the solution all along. Just click your heels three times, nibble on this root vegetable, and all your balance problems will be gone. Right.

According to the info sheet the ENT gave me, to head off migraines, I should avoid, reduce, or limit these foods: chocolate, nuts, peanut butter, coffee and caffeinated tea, many cheeses, eggs, yogurt, fresh bread, green beans, lentils, onions, raisins, and avocado. 

I don't eat all of those things regularly, but many are staples in my diet. Eggs, for instance. Yogurt. I don't eat meat, so eggs and yogurt are my protein sources. I am not sure what I would eat instead. I tried the soy/tofu diet, back in, like, 2010, during my vegan meltdown. Been there, done that, almost killed me. 

Guess what foods are supposedly "safe": American cheese, ice cream, pudding, milk, white bread, potatoes, rice, oatmeal, fresh meat/fish/poultry, many root vegetables, and apples. Basically white things, dead things, and sugar. Bright side: Pancakes would be on this list, as long as they have no yeast in them. 

I am left with so many questions. Why is milk okay but not yogurt? Is it the probiotics? Why is American cheese okay but not Swiss? What do we have against the Swiss? I'm so confused. 

Nothing makes sense. I keep trying to order the thoughts in my head. It's like herding lizards. I shake my snow globe head almost constantly, trying to keep the ear rocks suspended. I'm sure these stupid ocotonia have wandered far and wide since they started their journey in 2015. Now they are exploring all the ear canals, far from home, going on their endless river cruise. I wish the spunky ENT could shoot some dye into my ears, put me under a scope, and see where the crystals are actually gathering. I bet my ear canals would light up like a playroom full of kindergarteners. 

Speaking of little dudes, good news. After repeated sprayings of insecticide around the Bat Cave, I believe I have secured the perimeter. For the past few days, I've seen only tiny stupid babies, easily dispatched with no compassion. I am sure my cockroach dreams will eventually subside. 

I wonder if the bug spray has an effect on my vertigo. Hmm. More to be revealed.

The Chronic Malcontent bakes a cherry pie . . . sort of

Balmy temps (50°F) have inspired me to open a window to air out the accumulated housitosis consisting of body odor, burnt onions, unvacuumed rugs, and the lingering stench of cheap perfume from the vet's attempt to clean out my cat's wax-filled ears. You would think ear cleaner manufacturers would go easy on perfume in a product meant for the delicate insides of a cat's ears. Like many cat products, the cleaning solution seems to be aimed to please human owners rather than the cats. In this case, massive fail. I'm allergic. It's been a minor hell of eye burning and throat irritation, and the cat hasn't been too happy about it either. Insult to injury, yesterday I reluctantly instigated a cat diet at the recommendation of the young, slender, perky, blonde newly minted veterinarian Dr. Danielle (daughter of the retired Dr. Brian).

“Ideally, an adult cat should be no more than twelve pounds,” she said regretfully eyeing my cat's substantial sixteen-pound girth (and pointedly not looking at my own).

I've been working on my girth. I'm happy to say, despite my conflicting relationship with food, I've lost enough girth to fit into my old out-of-style Levis. Maybe there is a god. For sure it takes divine intervention to help me follow my food plan. My food plan is simple: vegetables, fruit, eggs, yogurt. And lots of coffee.

Last week I baked a pie. If you know anything about me, that statement should get your attention. I barely cook (if you call roasting vegetables cooking), let alone bake. I eat cooked things—everyday I inadvertently overcook my vegetables until they are gummy mush—but I don't eat baked things. I would if someone baked them for me. But baking is a fine art, as anyone who bakes will tell you. It's not one of those skills you pick up in the aisle at Walmart. Allegedly . . . I do not shop at Walmart so it could be that baking skills are one of many wonderful things you could pick up in a Walmart aisle. 

Back to the pie. My mother loves cherry pie. Because I love my mother and feel it is my daughterly obligation and privilege to do things to make her happy and recognizing it has been almost two years since she's had a bite of cherry pie, I thought I would bake her a little cherry pie. How hard could it be?

Before I embarked on this foolhardy endeavor, I thought I had a pretty good chance of making something edible. I mean, I wasn't planning on making the filling from scratch. I'm not a total fool, after all. The stuff in the can would do just fine for her . . . all those chemicals, sugar, and red dyes, why, her system was built on that stuff. The main challenge, as I saw it, was the requirement to use gluten-free flour to make the crust.

