Flop Brain and Wreck ‘Em

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(or listen here)

“Flop brain and wreck ’em,” is old timey diner style for scrambled brain. Which is what I have. Unless I am in Olde Towne wherever U.S.A. and then it is olde tymey dinere flope braine and wrecke thine. Still: scrambled brain.

In the way back times I worked, taught, managed and trained in early childcare centers, preschools, before-and-after care, and summer camps. One thing, out of many, that I learned, was that people are people are people, no matter how ridiculously wealthy or desperately poor, people are people are people and want to feel worthy. So, Old or Olde, it is what it is. A lesson learned BITD which I can say because I am *ahem* of a certain age maturity and such now. So very mature that I am perhaps slipping into pre-dottiness, which would explain the scrambled brain of course. Side note – I do not enjoy a scrambled egg. I will make them for SonHerisme and MotherHerisme, but I do not want to eat them.

I eat eggs – but I’m more of a Flop Eve on a Raft with Salsa. Over easy egg on toast with salsa. Not the salsa music. Rather, I am talking about the chilled tomato based deliciousness with cilantro and peppers. I used to have a primary care physician who would play music during appointments. Music which he curated especially for whatever he thought you needed. He would say, “Some people need Mozart, some a tango, and others need to salsa!” Eventually he lost his license for over-prescribing pain medications. No surprise there, I suppose. He was a rebel physician who believed that everyone should be using whatever tools available to live their best life. I imagine he is completely content on a beach somewhere outside of the U.S. still practicing as he is able to do so. He could probably use some Mozart.

Eggs are consumed here in my version of quiche, which makes an appearance at the table a few times each month. A debatable crust might make it a frittata. It is rare that I use a flaky dough crust, because it would need to be gluten free and my brain energy is too low for that most of the time. I either forgo any crust altogether or I use shredded root vegetables (sweet potatoes, carrots, parsnips, potatoes, beets, etc), which I pre-bake before adding the eggy filling.

SonHerisme and MotherHerisme also enjoy an egg salad. I do not. I like making the things. My digestions usually respond, “oh hells to the no’s we are not permitting that in here NO WAY NO HOW.” While I enjoy making the things, I typically do not enjoy consuming the things. Don’t worry though, because believe me, my body finds plenty of things to keep it full. More than P L E N T Y. The plentish of plentifuls plenty. Just not scrambled eggs. Or egg salad. I’ll eat the quiche on occasion. Mostly the spinach out of the quiche because I have a serious spinach problem. Maybe spinach unscrambles brains and that is why I am craving it… all of the time? Cooked, not raw because raw gives me massive migraines. See? Scrambled brain. Nothing makes sense. It’s okay. I’m used to it.

My point is, in response to the question I received, “How do you plan out or know what you are going to write about on your blog?” I can only say this: I have no plan. This is my default plan, knowing nothing about any plan. My scrambled brain being able to take note of something on occasion and filtering it into words which might, through divine serendipity, find me at my laptop for a brief unusual period without interruption, is my plan.

Sometimes I see someone turn across the street and the wind picks up the hem of their shirt in a way that reminds me of someone else’s shirt hem, or the color of their eyes, or the smell of them, or the smell of dry-cleaning and those irritating plastic bags and hangers with paper ads on them.

Sometimes I see the half moon so clearly that its splotches make me wonder how thousands of years ago someone thought they saw a face in there and if I am supposed to say, “hello,” every time I do see that in order to honor that ancient ancestor, or the moon. Does the moon get offended? Am I supposed to be showing deference to the moon? Maybe that’s my problem…hmmmm

Sometimes I grab my cozy blanket in bed and try to make the bruising on my heart go away by holding the blanket tightly enough that all of the hurt energies get absorbed in its softness, so that I can breathe and get up to make it through my day, or at least the next thing in my day.

Sometimes RelativesHerisme say or do wacky things which make me think of other things or how other people walk through those moments of crazy in their lives (because we all have this – yes?).

Sometimes SonHerisme is so brave and generous of spirit that it takes my breath away and I want to do anything and everything to give him structure, love and a deep sense of worthiness, love, and belonging.

Sometimes I am flattened by how adept we are at dehumanizing and pretending or not knowing reality.

Sometimes I am flattened by the properties of a dandelion (including the wish making).

