An Apple Carrot Fruit Sauce Crushers Packet Will Do It Every Time

Late yesterday afternoon, on the way home from what I think is the final day of work for the school year, Dad and Meridith stopped at Trader Joe's to pick up some things for dinner as well as some non-dinner-related items. My sister, with an everlasting unique soul, picked up a box of Apple Carrot Fruit Sauce Crushers. You twist the top off and squeeze into your mouth a combination of apples, carrot juice, pumpkin juice, and acerola juice. Novel packaging too; you squeeze it and the concoction easily comes out. No rolling it up from the bottom to try to get the rest because when you've finally squeezed it tight enough, that's it. That's all there is.

The back of the packaging has a small block of text framed within drawings of a carrot in front of apple:

"CAP WARNING: Not suitable for children under 3 years of age.

Always make sure a responsible person is present when your child is eating. Please unsure that the cap and seal are completely removed from the pouch before giving to your child."

Well, ok, pouch. I call it a packet because of it being significantly smaller than a Capri Sun pouch. I read the second set of words and I started thinking about a child. Not me when I was little, not any cousins when they were little, not any faces I might remember from La Petit Academy in Casselberry, Florida. Just a random kid eating at a table, plate, utensils, all of that. I thought about that first line in the second set and I wondered: Do I want kids? Do I want to have a little someone in my life who partially came from me? Do I want that life?

Years ago, I thought of what I'd want to name my kids if I had any. A boy would definitely be Rory Leighton Aronsky II. I'd want to continue my name. If a girl, Rachel. That's what my parents said they were going to name me if I had been a girl.

I've gotten older, though. If I want kids, then that means getting to know someone, forming a relationship, and all the little details that come with it that can't possibly be conveyed in this one sentence. I know about the messiness of it. Today my parents celebrate their 27th or 28th wedding anniversary. I don't have to know that, since I've been an innocent bystander in the whole thing. I'm impressed and also frustrated that they've made it to this many years. All the fights I heard, all the uncertainty in silence at the dinner table, all the worry, and the few times Mom threatened to walk out on Dad, twice and nearly three times with luggage packed. Oh, I've gone through it all and having turned 25 this year and working on my own future, I've come to terms that if the worst should ever happen, if they ever do split up, then it happens. I can't control it, I can't know what they know, feel what they feel, so be it. It was hard enough during the many, many times each year when the fights would get so bad verbally, I'd try to find something to do to ignore it, but knew that the fight would still hover over the household. When we lived in the apartment in Valencia, there were times when I'd take a walk outside, sometimes with one of my dogs, and try to relish the freedom from the fight for that moment, but I'd always also think about how even though I was outside, even though it was peaceful, I'd still have to go back inside and there they'd be, still sometimes viciously arguing.

I know that any relationship I may be in may not be that bad. But I think it's ok to just want a different future for myself. I've been witness to my parents' marriage for 22 years. I think that's my marriage limit. I want a life that includes a satisfying career that I can earn enough money from to pay bills and have a little extra for myself. I'm not sure I want the responsibilities of being a parent. The money you have to save, the money you have to use for necessities for them, the times you have to deny yourself something so you can give to them. I don't think I have it in me. For this book I'm co-writing, I have to order off Amazon a few books I can't find in the County of Los Angeles library system. I don't have a choice. I also have books I recently bookmarked in my personal "Favorites" folder in Internet Explorer, six of them, including "Ask the Pilot" by Patrick Smith, an airline pilot who has a column of the same name on Salon.com.

Last Sunday, I checked out "The Pajama Game" on DVD from the library, the 6th time I've done it, and that's my sign that it's time to buy it outright. I've got a few other DVDs on a wishlist, including "Frost/Nixon," and I know, I know, these are just things. I know that there is also the belief that people matter more than things. Well, of course! How the hell else could we arrive on the Earth? How else could the books I want have been written? How else could I want "The Pajama Game" if it hadn't been made? All people-powered.

So, then, the real question, the big question would be: What do I want in my life?

