Green Card for Prozac Nation

A few months ago, I was diagnosed with SAD. Seasonal Affective Disorder. Not the "winter blues" that is a major complaint during the winter months, but the true physiological disorder. It has to do with serotonin and the brain. The brain makes it, the body uses it. My brain, however, is the possessive type. As soon as the serotonin was produced and released, my brain was grabbing it back. It could simply not bear for its precious serotonin to leave the nest, especially to that base, animalistic body. So, serotonin was not having its normal effect on my form - keeping my form normal. Serotonin balances, moderates, keeps things on even keel. What was happening was that I started swinging. Not in the Laugh-In use of the term, but rather in mood and emotion. I would be happy and content in bright sunny weather and an anxious, irritable, depressive mess during dark periods. Serotonin production is related to light level and short photoperiods normally see diminished serotonin levels. Hence the more noticable effects in winter. But, overcast days can do the same for people with serious cases and I am an example of this unfortunate type.

I can tell upon waking in the pitch black, wee hours of the morning, what will be the weather for the day. My body can gauge pressure in the atmosphere with great precision. So, from the beginning of my day, I would know if I was going to have a "good" day or a "bad" day. Was the the forecast sunny and clear or dark and rainy. So, from its beginning, the road of my day was laid out. And, my predictions were never wrong. Bad days were dreaded and made me want to stay in bed with the blankets pulled snugly over my head. I knew that any small perturbation in the day would push me over the emotional edge. I would be snippy and irritated with everyone and I would be overwrought if extra chores or responsibilities manifested during the day. I would not be truly in control of myself. It was time to seek medical assistance.

Actually, I first visited my doctor for other health complaints and brought up these symptoms during the discussion. She quickly summed the ideas in my description into a picture of SAD and promptly prescribed Prozac. This did not make me happy. Prozac was for people with clinical depression. Prozac was for crazy people. Prozac made "normal" people crazy. Prozac made you hear voices, become suicidal or murderous. Prozac was not your friend. Not being one to keep my opinions to myself, I voice my concerns to my doctor and she whacked me on the head for evaluating without evidence. Did I have any facts or information to really back up my claims. Ummm...no. She knows that I am a scientist and attacked me with the one argument that I could not discount - I was reaching a conclusion based on anecdotal evidence. Drat. Foiled again.

So, I took my cursed prescription to the pharmacy and found myself becoming self-conscious as I stood in the Drop-Off line. I noticed that I was holding my slip so that no one could see the medication. I made sure not to use the drug name when I spoke with the pharmacist. I realized that I didn't want anyone to know I was on Prozac. I was "ashamed." I was truly worried about how people would view me if it became known that I was on Prozac. This is atypical of me. I generally don't give a fig about what people think about me, or thought I didn't. I went home, clutching my pills and perplexity.

Why was I feeling this way? I look like a train wreck. I am not a fashion follower. I am outspoken, annoyingly liberal and unflinchingly honest. I follow the lead of my own heart and head. I am compassionate and respectful to others, but will always give greater weight to my own beliefs and act accordingly. Why in the heck did I care if the world knew I was on Prozac? I dance and have always danced to my own musical score. It was bewildering. I knew people who were on Prozac or similar and did not think anything about it. I didn’t look down on them; in fact, I never gave a second thought to the idea once they told me this drug had been prescribed to them. They might just as well have told me the doctor prescribed Advil. But, on a general level, there was something about the medication…I could divorce my biases when it was being taken by friends and peers, but the Prozac aura still existed in my mind for the general public. Further, the aura was intensified when applied to me. I was baffled, confused, but still quite ashamed.

I took my hated medicine faithfully and found that its benefits were legion. I was able to face the world again. Regardless of time of year or time of day, through rain, sleet, snow or sunshine, I was balanced. My normal emotions were not blunted, but I was not swinging like a monkey in a tree. Things were as they should be. A success! It worked! The way it should. Privately, I reveled in my freedom from emotional slavery to the weather. I rejoiced in the knowledge that I could expect each day to be manageable. Not that every day would be a “happy” day, Prozac doesn’t have that magical property. Every day, though, would not have the extra burden of an emotional roller-coaster added upon the normal trials and tribulations. That was great blessing. But, my personal joy did not lead to shared information. I could not slough off the feeling that this was wonderful, but wrong. I was actually more insecure now than ever Why?