When they say gluten-free, what they really mean is wheat-free. If you bake, you know that wheat is a common ingredient in baking. Flour substitutes involve grains like rice, corn, oats, millet . . . all great stuff, but maybe not that great for a pie crust? Ignorance is (sometimes) bliss: I was not to be deterred.

First, I went online and read everything I could find on making pie crust with non-wheat flour. There was some but not much agreement. Everyone had an opinion. I think it is a trait of bakers. In particular, I wanted to view videos of real people getting their hands dirty in dough. I could only find videos of bakers using wheat flour. Nevertheless, I studied their process and took copious notes.

Later that afternoon, I realized I was procrastinating. Fear does not bake pies. In accordance with my new year's philosophy regarding getting things done, I rolled up my sleeves, washed my hands, and got to work. Recipe for a nine-inch pie in hand, I cut the amounts in half to make a pie to fit into one of those dinky crinky aluminum pie tins that you can find at the store, comes in a stack of six tins with plastic covers, you know what I mean if you make pot pies to take to potlucks, which I never do, in case you wondered. Having little luck with food, I avoid pot lucks.

Pie dough consists of four ingredients: flour, salt, fat, water. Some people add a fifth, sugar. The fat can be butter, shortening, lard, or some type of oil. Mom can't have butter, and I don't stock shortening or lard in my kitchen, so olive oil was my only option. None of my online video sources told me how to handle non-wheat flour so I tried to emulate their advice for wheat flour pie crust as closely as I could. The trick to making flaky wheat pie dough is to mix the ingredients until the flour is in pea-sized nuggets but not tire it out with too much handling.

One thing I learned is that it takes a lot of water to moisten non-wheat flour to create a substance that you can flatten and form into something that resembles pie dough that can be pushed into a pie tin. In case you want to try gluten-free flour pie crust yourself, that is my observation based on my experience. Once the dough was moist enough, I was able to roll it out with my rarely used wooden rolling pin. However, looking back, I realize I didn't roll the dough thin enough. Do your best to roll it quite thin.

Second, after I poured the bright red gleaming cherry pie filling into the pie crust, I thought it probably would have been good to prebake the pie crust. Some wheat flour recipes called for prebaking the crust, some did not. In my eagerness to complete the task and check it off my list, I did not prebake the empty pie crust. I covered the pie filling with a top layer of pie crust (also not rolled thin enough). I haphazardly crimped what edges I could and trimmed the rest, took a photo, and shoved the tin into the oven.

I must say, it looked like a pie going into the oven, and after I took off the aluminum foil tent, it browned up pretty nicely. As I pulled it out of the oven, I was astounded and slightly unnerved at how heavy it was. The pie tin slid across the baking sheet, heading for the open oven. In the nick of time, my sharply honed reflexes managed to keep the sheet horizontal (pure luck). The pie did not fall into the oven or on the floor. Sometimes we mark victory by what didn't happen, right? After letting it cool for a bit, I placed the heavy little pie into a box, covered it with foil, and took it over to Mom's.

I wanted to show her the pie before we went out for a smoke, because I knew half her brain would be missing when we came back inside. I modestly explained what I had done and pulled the pie out of the box. I took off the foil cover with a flourish. Voila! She seemed mildly impressed. I could tell she was itching to get outside.

After we came in, she milled around in confusion as usual. I took one of her kitchen knives (not the sharpest knife, I feel I must say to preface my tale of what came next). My intention was to cut a small piece of pie and place it in a dish. However, the knife would not cut the pie crust. Sticking to my principle of modesty, I did not immediately blame the knife. Failure not being an option, I continued to saw into the pie crust. Eventually I broke through. The red filling came into view. I aimed the knife at the bottom crust. After considerable effort, I managed to poke, jam, saw, slice, and otherwise attack the bottom crust until at last, at last, I could free a little slice of pie for my mother.

I placed the wedge of pie in the dish. The crust stood valiantly upright as the filling dripped away and ran into the dish. Soon the crust stood alone in a sea of neon red cherry pie filling.

“Here you go!” I said proudly, handing my mother the dish and a fork.

She poked at the crust once or twice, gave up, and scooped some of the filling into her mouth. Finally, she picked the crust up with her fingers and used it like a cracker to scoop up filling, like how she might scoop up salsa with a tortilla chip if she didn't hate Mexican food so much.

The next day, Mom reported having a massive diarrhea blowout. There is no way to know if the little bit of pie she consumed was to blame, but she wasn't willing to try any more of it. Three days later, I took the pie home and dumped it in my compost bin.