After many pep talks from my parents, steering me to understand that "What If They Lived?" is a major opportunity that I'll never see handed to me so easily for the rest of my life, I want to do my share for that book as co-writer. I was frustrated, almost to tears with how much research I have to do, but not so much the sheer amount as reading book after book and taking notes, and never getting through each book as swiftly as I thought I should. But after I sought advice from Phil and he told me that the bare facts were all that were needed for each biographical profile (before the pages of speculation on what each actor might have done in his or her career had death not ended the career for them), nothing too elaborate, I felt better. I haven't gotten back to reading any research-related books yet because I returned them all when I felt that I might give up the book. My mom said that with this book, I'll have something solid to my name, something that people can reference, something that may lead to bigger things. I agree with that, and as time stands now in relation to this project, I can also watch movies I've wanted to see or see again for a long time, such as "The Harvey Girls," starring Judy Garland.

I've got six months left to work on this book, and so I will. But after that, what do I want?

I've learned that because I intend to pursue of a bachelor of science degree in professional aeronautics from Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University, I could qualify for vocational education funds. Anything that substantially lowers the cost of an education that will likely be done entirely online. I'm looking forward to this venture even more, even though it looks like I'll have to take another math course, aviation math this time. I'm trying to get used to the inevitable. It's aviation math, it's related to what I want to do in my life (I don't know exactly what that is yet, but I do know I want to work at an airport), but the numbers again, the graphs. I really don't like sitting down for hours, thinking about numbers that will always be there, while a sunset appears only once a day.

Eventually, we're going to move to Las Vegas. I know I've mentioned this many times before, as well as my declaration that Vegas feels like my true home, but I want to also spend my years getting to know, and having a relationship with Las Vegas. For over a year now, I've been reading about the history of Las Vegas, as well as the current day. I visit the Las Vegas Sun, Las Vegas Review-Journal, and Las Vegas Weekly websites every day. I've even begun mapping out where a sense of home is in Las Vegas. It's not just the house we may one day have, wherever that'll be in nearby Henderson; it's also the Strip itself, certain areas, parts of Fremont Street, Smith's supermarket, and that huge Jewish aisle at the Albertson's on South Rainbow Blvd. I never expected to see that outside of South Florida, and though it's only canned and packaged goods, to me, it's still a sign of respect. So far, I know that home begins in the ornate hotel lobby at the MGM Grand. Then Caesar's Palace, with Bobby Flay's Mesa Grill for my sister (she wants to work there in the kitchen) and the most pleasing cocktail waitress outfits on the Strip. I could sit at a slot machine and watch them walk by for a solid week.

So there it is. I want to work at an airport, most likely McCarran International, I want to earn enough money to easily pay bills and have some for myself, and I want to continue the closeness I have to books and DVDs. Oh, and write more. I don't want "What If They Lived?" to be the only book that I've written, or co-written, as it is. I want to do more. I plan to try playwriting, and I've got some ideas for short stories. I don't know if I have the guts and mettle for a novel, but years ago, I thought I had no ideas for any artforms. It's a start.

A relationship? I don't know. I'd like to enjoy Vegas to the full when I get there, and I don't mind the transient culture there. People come, people go, and that's fine with me. I've moved so many times within Florida with my family, and twice in Southern California that I can understand the need to move, but this time, when that time may happen, I can stay put and observe it in others.

I know I can do more than just these things. But I'd rather just enjoy myself and the things I plan to do in the coming years. That may be enough for me.

Night 2: Two Cups

At 3:38 a.m. last night (or yesterday morning, whichever you prefer), I knew I passed my craving for the night. I looked into the fridge a few times, saw a leftover piece of cake from one of the Chinese bakeries we went to in Chinatown last Thursday, and was thinking about that. I sat at the computer and I thought about a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. But I didn't bother with either. I conquered those cravings for one night.

Christ, I sound like a weight-loss success ad. I never wanted my attempt at weight loss to sound like that. But it was the first night, over at that point, and I felt good about it.

Now it's 3:01 a.m. and I've passed the second night. It was bad. I didn't think of Cheez-Its, but Meridith brought home a leftover Subway sub, and, well, right now I've forgotten what else, but I remember my mind being a demanding bitch. I stuck with two cups of tea. One was Twining's Lady Grey, and the other was Bigelow's Lemon Lift. I vowed to combat those cravings with tea and the tea was only a partial help. The rest was willpower.