Well, the why is obvious. It means I am not perfect. Surprise! Scigirl is not saintly. The armor has a chink. Of course, this is no surprise. Of course, this is normal. Of course, this is natural. For other people. Not for me. I do not accept imperfection. I am the consummate overachiever, never satisfied with good enough. Failure is a sign of weakness in myself, of wrongness, of “shame.” I am not so universal as to project my judgement onto others, though. I fully understand that people have imperfections, make mistakes, experience failures and I am always there to lend a willing hand. I believe it is the responsibility of the individual in civilized society to give aid where and when it is needed. Freely and willingly. I just don’t apply this to myself. Failure slashes through me like a razor blade. It flays the skin from frame. It utterly macerates my self-esteem, self-image, leaves me in a blaze of anger at my own ineptitude. I rage at failure, at imperfection and I will go to extreme lengths to avoid this situation. I do whatever it takes to succeed. I drive myself to exhaustion to produce product and project that is unmatched among my peers. I race hard and fast to master topics – not learn, “master.” I never stop at beginning level – I go as far as I can with the resources I can muster (and I obtain every resource available to me regardless of the time or monetary burden). I am obsessive with my drive to leave no doubt in my mind that I have utterly, completely, totally succeeded.

The Prozac is a sign that the one thing I hold most dear, my brain, is not perfect. I accept that my body is not. It has failed me more times than a dead-beat parent. It is riddled with problems, traumas, impediments and curtailments. But, my brain…it is the one thing that has worked steadily and strongly all my life. It is the organ around which my entire life has been built. It is the only thing that has kept me alive and in motion through the hardships I have endured. If in trouble, it will find a way out. If I want to expand, grow…it will facilitate my efforts. My stalwart brain has let me down. There is no greater failure to me than that.

Except for one. The need for help. I don’t ask for help. Again, it is a sign of personal weakness on my part. For others, I will go to the ends of the earth to be of assistance. To make their times and lives easier and more comfortable. For myself – I do it alone. And, I always have. I have, since childhood, had to make my own way in life. I was an only child to a couple who, by all accounts, should likely never have had children. My mother was a woman impatient with young children – I would often get punished or whipped for no reason other than her own frustration with life and its events. Her temperament was more suited to older youths and our relationship improved greatly by the time I was in high school. My father was 51 years old when I was born and died of Alzheimer’s Disease when I was 19. He was in decline most of my formative years and, obviously, did not play much of a fatherly role in my upbringing. I learned to rely on one person for my living – myself. Then, it was the need to help my mother take care of my father. While she was caring for him, she was diagnosed with terminal breast cancer. She lived another 3 years and I took care of her during this time. Then, I was with a self-absorbed husband who neither cared nor paid any attention to me. Everything I did, I did with and for myself. Upon divorce, I was left destitute and had to scratch and claw for base survival. Never once did I receive help. From anyone. At any time. It has become the norm for me. It is who I “am.”

So the Prozac hit me in the worst possible place. It punched the most sensitive button. You are weak and need help. Could things be worse? No. Not in any way. The funny thing is I know need help on many levels, as do we all. I often wish I had a hand with daily tasks. I want the immediate shoulder to cry on when the frustrations of life become too much to bear. But, I don’t ask for it. Further, I tend to politely refuse it when it is offered. I have wonderful friends who witness my various trials and offer their hands to me willingly and gladly. And, I always respond, “I’ll definitely let you know when I need help. I promise.” Lie, lie, lie…Oh, I’ll take a lift to the airport or someone grabbing me a bottle of soda on the way over to visit, but for something of importance. I just can’t break away from my solo mode. I need help with my head and the Prozac is a major beginning. But it is a beginning that, ironically, depresses me. I really should see a counselor about this issue, but that would be seeking help and admitting weakness. Catch 22. Damn that Joseph Heller…

The Ghosts in My House

I bought my first piece of property on July 28 of this year, at the age of 38. I never thought I would come to this place in my life. I had somewhat resigned myself to a life of renting. But, due to the house in which I had lodging being sold, I was forced to find other accommodations. Whereas I do not believe in the hand of the Universe, the deux ex machina coming down to rememdy problems with a wave of the hand, some mystical force was at work in my favor for this venture. I found the perfect residence for myself, at a price that was laughable for the town in which I live. Its not a palace, or a poorhouse (thank you Eddie Cantor), but it is the perfect size for a single person and has all the amenities that I could want.

An old dwelling. Built over 100 years ago with a foundation and skeleton as solid as a grandfather's attitudes. The building was converted into two half-house condominiums in the 1980's, but a good job was done with the conversion. The surgery was careful and performed with skill. No scars remain. Of course, in the years between the original construction and my acquisition, renovations had been performed. Ceilings, walls, flooring, appliances...updates had to occur. But, this is like the makeup with which I adorn myself each morning. A touch-up layer over a strong, but aging frame. And, some areas have yet to feel the hand of the contractor. The house is still mostly "old." And in the old, lie ghosts.