Tethered to the wreckage of the future

I should be editing right now, but my head hurts. When I start thinking I should do a find-and-replace to swap out every other word with shut up!, I know I need to take a break. Lately I've been obsessed with waffles. Now I know which carbs are waffle-friendly (hint: not coconut flour or rice flour, but kudos to oat flour). However, carbs are not Carol-friendly. It's confounding how fast pounds come back when I start eating carbs. I fear if I want to keep wearing the Levi's without the scoche more room, I'm doomed to a life bereft of bread. And pasta. Pancakes. Waffles....

The last paper I edited was a dreary treatise on the causes of terrorism in Palestine. In the last few paragraphs, the author made a half-hearted attempt to propose a solution, but you could tell it was whistling in the dark. I am beginning to understand why we don't want certain Middle Eastern parties to have nuclear weapons—it's pretty clear that if they had them, they would feel compelled by their god to use them.

That's kind of how I feel about carbs in the house: if carbs are there, I have to eat them. It's a compulsion, all right, although I doubt it comes from any god I would want to believe in.

I'm dreaming of carbs as the solution to what ails me because I can't face the excruciating reality of facing my fears. What fears? Well, thanks for asking. Here's the short list: Fear that my mother is disintegrating. Fear that I will lose her before I'm ready to let her go. Fear that she will outlast me and hog the parched bit of life I have left. And now I can add fear of getting fat to the list. Argh.

My sister politely scoffed at the idea of me moving in with our mother. Ah, she knows us too well. I can't stop remembering that day I brought my laptop over to Mom's and worked on a spreadsheet of her finances while she prepared and ate a piece of toast. By the time she was done eating that buttered blackened crunchy stinky thing, I was quite willing to throttle her. I am dreaming if I think we could coexist with one refrigerator. Or that I could pare down my already parched and puny life and cram it into one spare bedroom. It's not much, but it's all I got.

Days are numbered. Do you realize that? We learn that as we get older. It's a concept that can't be explained to young people.

Speaking of young people, I heard on OPB that the Millennials outnumber the Boomers. 100 million of those nasty little upstarts, compared to only about 75 million of us Boomers, and dying off daily. Oh, alas, alackaday. Boomers are no longer the center of the playground, no longer the heart and soul of rock 'n' roll. Even no longer the target market for wrinkle creams and liposuction. At some point, what is wrong with us Boomers can't be fixed or hidden. All we are good for is caring for old decrepit dried up parental husks. And keeping our Gen X children and Millennial grandchildren afloat (but I never had any of those, thank god.) Then we settle in our parents' retirement homes like old beat up worker bees. Some of us won't find a cell to call home and will have to flail around on the ground until someone takes pity on us and plucks our ragged wings. I can do that for my mother, but who will do that for me?

Oh, sorry, that's a little melodramatic. Speaking of beat up worker bees, there's a middle-aged bearded guy standing on a corner up by the gas station. He holds a sign that says Postal worker. Please help. I wonder what that is about? Does he need help because he is a quasi-government employee? Is it a veiled threat that he could go postal on my car at any time? I wonder what my sign would say, were I to write something with a marker on a dirty piece of cardboard. Yard sale here, probably.

Endings precede beginnings. Everything ends, but new things begin. I don't always see the potential in an ending because I'm caught up in trying to fix my past or control my future. I think coming to grips with my mother's mortality and with my mortality is a phase. Once it passes, I can get down to the business of living. Finally. If there's any time left.

Portland, the land of plenty

My sister perused the photos from my high school reunion and sent me an email complimenting me on not getting fat. (Isn't that sweet?) Compared to some women in the photos, it's true, I'm a stick. But it's all relative. At the height of my vegan debacle, some six years ago when my body was feasting desperately on muscle and brain cells, having burned up all available fat, I guess you could say I was pretty thin. To be more precise, I could get into the same size Levis I wore in high school 40 years ago (30x34 in case you are curious), and those scruffy Levis hung on my frame like my own droopy skin.

Then, to avoid dying, and because I could (since I live in America, the land of plenty, and back then I had a job), I started eating real food: eggs, chicken, beef, fish, and lots and lots of vegetables. Over the next two years, my muscles returned, along with all of my fat cells (which were never gone, just deflated, darn it), which ballooned to fill all the spaces in my now too-tight clothes. The Levis went into a drawer, replaced by various forms of loose, stretchy pajamas. Black, of course, because it is so slimming.