So far, I've only eaten what I need to eat. Only something when I get up (which is lunchtime for others, but breakfast for me), and at dinner. No snacks. Not anymore. I've done too much of that.

I wish I could write better about this small achievement. But it's already 3:01 a.m. and there's a DVD I want to finish and send back to Netflix so I can get a new one by Friday. And I wish that I had done better the last time I tried to diet. If I had, a second night would have been so long ago in memory.

Night 1: Tea. Just Tea.

Dodged my cravings earlier. I went right to the fridge to see what was inside, but closed it and went back to the computer. I've got an empty tea mug here, and I think based on that, I should make more soon. I've lasted longer than I did last night. It's 10:31 p.m. now. I think it was around 9:20 or so last night when I gave up. I won't give up tonight.

Night 1: Failed Again

I've got to find the trigger in my head that leads me to the fridge and shut it down. It's possibly in front of the function that allows me to see the TV at the same time I'm working on the computer and still know what's going on. Or it might be behind the space where my book addiction lies.

This cannot go on. And it's bad enough that every time I fail and fall, I think to myself that I'll get it right tomorrow night. But tomorrow night might become last night all over again. And the cycle would continue. I hate the cycle.

More tea. One mugful isn't going to do it. If I think of what I know is in the fridge, then I need to think of the tea I could make. Cheez-Its, tea. Deli, tea. Almond cookies, tea. I broke that monotonous cycle many months ago. I have to break it into even more pieces this time, bury it where it can't possibly crawl back, and move on.

Right now, I'm not sure that writing is harder than dieting. Writing might actually be easier now.

Bug Guts and Glory

Where the hell else am I supposed to spray? This half-house, as I call it (though it probably fits the definition of an apartment more) is small enough that I have to be careful about where I spray so that the dogs aren't sniffing around out of curiosity. They've been with us long enough to know that this is the time of year when it's necessary to spray for bugs because of the heat, but I prefer to be extra-cautious.

And yet, even after having totally bombed the length of the patio with Raid Ant & Roach when I knew that it wouldn't be the time for the dogs to pee out there (for those just joining us, the patio, with its pebble ground, is a suitable simulation of the Las Vegas landscape, which would be visited upon by my dogs every day after we move there, which is not now, but soon, I hope), I'm getting reminders of where I haven't sprayed and wondering how I should handle this.

That poured out because a few minutes ago, I saw a spider crawling past on the wall behind the computer monitor. Having no other whacking device handy, I used the back of the black computer mouse and slammed it once against the wall, transferring dead spider and dead spider guts onto the mouse. I'm wondering where this thing came from. Is there some kind of small hole at the bottom of the window next to me? Should I also spray there during my next Raid Rampage? All the windows have been closed for about two weeks, so nothing should have gotten in. Maybe it got in through the window in my parents' bedroom, the one next to the front-door walkway.

Bigger defenses are a given. I have to. I only sprayed the patio ground because of the clusters of fast-crawling ants I sometimes find when I'm picking up dog poop. Yes, they do that there too. And last night was one of those times, which prompted me to throw the poop and the plastic bag covering over the side into the grass at the back of a neighbor's apartment, because at that moment, I didn't want to bring in yet another plastic bag with a few crawling ants inside. I've done that twice before and I don't like it.

I think I'll spray more thoroughly today. Most likely after I get back from the library and wherever else my mom and/or dad have to go, just as the sun sets. I think the garage needs another bug spray coating, and certainly the front-door walkway. I hate these battles, but then I think of La Mesa Jr. High, where my dad works. That school was built on an ant hill.

Night 1: Back to Night 1 Tomorrow Night

Was good for nearly the entire evening. Had an in-head craving for Cheez-Its that didn't extend to any other body part, then the body got up and headed to the kitchen a little after the 11 p.m. news on ABC 7. Out came the box from the kitchen to the living room, then it led to a slice of swiss cheese from a plastic Kraft Deli Fresh package, and a bunch of other things I won't list here because personal shame has taken over now.