Not Amityville-esque spectres, but the crystallized spirit of the years ingrained in the wood and stone. The ghosts of laughter, tears, health, illness, anger, contentment...for every emotion there is energy. And energy can neither be created nor destroyed, it can only change form. From its manifestation, the energy of emotion makes its way into the surroundings and transfers its power into the molecules and atoms of the structure in which it is housed. Houses capture, store and eventually (when the quantity is sufficient) give that energy form. Ghosts.

I have many ghosts in my house. I feel them often. I live alone and, therefore, have not the distraction of others to block the signals. And, I am sensitive to energies. I was born on the last day of the last sign of the Zodiac cycle. All things psychic and mystical flow through the signs and land squarely on my shoulders. I feel the ghosts, but I do not fear them. What is there to fear? They speak to me of the realities of life; the normal and expected trials, tribulations, victories and wonders of lives lived in this place. Men, women, children...all have contributed to my ghosts and I actually welcome the company. I am part of a line, a family. This house has been passed on, one family or individual to the next; each transfer passing with it the energy of the lives of the residents who have come before. Now they have been passed to me. I find that peaceful.

In some places, I can see the ghosts. Now, a botanist would argue the simple structural reasons for my ghosts, but I have no truck with plant-lovers. In the path between my bedroom and bathroom, I have made some friends. They say hello in the morning and "sleep well" at night. This one




gives me a robust "MORNIN' DARLIN'" every day. A perky start to the day. I am sure it is a "he." The voice is loud and strong, filled with confidence. When I exit my bedroom, he is there to greet me. Some days, he is quiet and I take this as a bad omen. Being energy, ghosts are connected to ALL energy and this includes the energy of nature. They are also connected to forces, as forces and energy (and matter for that matter) are three sides of the same pyramid. He is my yardstick for the day. By his greeting do I measure what the day holds in the ready. He is mature and has the experience and wisdom that ensures he listens to and acknowledges the subtle, yet signficant signals from the surroundings. I trust his judgement.

A few steps along the route to the bathroom, I bid hello to this one




Another male, I believe (my ladies are closer to the loo, as would be expected). Younger and less experienced. Eager to chat and deflated when I cannot linger to converse. He is an exuberant inquisitor - how are you today, what are you doing today, who will you see today, when shall you be home, what are you cooking for dinner, what are you going to do about this and that issue...some days, I find this helpful. It organizes my thoughts and assists me in setting up the schedule for the day. Other times, I feel as if my brain will burst from the torrent of questions, images, enumerated obligations and responsibilities. On those days, I hurry past. That makes him sad and confused, I think, and that discordance ripples through the energy that ties me to the ghosts. My day will be set into a spiral downward. When I have the presence of mind, I return to him and linger a bit. I listen to his questions and provide the answers. When he is happy, my day is happy.

Right at the entrance to my bathroom is this pretty lassie




She was a beauty in her time, I suspect. She comments and critiques my ready-making in the morning and her words are honest. You look tired this morning, how will you cover those circles under your eyes, you skin is more sallow than usual, have your cheeks fallen in more, what is the issue with your hair, your nose is quite red today, so are your eyes...many days, I look in the mirror and ask the question "why bother?" My physical appearance is not appealing. On good days, I resemble a heroin addict. On bad days, I resemble a tapeworm-ridden heroin addict after a few rounds with the Angel of Death. Regardless, it is sometimes very hard to muster the motivation to apply makeup and fix my hair. No matter the effort, I still make strangers nervous. Men do not demonstrate an interest. For what reason should I take the time to primp and preen? Turning to leave the mirror, I spy my little ghost. She wags her finger, clucks her tongue in the manner of the impertinent young. You make the effort for you, she says. Self-pride is all. I turn around and begin to apply my cosmetic camoflauge.

This one I hear from rarely




and I find that saddening. She is old, very old. And, I think, she is also very wise. But she lives in a room that I have set aside for visitors. And, I have no visitors. The room is bright, decorated in blues and appointed with colorful floral images. It contrasts markedly with my own bedroom, which is darker and rich in shades of the Earth. The guestroom is a very happy room and I think she likes it there. But, I don't enter it much. I don't really have a reason to do so. Sometimes, I do go in and we exchange a few words. But she doesn't know me well, yet, so the conversations are brief. I am hopeful that we will have more occasion to talk in the future.