For the past year or so, as my system has stabilized on the low-carb real-food food plan, some of the extra weight has started dissolving, first from my face, then from my boobs, then my waist, and—if I live long enough—maybe from my hips and thighs. It would be nice to have thin thighs like I did in high school. The good news, in relative terms considering the world is spontaneously combusting right now, is that I can finally fit into my Levis again (although I admit it's a bit of a struggle to get them buttoned up).

So, thanks, Sis, for the moral support. Keeping in mind of course, that it's not really true that outward appearances trump emotions, behavior, and character. That is to say, it matters more how you feel than how you look. In the big scheme of things, we are lucky to be alive and living in the land of plenty (plenty of everything, good, bad, and in between, but mostly pretty good in Portland). Things could be worse. We could be living in Baghdad, Aleppo, or Ferguson. Seriously. Land of plenty, indeed! Gratitude list!

Coming off a bender

While my sister was in town for a long weekend, the centerpiece of her visit was food. When I contemplate that statement, I wonder what images it inspires in your mind? Do you picture family feasts, home-cooked spreads, gourmet meals at local five-star restaurants? I mean, it's not often my sister comes to town. My older brother actually drove in from the coast for the occasion, so the entire family (all five of us) was all together, an occurrence rarer than a lunar eclipse. It would have been a perfect time to celebrate with fabulous food. That is not what happened.

The only one who knows how to cook in my family is my sister. I doubt it occurred to her to consider cooking a meal to celebrate the get-together. It certainly never occurred to me, because that isn't how it's done in my family. Cooking was our mother's job, and because she despised cooking, we grew up with canned green beans and hamburger patties.

Our idea of social food is Chinese take-out. My older brother has food allergies. I'm not supposed to eat sugar (among other things). My sister and mother eat like tiny birds. My younger brother will eat anything as long as it isn't from the vegetable family, and my father the compulsive overeater has gone to the all-you-can eat buffet in the sky. Even though we all have our preferences, food is still the center of the social time.

Food is a family thing, even when some family members have food issues. Or maybe that is where some family members get their food issues, I don't know. Just like money is a family thing, food is one of the sticky threads that snags you in childhood and trails after you the rest of your life, no matter how far you run. In my family, it doesn't matter how you feel, but it matters a lot how you look. People notice how you eat. Everyone notices if you gain a few pounds.

I picked my sister up from the airport on Thursday evening and delivered her to Mom's condo. As we pulled up to the back parking area, there was our scrawny mother talking with two older women. Mom stopped waving at her mini-roses and started waving at us. The two neighbors, who held two tiny yappy dogs on leashes, became the audience for the minor family drama that ensued.

Mom introduced us to the neighbors. We shook hands and petted the tiny dogs. I retrieved my sister's suitcase from the boot of my old Focus and started dragging it toward my mother's back door.

My mother grabbed my sister in a hug, gleefully saying to the two women, “This is my skinny child!”

I thought perhaps the neighbors looked a little uncomfortable, but I didn't stick around to find out. I rolled my eyes and kept moving into the house. I heard the subtext, loud and clear, though: This is my skinny child (and there goes my fat child!).

We aren't known for social grace in my family. My sister is the anomaly: She conducts herself like a princess wherever she goes (she's been to Europe, after all), but the rest of us are tooth-picking, armpit-scratching, conversational disasters. (Which could explain why my sister prefers Europe). We're all well-educated, but I fear we still exude a slightly sour aroma that indicates we hale from the wrong side of the tracks. No matter the Ph.D., my collar is blue and probably will be till I die. I mean, you can take the girl out of the public school, but... know what I mean?

I'm a chip off my father's block, so food has a special hold over me. This is why I don't buy anything but fish, chicken, turkey, and vegetables. If there is anything else in the house, I will eat it. Going out to eat is like taking an alcoholic to a bar and saying, oh, it's okay, just this once, have a beer. Live a little!

“I need to gain a few pounds,” my sister said as we perused yet another menu. Meanwhile, my mind was running in circles: Salad? I don't want any stinking salad! Could she tell how much I wanted the chocolate cake? (Or the french fries? Or the wheat bread? Or the cheesy pizza?)

“You only live once,” she said, as if she read my mind. At that point, she might as well have had little devil horns coming out of her perfect blonde hair. And a cute little pitchfork aimed at my bulging belly.

