Wednesday, September 04, 2013
I'm making some progress on my goal of cutting my food waste as much as possible. I had three small melons sitting untouched on my kitchen counter. Thanks to Alton I know the easy way to peel and cut up melons, so I got a honeydew and a watermelon cut up and in the fridge (although I do bring them to room temp before eating). I also got the new CSA box today, so I have some gorgeous red flame grapes. I'm also having sauteed beet greens and ham with dinner. When kale starts coming later this year, I think I'm going to experiment with Portuguese caldo verde (kale soup). I'll also make colcannon for the holidays. That's a traditional Irish dish of sauteed kale and mashed potatoes.
I've had the same dream several times, which I've discussed with Arthur. The details vary, but the base outline is that I'm in some glamorous setting, such as a cruise ship or formal party. There's a huge buffet but I have to wait on other people who demand my attention and by the time I can get to the buffet table all I can get are scraps.
I've blogged before about my early experience as a hungry kid, but I've come to realize that the dream is about a lot more than food. For many years I've felt on an unconscious level that good things in life, even basics, aren't "part of my reality," if you will. I've felt like a little kid looking through the toy store window watching everyone else get the goodies. To give you an example, until I made that huge trip to the laundromat last week I felt like properly laundered clothes were something everyone else had! Stupid, I know, but I'd watch commercials on TV and actually think, "they're wearing really clean clothes." I have felt locked out of everything that isn't a thrift-store reject, so to speak.
Of course, the physical exertion of things like going to the laundromat are a problem for me, but I don't think they're the big issue. I think I've been conditioned to think I don't deserve them, and even that there's something wrong with me for wanting them. Like wanting some polish in my life makes me shallow and materialistic. My birth family's home was grubby and falling apart. My father blamed all of us for not keeping it up (while he sat in his chair from dawn to midnight). The whole family (besides me) also maintained that having a polished home, beautiful clothes and a nice car meant you were snobbish and stuck-up. It took me a long time to realize that THEY were the ones were looking down on other peoples' lifestyles, not the other way.
The "waste" issue goes beyond food and ties in with the dream. I have jewelry I've never worn, makeup I've never touched, pretty dresses that have hung in the closet for years. You wouldn't believe it to look at me now, but I was a major fashionista when I was a kid. I read Seventeen Magazine religiously. I sewed a lot of my own clothes, both because I really love to sew and to get EXACTLY what I wanted. I experimented with just about every cosmetic on the market. I even knew how to set or braid my hair (it was waist-length at the time). I miss that girl. I want to find her grown-up counterpart. Of course I'm not going to have waist length hair ever again (I don't have an hour in the morning to brush it out) and I'd like to be more Vogue than Seventeen (though Vogue doesn't feature anything like my size).
I think there's another reason behind that one, though. My father watched me like a hawk and if I so much as smiled at a boy, he'd call me a whore. If my lipstick was a touch too red or my earrings a smidgen too big, I was a streetwalker waiting to happen. And my ex couldn't handle my sexuality at all. I actually married perhaps the only man I've ever known who hated sex. I once bought a red lace teddy to spark things, and he wouldn't even look at me. He blushed burgundy red, turned his head and shouted, "Oh, J**** C*****!" I think my "I give up" appearance now is my way of saying, "well look, guys, nobody's interested in me now."
I have got to start convincing the little demon between my ears that I really do deserve these things, that there's nothing wrong with wanting them. Or maybe I should just serve the little creep an eviction notice!