My house has many ghosts. These are but a few, but the few I see most often. One day, I shall leave my ghost for the next resident. That poor, poor bastard...

Water Beats Water

Remember the old game "Rock, Paper, Scissors?" Today is nature's version of this game. To date, we have experienced more snow than the last Ice Age and the mountains that have surrounded my property actually demonstrate clinal variations in vegetation from the base to the apex.

Snow insulates. The theory behind igloos and snow houses. And, the more you have, the slower it will melt. We have had warmish temperatures lately, but the effects of this baking has done little to break down the mighty mounds. Today, that has changed. We are having rain. Real rain - not the freezing variety or a misty dibble-dabble, but good solid rain. Today is the last day in the life of the snow...

Water has beaten water. What the sun could not accomplish, a different form of the same substance has done in a trice. The power of liquid water is profound, of course. Anyone gazing upon the glory of the Grand Canyon is witnessing the power of water in its flowing form. If it can carve rock, it can wreak havoc on snow. But, there is something cannabilistic about the process. Snow and water are both, well, water. There is nothing chemically different about them. Two atoms of hydrogen bonded to an atom of oxygen, forming a bipolar molecule of water. Steam is the same as well. The forms of water represent phases of matter - chemically identical, but with varying physical properties due to differences in energy and molecular motion. Vastly different - steam gives us a nice salmon dinner. Ice provides the sorbet for dessert. Water does the dishes.

But, it is said that every snowflake is different. And, I don't doubt that is true. Given the complexity of the structure, the number of permutations of form are staggering. I also think the same is true, though, for raindrops. No one says much about that. Consider that raindrops are actually accumulations of water molecules. Right away, there is variation in the number of molecules in the drop, the mass of the drop, the volume, surface area, diameter, circumference, shape, etc. Each unique, each discreet. Not as showy as their wintry cousins, but just as provided with independent identities. This will also affect the way in which each reflects and refracts light, so they would look "different" to the eye based on luster, color, radiance, etc.

But we think of water as the plain sister to snow. Snow is applauded for its beauty, portrayed in art and on countless holiday cards. It is embroidered on clothing and shaped in to pencil erasers and notepads. One does not see this attention paid to rain. We speak of its cleansing power and its life-giving properties, but not its beauty. We do not view rain as pretty. It is not cute. But to weigh the quality of beauty against those of life and rebirth demonstrates the value of rain over snow. We overlook rain with the eye, but we see rain with the soul.

I am reminded of John Ruskin's quote:

Remember that the most beautiful things in the world are the most useless; peacocks and lilies, for example.

Besides winter-sports enthusiasts and snowball warriors, few find "use" in snow. But, if asked, most people could ennumerate the uses of rain. But, we do not glorify rain. We don't create art around the drizzle. We acknowledge its importance, its worth. We cry when it is lacking and die when the lack is prolonged. But we do not romance the rain.

What was my point again?

Cavewoman Revisited

Despite a purely academic upbringing and a lifelong commitment to vegetarianism, I can somewhat proudly state that I am a formidable predator. Or, I could be if I so chose. For some odd reason, I am blessed with the skills that make for the most successful examples of a predatory species. Evolution and genetics tag-teamed to give me the ability to thrive in the Paleolithic world, yet placed me in our modern tar pit.

I am cunning, intelligent, manipulative, relentless…I analyze, visualize, try and learn from both mistakes and successes, investigate, take risks…My brain works with the rapidity of an electron screaming through an wire. From sight to action, my response time is blisteringly short. And pity the person or object that finds itself between me and my objective. A pile of smoldering ash…

Mentally, my brain is hard-wired for predation mode. I am not passive; I have not the qualities of prey. I do not manifest the persona of a victim and cannot even fall back on the time-honored female tradition of crying on demand. I am aggressive in action, determined in deed. I stalk, I pursue, I track down, I take down, I feed on my success.

My cranial computer also has the ability to hard-code search images. I can flip quickly through a 20 page document and find single words in the tens of thousands of characters with which I am presented. I often catch myself looking back at some piece of text, at first without knowing why, until I then consciously spy a word that has been of interest or importance for me that day. The same is true for objects. I can find anything. I don’t mean lost relatives or some such nonsense, but ask me to find an individual in a crowd and it shall be done. Driving in my car can be a nuisance in that I am always spotting objects of interest lying camouflaged in fields and woodlands. The smallest turtle sunning on a log will not escape my notice. This was the source of much annoyance to my ex-husband. He was (and likely still is) a member of the upper echelon in the birding community. The type to travel at a moment’s notice to any part of the country when a rare bird sighting was reported. And, to give him credit, his ornithological skills were strong. One of the people whose word on a bird identification was taken as gospel.