The rest of the weekend was the typical culinary nightmare. I get why my food-allergic brother avoids social situations. It takes monumental willpower to turn down food when you are out to eat with the family. It's just not done. Food is love. (And if you aren't feeling the love just then, you can focus on your food.) Food is the glue that holds family times together. If you don't eat (just a little bite of this amazing Belgian chocolate!), then you aren't on the team. You are undermining the team experience.

Clearly, I have no willpower. I know that. This is not news. As I wait for the wheat, sugar, dairy, soy, and corn starch to clear out of my overloaded system (the five fingers of death, according to Dr Tony the nutty naturopath), I reflect on powerlessness. My mother loaded me up with leftovers (week-old glop in a Chinese takeout carton, an unopened box of wheat-filled, sugar-laced granola), which I (eventually) tossed into the trash, but not after once again trying (and failing) to demonstrate that I can live life like a normal person.

As I recover from this bender, I wish I could say that I won't jaywalk again. But even on a good day, my mind is trying to kill me. Sugar may be a slow death, but it's death all the same.

The diagnosis from the shaman: Resentment and paralyzed will: Duh, dude

My life feels sort of like Groundhog Day, the movie. I feel stuck in a loop, endlessly recycling my frustration at the slow pace of my doctoral studies, my resentment at the relentless sameness of my tedious job, and my anxiety about my future. I've been ignoring my emotions for some time, hoping against hope that they would miraculously evaporate. No such luck. Apparently other people can sense them too. Go figure.

Today I visited Doc Tony, the inimitable amazing naturopath who over the past three years has rescued me from the brink of collapse with a few homeopathics and an admonishment to eat good food and drink water. (Who knew?) He worked me over with his usual voodoo muscle testing routine, and diagnosed a faulty liver function, for which he prescribed a remedy to take now, and another spendy remedy to take three times a day for the next month. (I feel happy that I can help him pay off his student loans.) Then, because he knows I'm game for any new wacky treatment technique, he asked me if I wanted to explore some of the emotions that were coming up alongside thyroid and liver.

“Emotions? Uh...” I said, not one to readily explore my emotions even on a good day, and certainly not after a stressful day of teaching for four hours followed by driving like a maniac from Wilsonville to Northeast Portland to get to my appointment by 3:00 p.m.

He grabbed my arm and murmured, “I'm seeing resentment.” I couldn't help myself, I started laughing. Dude, if you only knew. He doesn't know, all we talk about is sinus congestion, constipation, and diet. He knows I'm working on my doctorate, but he has no clue about my insanity, my recovery, or my job. He doesn't know that on a good day my mind is trying to kill me. He sees the result of my stress, but he's not a shrink. We don't talk about it.

He grabbed my arm again and mumbled something like a countdown. “Present to 20, 20 to 10, 10 to... oh, three comes up!” He was excited. “Did something happen when you were three, maybe something with your father, that made you resentful? Like, he was away a lot...?”

“Doc, I don't remember anything from when I was three, seriously? No clue.”

He told me to sit up on the edge of the table and had me put my left finger on a pulse point on my right wrist, in a contorted wrap around fashion that I am at a loss to duplicate now, and then put my right palm on my forehead. I probably looked like I was trying to contact aliens in the outer nebula. I wondered if I should make beeping noises. He went around behind me and pounded on my back. Ulp. It felt strangely good.

“Just sit there until you feel something shift.”

What, you mean like my arms fall asleep? New age mumbo jumbo healthcare is so hard to interpret sometimes. So much of it depends on the persuasive manner of the practitioner. You feel better now, don't you? You must feel better. Sure, I must feel better, it's costing me a small fortune. I wouldn't be surprised if someday I see myself on a youtube video as an example of another stupid idiot suckered in by hocus pocus medicine.

“Let's try it again, see what else comes up.” He was having fun. Every second on the clock is money in his bank account. No wonder he was smiling. He had me lie down on the table. He grabbed my arm again. “Now I'm getting.... paralyzed will.” All I could think about was my job, my students, my simmering frustration, my fear of change battling with my urge to just up and quit. I'm outa here! He did the countdown thing, frowning with concentration. “Present to 20, 20 to 10, ten to ....zero. Conception! Cool.” (I kid you not.)

He sat me up. “Did your mom ever talk to you about your birth, any problems with your birth?”

“All I know is it was early in the morning. And I'm sure she was pissed.” He grimaced. He had me do the finger to pulse point thing again, palm to forehead. He went around behind me and pounded on my lower back three times. Bam. “Ok, just hold that until it feels like time to let it go.” Oh boy. I waited a few seconds, but my arms were tired, so I put them down, feeling a little like an idiot, but you know, in for a penny and all that.

