Food Sex Love

Two very intense scenes from Tampopo, the sadly out of print movie about food and love. The first scene, two lovers exchange an egg yolk back and forth unbroken. The second, a man accepts an oyster from a young diver girl and cuts his lip on the oyster shell . . .

Look What I Made

Look What I Made

Puking, vomiting, upchucking, rolfing, ralphing, yawning in Technicolor, blowing chucks, losing your lunch, spewing, barfing, bringing up, driving the porcelain bus, disgorging, dry heaving, expelling, gagging, heaving, hurling, kecking, losing it, regurgitating, retching, throwing up. It has many names.
My friend Jarred said that his favorite thing in the world was vomiting. His least favorite thing: the feeling before and after vomiting. All pleasurable things in life involve tension and release. Puking is no exception.

Food Related Blunders: Oh God, Why Did I Eat That?

Yesterday: I almost vomited all over a banana. I prefer slightly unripe bananas with a light green tinge around the edges. I underestimated the tinge and selected a banana I thought would be just perfect with sweetness and firm texture. Upon taking the first bite, shivers went down my spine. I tried to chew the dry pasty banana. It tasted like aspirin. I forced myself to eat the mouthful. Bad idea. The banana triggered my gag reflex, and if it had not been for a nearby trashcan, I would have splattered little banana bits all over my shoes.

Once I ate 2 cloves of raw garlic, because I thought it would be good for me. My roommate was of the health conscious variety. Everything he ate was vegan, organic and possibly local. Henry would pick up raw cloves of garlic and pop them in his mouth while eating a bowl of pasta. Imitating his healthy gesture, I ate one and then two cloves of garlic with my food. All was fine for about 5 minutes after finishing my meal, when I suddenly had to race to the bathroom, where my body made evidence of its strong disagreement with my healthy gesture.

Booze: Highway to the Toilet Bowl

16, at a Halloween party, dressed up like the Saint Pauley Girl, eight beers too many. I strolled out onto the patio, and found an unassuming bucket. I released the contents of my stomach, and then picked up the bucket, shouting confidently, “Look what I made! Look what I made!” I put the bucket back down, sat on someone’s lap, and began to kiss him with my unrinsed lips.
After a bit too much at a different party, I escaped to the bathroom. Lamenting the rejection of some forgettable fellow, I began bawling while I was vomiting. Really, crying while vomiting is one of the most awful things ever. You feel as though you are leaking from every corner of your face.

“I think I’m gonna hurl”: One more puke related memory

I used to not believe that anxiety had the power to affect your gastro intestinal system. Then I fell in love for the first time. I hadn’t been sleeping regularly. The butterflies of novelty had my stomach in knots. Eating was difficult. A road trip to San Francisco with friends put 4 days distance between my new love and I. Now this may not seem like a long time, but in new lover time, this is ages, eons. It’s like exponential dog years. I couldn’t stand the waiting. Finally back in Oregon, after a 10-hour drive, we made plans to see each other that night. While I waited I forced myself to eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and did the only thing that would put my anxiety to rest. I took a nap. An hour later, I shot out from under the covers on the couch, where I was sleeping and ralphed into another conveniently placed bucket. (They seem to appear for me)
Waiting for him could be equivocated with the moment one clutches the toilet bowl, groaning with nausea, or Jarred’s least favorite moment. In the moments in between our meetings I was often dizzy, stupid, weak in the knees, and glazed with an expression of euphoria. When we were together, I vomited fireworks into the air and all the little sparkling remnants fell down around me as time passed. My heart released without hesitation.

Pants are like love . . .

. . . a different pair is right for everyone.

Act Four of this week's This American Life podcast hits upon this exact idea. I never thought this sentence would be actualized in story format and lo and behold.

Act Four. Pants Pants Revelation.

Joel and Kate were both working in a psychiatric hospital in Belmont, Massachusetts. They both like each other, and she tries to impress him by always wearing her favorite pair of jeans. Little did she know, the jeans were maybe the only thing about her that he didn’t like. (8 minutes)

nice lyrics i heard on the radio today

The old already know the reason
So do the sad hotels
That too much is for a short while
And is still not enough
And is only once
Protect me in evil
Everywhere protect
The grace of your heart.

Still protect
The grace of my heart
Now and for when
Still protect
The grace of my heart
Now and for when
Of you beside me

existential loneliness at the dryer

most of the time i am okay with my single status. I definitely have those moments where i feel this melancolic haze about what things could be like, but i've been maturing and realizing that my life is as good as it will ever be, so dwelling on how things could be better is a waste of time.

but then i have these ridiculous moments where i don't want to feel so alone. pulling my laundry out of the dryer today, it hit. what do i expect? someone to clean the lint out of the lint trap with me, each of us holding a plastic edge, while my other hand reaches out to wipe away the sheet of linty fibers.

i realize fully that this is ridiculous.

most classicly, it's the waking up each morning that i find the toughest. i have no problem coming home to an empty bed, but waking up inside of one is more frightening. i roll over each morning to a vacant slot with an unused pillow next to it. the delight and/or regularity of having someone there is something i have never really been able to get used to.

so much so that I have much difficulty in the past sleeping next to someone. i get insomnia, that usually fuels my love sickness, and makes me loopy as can be.

George oppen talks about the moment of awakening quite extensively in his poetry. it is the moment that light hits our eyes that we realized that we exist. we see something that proves that we are expereincing, that we are alive. maybe what i long for is to see a mirror image, a male image that reminds me that I exist. that i am not just a floating entity. Is this what true love is able to prove to us? That we exist, quite simply, alongside of each other. Proximity becomes comforting, even though we experience alone. Why is romantic love different?

I don't mean this in a way that being with a man would as the cliche goes "fill the void" inside of me, but I do desire to feel presence of a certain masculine variety. Presence, being present . . . engagement.

I watched a man on the bus yesterday methodically change his text message to someone that I presume was a girlfriend. He slowly made the message he was sending to her less and less engaged. It went from something like "let's meet here at this time" to "lemme know" (let me was spelled just like that) . . . text messaging is the best thing that ever happened to boys.

the desire for presence is such a female desire, and the desire for casual freedom such a masculine one. i resent feeling like such a cliche.