But he couldn’t find birds as well as I could. I am, by education, an ichthyologist. But, I do enjoy nature and, being the dutiful young wife, did my best to share my husband’s interests. I took up birdwatching and found that it was something for which I had an uncanny talent. I couldn’t always identify what I found, but I could do a few things. First – I had the ability to spot birds. The “bird” form was branded into my visual cortex and anything that fit that profile was immediately spotted and processed. Everyone else saw a tree; I saw the Brown Creeper motionless on the trunk. No bush, field, beach, fence line, etc. was ever empty to me. I would often remain in the car or under a tree reading a book while a band of premier birders investigated an area. The simmering anger was tangible as I meandered over to them, sandwich crumbs falling from my jacket, to ask – hey, what’s that in the bush? Something they missed was the unspoken answer.

Beyond this, though, I have luck, and a predator needs luck. I don’t actually believe in luck; I believe that some people have brains that more successfully process environmental cues at the subconscious level. The actions one takes are based partly on this analysis. My brain “sees” a myriad of minute, subliminal, seemingly-unconnected things and puts me in the right place at the right time with the right tools…Since it was not planned or intentional, it gets termed “luck.” Really, it is the extreme manifestation of the predatory mind. After the birding community hurdled their urge to hide my body in a flooded rice field, they began to realize my worth. My suspicious mind was always awhirl when phone calls to our home to announce a bird report were always ended with “don’t forget to bring your wife along.” So, along I would go, as I enjoy a promenade in the wild. And, I would toodle around a bit with the group until I bored of their single-subject conversations. I would then go off on my own to photograph wildflowers, explore streams or break out a book and take a welcome read.

And that’s when it would happen. No matter the wrong turn on the way to the car, the direction to the refuge center’s loo, the amount of time spent hanging upside down from a tree limb – I would find “it.” “It” was the bird around which the whole trip was centered. The rarity that had the birding community combing field and forest like the FBI hunting an escaped convict. The creature that had sparked a Level 1 Anxiety Alert throughout the Audubon Society. Birders carefully report and document the location of sightings and, logically, concentrate search efforts in areas where a bird had been previously seen. Especially, when the sightings were in the same location repeatedly. I would find myself staring at the object of their fondest desire half a mile away from the spot where it had been consistently reported, in a stand of vegetation uncharacteristic of its normal habitat. I wouldn’t even know that it was “it.” I would just know it was something that I had not yet seen and I had seen a lot. So, I would chat with it for awhile, trying to persuade it to flutter back to its normal zone so that the others could discover it on their own. I begged it to spare me having to walk back and announce that I had found “it” yet again. I was unaware, though, that this was the hope of the birding community. They were counting on my aimless wanderings producing results and my pleas to the bird to go unheeded. They got a bit lazy, half-heartedly looking for their rarity, biding time until I brought them to the exact spot where the tweeter frolicked. I think they were more devastated by my divorce than was my ex-husband…

I am also loved/hated by my friends who fish. I don’t fish. I have no moral objection to fishing; I just find fishing boring and I abhor boredom. But, I have often found myself in situations where the “when in Rome” philosophy was appropriate. I have no pole and so would be loaned the most simple and pitiful of the available models. Ultimately, the loaners disintegrated in quality to pool cues with paper clips. This is because they realized the tool was irrelevant. No matter what the size, design or complexity of the pole, I caught fish. Not trash fish, either. Prize winners. Beautiful keepers. I would be the only one during the day to land fish that were above the legal size limit to take home. Meaning, I was the only one to be counted upon to provide dinner. And I didn’t try. Actually, I would try not to catch fish. I didn’t read the water for signs of schools or analyze the habitat for likely hot spots to drop my lure. I would just toss my line anywhere and let it do its thing. Its thing was to entice and hook a fat, glistening trout or flounder the size of a football-party pizza. I would put my line in areas where I was sure nothing existed. That would get me a redfish. I couldn’t win. Thousands of dollars of high-tech fishing gear wielded by experienced individuals would produce 3 withered, puny catfish for a day’s efforts. I could feed a family of 6 and their Aunt Agnes. My predatory genes in full action.