“Ok, let's see when you should come back.” He held my arm, closed his eyes. Every time he does that I assume he is thinking about all the bills he's got coming due, his cash flow for the next two months. “Ten weeks, again. Looks like that's your maintenance schedule.” Yeah, student loan payment schedule, I get it.

I dutifully trotted out to the waiting room, where he loaded me up with five bottles of some capsules to help my liver function better. I walked out of there, $265 poorer, but feeling remarkably light and perky. Another wonderful session with Dr Tony, magician extraordinaire. I owe the man my life. I'm happy to put his kids through college. It's the least I can do for the gift of returning health.

Am I comatose yet?

Yesterday I started feeling a bit under the weather, even though the weather is as good as it gets in the Pacific Northwest in early September: clear, warm air, cool breeze, just scraping the bottom of 80° before skidding back down to the upper 50s. It wasn't the weather that made me sick. I suspect food.

Ever since I started eating organic I suspect food for all my ills. Yesterday after breakfast I felt overcome with a wave of fatigue. I assumed my regular thinking position, and when I woke up my neck was so stiff I couldn't turn my head to either side. I felt like the Tin Man. Oil can! Oil can! I suddenly felt compelled to head for the bathroom, just in time for a particularly noxious and exciting gastrointestinal event, the details of which shall remain thankfully undisclosed. Wow, I thought to myself. I'm dying!

Quickly I opened up Google and typed in I'm dying. The symptom checker for Web MD popped up. I clicked on it and began stabbing various options, searching for a diagnosis. Female. Check. Over 55. Check. Abdominal? Neck? Wha-? Okay, here we go: meningitis! I knew it, I'm doomed. Are my fingers feeling tingly yet? Maybe a little. Am I feeling the onset of a coma? I dunno, how can I tell, I always feel like I'm on the verge of a coma.

Food has always been my nemesis. From the time I walked around the house with little donuts stacked up on all my fingers, food has had power over me. Mom used to reward me with my very own box of Ho-Hos. (Mmmmmm, Ho-Hos. Do they still make them?) I learned that food could be a good friend, probably by watching my father find his comfort in food. After I moved to Los Angeles I went off the deep end, living to eat, counting the minutes until my next meal. After awhile that got tiresome. Then I met a man who didn't mind my chunky ass, and the food compulsion gave way to other compulsions.

Now I've given up every food that used to bring me pleasure: pizza, lasagna, ice cream, crackers, potato chips, oat meal... sugar, wheat, corn, dairy, bread, rice, pasta, tofu, soy milk, rice milk, lentils... for god's sake. What's left, you might ask? I'll tell you what is left: Vegetables. Chicken. Eggs. Fish. Fruit. Water. I eat to live now. I sure don't live to eat. When I find myself craving ice cream, I picture a parfait glass filled with layers of gravel and dirt with green antifreeze and motor oil poured on top. Pretty. But not very nourishing. I suppose if I learned how to cook I could make things tasty. But who cares. It's only food, just calories to convert to energy so I can function.

A half hour after googling my symptoms, I was still alive. Ho hum. I went to bed early, slept for 10 hours, and today I feel fine, a little watery, a little stiff, but very much alive, so probably it wasn't anything serious. Probably just a touch of food poisoning. It was most likely either the salmon I ate on Saturday or the fancy restaurant food I ate on Friday night. I'd like to blame the fish, since I hate to eat fish—I only eat it because Doc Tony says I must in order to stay healthy—but I'd rather blame the restaurant food. I felt a little dizzy after I ate it—usually a sign of a food additive, like a preservative or flavor enhancer. But the dizziness went away, and I felt fine on Saturday.

I'd like to say that eating at restaurants is worth the risk of food poisoning. The older I get though, the less willing I am to spend three days suffering for an hour of gastronomic pleasure. It's gotta be good company or really delicious food to risk the possibility of a negative outcome. Friday night it was worth the company. Plus I wanted to check out the new cafe in my 'hood. Ok. Now that I know the menu, I have no problem abstaining. What food is worth the risk? I'm not sure. Potato chips, maybe. Mmmmmm, potato chips.

Time for dinner. Lettuce, roasted beets, carrots, avocado, pan-grilled salmon, olive oil, and balsamic vinegar. Sounds good? Every day, for the rest of your life? Hey, it could be worse. My allergy-plagued brother had to survive on turkey, rice, and water for years before his immune system rebounded. I'm lucky. No sugar, oh, poor me.