My scrambled brain takes these kinds of things in, as we all do, and then brushes them out here, worthy or unworthy. I do not have a plan. Even if I had a plan, the first thing I would do is not follow the plan. My floppy wrecked brain is difficult but I am glad to have it most of the time. Some days I wish it fit more in line with the people so that I could feel more fit in as well. But, who knows? Perhaps I am beyond the age of fitting in.

Thank you for reading/listening and for making it through my scrambled brain word salad. I appreciate that you are here and that I have this teensy amoeba in a grain of sand platform to express my non-plannesses.

I am thinking of you – especially YOU because I like your brainiac – sending you lots of Summer of Strength vibes!

Today’s Summer of Strength finds me making egg salad for the people, running laundry through, tidying the basement (probably mostly a dance party if I’m honest), and chomping on pizza (cauliflower crust, natch and yes I know it isn’t 2005). It is a very rainy day here, so I imagine boots and coats will make an appearance shortly for some outside adventure as well.

Love, Ms. Herisme xoxo

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If you are vegan and eating eggs is abhorrent to you, then I am sending you extra love and {{{hugs}}}. We eat local organic eggs because we can and I am too exhausted (and possibly too cheap) to embrace flax alternative. But I am with you in spirit, vegan hearts! You are worthy of being considered too.

Oh! yes and my little friend who is allergic to eggs! You are worthy too and much too young to be reading this, so I’m touching base with your mother asap. Also, please don’t forget to send me a pic of you taking your neighbor’s on-purpose pigeons walking in a pigeon harness. Or is it quails now? Either way, thanks! xo

(psst… I know brain scramble is trauma)

Brain vs Stomach

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This is an epic showcase showdown…

 

Confession #703

I like to cook stuff.

I like to eat stuff.

 

Food hates me SO much, but I adore it.

 

I adore everything about it.

I like researching it.

I like planning for it and around it.

I like going to the market and finding the perfect it.

I like cleaning it.

I like chopping it.

I like cooking it.

I like setting the table for it.

I like sharing it (or not).

I like eating it.

I like cleaning up after it.

I like leftovering it.

I like reinventing it for the next time (or not).

 

Food and I have never seen eye-to-eye, or rather, body-to-body.

I think that food should nourish all of the senses. 

Food thinks that my body, in particular my stomach, is a stupid dumb jerk that it does not want to spend time with, and so it begs to escape that hell-hole as quickly as possible.  It does not even take time to phone a friend.  It just wants out asap.  If it cannot be accommodated, then it tells my body to punish me further (hives, headaches, nausea, fatigue, cramping, inflammation, super fat storage, intestinal upset, etc – you know, the usual).

 

I do have some allergies and sensitivities, and I avoid those triggers as much as possible.  However, these nasty side effects of my eating can occur even when eating something I have successfully eaten before.

 

It’s anxiety.

Anxiety makes my stomach a hell hole for food.

 

I want my stomach to be a healthy respite for food.

I want my body to enjoy the experience as much as my brain tells me that I do.

 

Our stomachs have been compared to being our second brain – and mine certainly lives up to that description.  Anything my brain rejects because it is too scary, nasty, unpleasant, or terrifying, I know it sends away to let my stomach deal with it.  My brain is Scarlett O’Hara making clothes out of curtains, and my stomach is always “tomorrow,” when Rhett leaves, Scarlett is childless, broke, and the house is crumbling.

 

What I am trying to say is that I like cooking a big turkey, and I missed out on doing so for Thanksgiving.  I’m going to cook one for Christmas Eve.

 

I am also trying to say that I have found a new therapist, and will begin Somatic Experiencing to heal through this process.

 

I hope that my stomach can learn better communication with food, and not piss it off so much.

 

I hope that my brain can more effectively deal with situations and processing emotions, so that it may communicate appropriately with my stomach.

 

If you see me in clothes made from my curtains, please feel free to call me on it.  If they are green velvet with gold tassels, please contact my mother asap.

 

I hope that you all are handling the holiday season well (for those ‘in’ it).  Expectations, internal and external, are sometimes difficult to reconcile with reality (hello, anxiety).

 

If you are not moving well through the holidays, please find support for you – you are worth it!

If you are finding the season hopeless and desperate, please call a national hotline:

Domestic Violence Hotline 1.800.799.7233

Suicide Prevention Hotline 1.800.273.8255

Love, Ms. Herisme xo