I rather feel sorry for my predatory genes. They get little use most days. Stalking and killing the wild soybean does not interest them much. They long for some technology that would transport me magically to the Paleolithic world, where they could be manifest full force. They long to be relied upon for survival. They wish me a Cavewoman. Some days, that doesn’t sound half bad…

More Money Than Sense

Rocello by Munktiki. #128 of 150

An apt description of me. And, since I have little money, one gets a good idea of my quantity of sense. I successfully procured the above Tiki last night on Ebay. Munktiki is a company that produces new Tiki mugs. Not pool party plastic nonsense, but quality Tiki. Their designs reflect new twists on old themes. Tiki Farm is another major producer, with more traditional designs from interesting Tiki artists. From a period of where it lay forgotten by the public, Tiki has made a resurgence and one can find new Tiki items, bars and themed-restaurants springing up like daffodils in springtime. Most is trash, as is the norm with a trend. But, some is true to the spirit and heart of the old Tiki glory and I will procure exemplar items of this category without guilt.

I prefer vintage or original Tiki, though. Items designed for use in active Tiki restaurants and bars. Those touched by human hands and used for their original purpose - serving drinks. Not ordinary drinks, though. Drinks of the most exotic nature. Wild and carefree. Swaying palms and balmy breezes. Bongo drums and the call of tropical birds. A hammock, a Mai Tai and a contented smile. A vintage mug grasped in your hand magically transports you to a sunny island where there are neither cares nor worries. A gentle adventure for the body and spirit. Slow and easy, friendly and welcoming, fruity and fun...there is nothing serious or stern about Tiki.

I prowl the Salvation Army, flea markets, yard sales and second-hand stores for examples of vintage Tiki. From these efforts, I have found reward in fine examples of old Tiki craft. Otagiri, Orchids of Hawaii, Stephen Crane...Some pieces proudly announcing the establishment for which they were produced - The Islander, Bali Hai, Kowloon, Mai Kai. Others, mysteriously anonymous. And I can feel the draw of the old Tiki the moment I enter a shop. Like Lovejoy, I am a divvy, though not for all antiques. Tiki calls, I listen. And it takes but a fleeting glance to determine for certain the authenticity of a piece. Even in pristine condition, the years lay on them like a fine patina. The spirit of the original American Tiki movement was fired in the glaze and remains there still.

Therein lies the distinction between Tiki pieces of modern production. Companies like Tiki Farm and Munktiki were founded by people who understand Tiki. They enjoy it, use their Tiki mugs for their intended purposes. The put their love of Tiki into their products and this elevates them wildly above the common trash that abounds in dollar stores and WalMart. They are Real Tiki, but for modern times.

I currently have a bid on a very limited edition of Bosko's homage to the classic Tiki Bob.


Space Age Bob by Bosko. #23 of 25

Only 25 are being made. Will I win this auction? Only the Tiki knows for sure. I hope that I am deemed worthy...

The Vegetarian Cavewoman

Of late, I have been working towards a more Paleolithic diet, peppered with GI and LC diet theory. I firmly believe that there is not nutritional plan out there that is appropriate for everyone, exactly as written. One must custom-craft a plan to fit individual needs and physiological responses. You choose the plan that BEST fits your goals and body's abilities and tinker from there.

I have been vegetarian since the age of 2. Never have wavered a day. A choice that profound must have come directly from the body itself. Something inside of me just doesn't want meat. A life-long vegetarian diet did not shield me from health woes, though. Rather, it likely promoted the blood-sugar issues I manifested in my 30's. Although I ate only whole grains, beans, veggies and fruits, my daily carbohydrate intake was staggering. And, most of the dietary choices were high glycemic index and high glycemic load. I turned to lowcarbing to alleviate the symptoms (chasing people around with axes is not considered socially acceptable) and it worked like a charm. Now, though, I want to see if I can get to a more middle-of-the-road approach.

I love veggies. Love them. Will gladly snack on raw zucchini, cauliflower or turnips all day. I can live without wheat, corn, potatoes, winter squash, etc.; however, my eggplant, broccoli, spinach - gimme, gimme, gimme...I love veggies as many love chocolate. And I missed them terribly when I went lowcarb. For when I do anything, I do it to the extreme. For me, low carb almost meant no carb. And I can do that. I know how. Most people don't have the ability to truly analyze and evaluate foods and wouldn't take the time anyway. I researched, experimented, planned, prepared and purged carbohydrates from my daily diet. My mental state was significantly improved as was my ability to concentrate. I no longer had the shakes if I didn't eat every 30 minutes. But, my way of eating was not the WOE I wanted for the remainder of my years. It was fantastic to cleanse and reboot my system, but it is now time to find a compromise.