By the way, ham off the bone has a lot of noticeable sodium.

I'm almost tempted to return "The Omnivore's Dilemma" by Michael Pollan because of its food theme, but the book isn't the problem. The pages can't be eaten anyway. I've just got to get on this properly. Tomorrow night, I go back to compiling job listings for an online freelance writing newsletter, as I do every Sunday night through Thursday night for the following days, and tea is always helpful to break the occasional tedium. I used to think of the work as very tedious, but with research for that book sometimes even more tedious, I make sure to appreciate certain aspects of the newsletter, like how with each listing I find, I might be helping a freelance writer find a job they can do and make some decent money. I don't think of any of the subscribers to that newsletter as competition, since I don't do any copywriting, or technical writing, or translations or transcriptions. I want to work at an airport one day. That's all. So I consider every listing found to be a mini-mitzvah that contributes to a bigger mitzvah when the newsletter is done and there's sometimes 80+ listings. Even on the days when there's only 28-30 listings, I still feel good.

I didn't go for those Cheez-Its because I didn't have anything to do. I'm trying to finish reading "To Your Scattered Bodies Go" by Philip Jose Farmer, and of course, there's the book. There's a lot to do. It just happened. Now I have to stop it from happening again. The newsletter is work to do. I'll be sitting here for a few hours putting it together. I've been at this so long that I know what listings should go into the newsletter and I sometimes turn the "focused attention" part of my brain off, and think of other things. And I usually have headphones on, so I'm listening to either jazz or NPR programs or using Pandora at the same time I'm working.

Night by night again. I just have to take it night by night. I failed tonight, but tomorrow night's a chance to succeed. The motivation should be set like cement into my mind: This body is getting older, not staying young, and I can make my right knee feel better and shrink that around-the-world (or "love handles" or "Goodyear tire design" if you'd like) fat. For the benefit of my health, why should this be so hard? I can be healthier.

When I went to see Star Trek at the Edwards Valencia 12 the Saturday before last (May 16th), the people at the ticket counters were taking so long and it was nearly 1:30 p.m., which was when the next showing of Star Trek was to start. I knew I probably wouldn't get my favorite seat (first row before the floor, where you can put your feet up on that quarter-wall), but I still wanted to get in before the movie started.

Once my sister got the tickets, I tore them apart, separating Star Trek from "The Soloist," and giving her those tickets. The guy ripping tickets took mine, did, and I ran faster than I had in months. I deftly avoided clusters of people by planning a few seconds ahead on what I was going to do, and I veered at just the right second. I got into the theater, and was a little winded (which is yet another motivation to lose weight), but I was euphoric! I loved that feeling of going so fast, of speeding past the movie posters and video game machines like I had a thinner, much more flexible body. I wanted more of that. I could almost say that I don't know how in the hell I lost touch with that feeling, but it's when you're out of your daily routine, like seeing a movie, that you forget some of your habits. I just fell back into those which are not good for me. But to have that feeling again, to one day run that fast and not feel winded, to exercise more and feel really good not just in body but also in spirit, I'd like that.

Night by night this time. Tomorrow night, the first night again.

In Moderation

I'm trying to remember: Food in moderation. It's why I treat lunch at Philippe's in downtown Los Angeles like it's the holiest Jewish synagogue on Earth. It's why I never take any food home. No further lamb sandwiches, no slices of pie, no macaroni salad. After an exalted lunch there on Thursday, I bought only an impressively thick coffee mug with Philippe's printed on it and "1908-2008" below the name, heralding 100 years of business so far and hopefully forever.

That's forced moderation, though. We don't go to downtown Los Angeles often. We haven't been to Las Vegas in a while either. We haven't been back yet to that Asian buffet off the Strip that we all like, nor the Carnival World Buffet at the Rio, nor one of the Blueberry Hill family restaurants, one in a high-quality chain. They make everything with care.