As a scientist, I understand cleaerly the implications and consequences of evolution. Species arise under a set of conditions and demonstrate adaptations to fit those conditions. When conditions change, natural selection determines which individuals will survive to reproduce and which will not. The population, then, begins to change. It is not a fast process and does not necessarily produce drastic change all at once. This is the argument behind the Paleolithic diet. The human species evolved, Paleos argue, eating a diet significantly skewed towards animal products (flesh, muscle and offal), with copious supplementation of vegetable materials. Further, if it were not consumable in raw form, it was not likely eaten - there were no Viking ranges on the African savannah. So certain materials such as legumes and grains, which contain compounds toxic or undigestible in raw form, would not be consumed on a regular basis. Dairy - no. Dairy requires livestock. Very few feral females will allow a smelly cave family to hook up a milking apparatus for the day's cereal soaking.

So, the Paleo diet promotes meats, most vegetables, oils, nuts and seeds, etc. Grains, beans, soy, dairy, vinegars, etc. are not allowed. Ok. Makes sense. A few problems, however. First, many items on the Paleo approved list are not low-carbohydrate. Most are, but a pure Paleo diet includes more daily carbohydrates than my puny body could stand. Also the glycemic index of some of these is too high for my needs. Lastly, I need protein. Since meat and eggs are out, that leaves nuts and seeds. That is too limiting. I would turn into a squirrel from the amount of nuts I would have to consume.

So, to accommodate my personal situation, I am having to tailor diet based around general Paleolithic principles, but taking into consideration the glycemic index/glycemic load effect, low-carb dieting and vegetarianism. Glad I like to experiment! So, I am now working towards adding larger and larger quantities of low GI/GL foods to my day. Abundant raw/crisp-cooked vegetables that are low on the GI and GL scales. Nuts and seeds. A very small amount of low GI fruits (always combined with protein). Soy. I worship it in all forms but natto (which is as nasty as toxic waste in my opinion). This is my main source of protein and, fortunately, it is a complete protein. I gave up dairy. Bye bye cheese and yogurt! Luckily, there are analogs available that are quite palatable.

Further, current research has been highlighting the nutritional benefits of coconut oil. Coconut is perfectly Paleo, low-carb, low-GI/GL and vegetarian. So, into my diet has been going more coconut products. I am cooking almost exclusively with coconut oil, use coconut milk in recipes where milk or cream is indicated (and cooking more recipes that call originally for coconut milk), unsweetened shredded coconut, coconut spread (like peanut butter, but made with coconut). Something I never really ate before and now find that I enjoy a great deal.

So, I've gone from high-carb/low-fat vegetarian to low-carb/high-fat to Paleo vegetarian pu-pu platter. Well, one thing you can say about life is that it keeps you on your toes...

Much Education Have I

I have a B.S. in Zoology and Physiology, a M.S. in Zoology and a M.Ed. in Curriculum and Development. On top of that, I have many credit hours in both science and education fields. One would assume such a large-lobed individual would have shelf after shelf filled with tomes of profound literary value, stacks of the most critically-applauded cinematic masterpieces, multitudes of classical cd's. Well, when you assume...

I watch, read and listen to crap. And I love it. If a movie does not feature an alien abduction or a blood-drenched gun battle, I'm not likely to watch it. I must alter that - I also thoroughly enjoy frivolous comedy and animated films from Pixar. Science fiction, action adventure, comedic fluff and computer-generated characters populate my extensive DVD collection. Chick flicks need not apply. The words thought-provoking or heart-warming are synonomous with boring. I want to watch a movie that "entertains" me, not make me think. I do that all day at work. I don't want to cry - life gives you sufficient opportunities for that anyway. I want to go off and have an adventure.

Same for reading. I read mysteries, science fiction, fantasy and cookbooks. I have spent much of my life in an academic environment, whiling away the hours with dense volumes of both fiction and nonfiction. That's quite enough, thank you. When I find time to prop my feet on the couch, I want to go a world of imagination. I really don't want to read a story about this world. This world, and many of its occupants, are just not the stuff of enjoyable reading. And I read for enjoyment. Purely and simply. Variations from this course are only for acquiring knowledge needed at the moment. A project, a quest, a challenge. Then, back to popular drivel.

I don't listen to classical music except at Christmas. The closest I get is Broadway showtunes and I do dearly love them. I have the voice of a pig with lifelong smoking habit, but that doesn't stop me from belting out selections from Phantom, A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum or Les Mis. But true, long-hair classical - sorry, no. Actually, my musical tastes are as diverse as the food court at the mall. Old rock and roll, very old country, zydeco, 80's schlock, new age, world music, exotica and lounge music...the only thing I can't really go is dance music or bubble-gum pop. Pink Floyd, U2, Warren Zevon, Patsy Cline, Peter Gabriel, Barenaked Ladies, Cesaria Evora, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Annie Lennox, Blues Traveler, Yma Sumac, Jethro Tull...my ears are not tuned to one station on the musical dial. My cd carousel never has more than one cd of a single genre loaded at any time. That is not by intent, that is the theme of my musical holdings. I am somewhat musically ADD.

Television? Same story. I pay a king's ransom for digital high-definition cable television. I get every channel known to man. I watch about 10. 99% of my TV time is spent viewing either the Food Channel or the SciFi Channel. I pry myself away from these to catch Queer Eye for the Straight Guy on Bravo and movies on the movie stations. My 46" widescreen HDTV is perfect to watch the Discover Channel high-def broadcasts and I think I've caught one. The airwaves provide much access to quite high-brow programming on the channels I receive. Many important news programs, science/technology broadcasts, literary recreations, etc. Ummm...no. I catch comedies on BBC (at least the ones I haven't already seen 1347 times), but that is as close to high-brow as I lean.

Much education have I. Much taste have I not.

Crows

My favorite tarot deck - Crow's Magick 

As you can see, I love crows. They are, without doubt, my favorite bird. Most people would find this odd. Crows are not beautiful. Their plumage is dull, varying from deep gray to undertaker black. Their song is non-existent. They have a call, but no one would describe it as pleasing. They are not sweet, they do not frolic merrily at your feeder, they are not pictured with springtime flowers on greeting cards.

But I love them completely. Why?

1. Crows are survivors. They succeed anywhere, under any conditions. They do whatever it takes to make it and will be the last one standing when disaster strikes. It doesn't matter what it takes - picking through trash, cleaning a carcass on the road, fighting a hawk twice their size - the crow will win out.

2. Crows are determined. They get what they want. Again, they do what it takes to attain their goals and obtain their wants.

3. Crows have no fear. They look upon everything in the world as normal and common. There is nothing to fear in the mundane.

4. Crows delight in solitude and companionship. Some birds must be solitary, others must be paired, many must exist in groups. Crows move into and out of any of these situations with ease. They are as content with themselves as they are with a mate or with a crowd (splendidly termed a "murder").

5. Crows get along well with most everyone. Crows are often found in very mixed groups of birds. They move among them with obvious ease, but without ever losing their unique identity.

6. Crows are smart. They problem-solve, they evaluate situations, they make choices based on analysis.

7. Crows have personality. Crows do not blend into the background. They do not morph into a clone of their compatriots. They have individuality, specific behaviors, likes and dislikes.

8. Crows are independent. They march to the beat of no other drum but their own.

Basically, I am a crow. Perhaps I will actually be one in the next life. I wonder, though, can a vegetarian be a crow?

My favorite piece of cross stitch - Crow with Sunflower 

My favorite print - Crow with Pumpkins by Mary Beniato 

Winning is Not an Option

My body hates me. That is only fair, as I hate it in return. It thwarts my every attempt to restore it's piteous state to its formal normal appearance. It throws roadblocks into my way, sinks potholes in the highway of my progress and strews calthrops across the path of my aspirations. Today, it has graced me with an "oversleep" headache. Now, I use the quotation marks for oversleep with intent. I went to bed last night at 8:15pm. I "overslept" until 4:00am. Normally, my evil corpus rises between 2:00am and 3:00am. This was actually more sleep than I normally get (and much need), but my body exacted a high price for my sloth. Combined with the massive bloat (I do love that word - it truly sounds like the condition it represents) it has given me in response to the low-pressure system hovering over my area like the Angel of Death, made me use another sick day for work. As I am tasked each day to positively and productively instruct 5 classes of impressionable, sensitive young people, waddling around the classroom with a pounding skull is not an act of genius.

The Black Hole of Ebay

Draws you in - there is no way to escape. I collect Tiki. Mostly mugs, glasses and other tableware. I don't display them and use them only on occasion for the rare times I consume that ol' demon rum. Why, then, do I haunt Ebay and bid on items that will only add to my large collection? And, why do I find the loss of a desired item so frustrating. I was outbid at the last minute on a pair of salt and pepper shakers from the Kowloon restaurant in Saugus, MA. Now, the likelihood that they would ever have graced my dining table is virtually nil, but my desire for them was true and real. I fart in the general direction of the winning bidder....

Thoughts from an Empty Head

A foggy day outside mirrors a foggy brain inside. My clarity of thought is as strong as a 10-watt bulb, and about as useful. The Meds deities, despite appropriate worship, have foresaken me. I must make a sacrifice to appease them. I shall have to buy Coke instead of Pepsi.