The refrigerator is the major problem. Get enough deli in there, American, Muenster and string cheese, the occasional cake, some fruit (once in a while), leftovers (preferably spaghetti, because fettucine alfredo, my favorite, is always gone in one sitting at dinner), whatever my sister's brought home from working in the kitchen at my dad's school (sometimes small subs from Subway, ham or roast beef), and peanut butter (for the occasional sandwich), and gradually, day by day, there won't be a whole lot left in the fridge. Add yogurt to that list. I almost forgot yogurt, but I don't blast through that as often as I do the rest because cheap as yogurt is, it feels awkward to have at 1 or 2 a.m.

I know what I am: An overeater. Not a binger, so much. Ok, maybe a slow binger. A box of Cheez-Its doesn't become a flat box to put into the recycling bin in one night. There's a one-and-a-half quart container of Dreyer's Summer Peach Pie ice cream in the freezer. I wish it was at the supermarket for longer than the summer because Breyer's peach ice cream has peach pieces in the ice cream that taste more like ice than peach. The Summer Peach Pie flavor actually respects the peach pieces. They must adhere to some method that Breyer's doesn't know. That container won't be gone by tomorrow night, but I've already shaved off the top layer.

I don't know why I overeat, but I have a clear motivation for why I shouldn't, and I'd better start quick, lest I land in my father's territory. There's a history of diabetes in our family, but only if there's enough weight gained. My father got to that weight easily. He worked in the bakery his father managed when he got older and the overeating stuck. I don't want to end up with diabetes.

It's hard to scale my eating habits way back. I did it once a few months ago. It actually lasted for a long stretch of time, my right knee stopped hurting, and I could swing my arms at my sides without hitting flesh. The right side of me was more stubborn than the left, but there was very little there.

Now the knee's back to its occasional pain regimen and I hate the term "love handles," so I'll say that I'd better knock my weight down soon or Goodyear's going to examine me front and back for inspiration for a new tire design. It's not that bad yet, but I know it could get worse from this point.

I need to do this for another reason: I savor every visit to Philippe's. Even though Claim Jumper is overpriced now (even in this recession), I love getting a table at the right side of the restaurant where I can have a view of the freeway and the back of the major Stevenson Ranch shopping center. It's high up enough where you can see both, side by side. I sometimes see a security car driving at the back of the shopping center, near a dumpster and the loading docks, and I like to think about what the driver's like, if he likes the job, what he does on his days off. As for the freeway, where is everyone going? Are the big rigs only traveling within the state or are there a few from the east coast? I haven't thought of a short story or essay yet from watching all that, but I like letting my mind work out.

I love those experiences because I don't have them often. I mentioned this point early on in the entry, but I wanted to repeat it because of those visits to Claim Jumper.

I don't get the same feeling from the refrigerator anymore. I know there's cheese in there. Sometimes there's pie and I'm crazy for pie. Ginger ale, iced tea, sometimes root beer, I know where those are on the shelves inside the door.

I don't like it. Muenster cheese with tuna spread on it isn't as pleasureable as it might be if I wasn't going for it so often. I might even like deli even more if I wasn't so familiar with honey-baked ham versus ham off the bone. I want to enjoy all this again as much as when I go to Philippe's. I do have tea every day, going between Bigelow's Lemon Lift and Twining's Lady Grey, but it's a daily pleasure that's not the same as everyday binging. The Lemon Lift tea is comforting and the constant question I keep in mind when I drink the Lady Grey Tea is, "Will I catch that hint of orange in my mouth this time?" It's especially wonderful when the orange and lemon flavors intermingle.

The tea is part of my lifestyle, just like my near-obsessive reading habit, just like my obsessive movie habit. I wouldn't give that up. It's part of me. But the overeating shouldn't be. I need to stop now before I end up with a handheld device that tells me if my blood sugar is normal, and the fingerpricks to make that happen. I'm 25 now. Immortality isn't as assured as it was when I was a teenager. Back then, I didn't believe all of me was immortal, but maybe my body. It isn't. That mindset has to disappear. Today and in the following days and months, I need to gauge what I eat, when I eat, and how much I eat. I should eat only at lunch and dinner (I don't get up in time for breakfast), and when those daily cravings take over and constantly command my brain, only water and tea should prevail. For a few weeks now, I've been thinking that I should pay more attention to tea, drink more of it, read more about it. This would be a good time for that.

I need to make it work permanently this time.