Foodiefloof (floofinition) – a housepet who displays loyalty to whoever has the food; a housepet who is fond of food and eating.
In use: “Titus is sometimes a dudefloof, but when I’m cooking, he becomes a foodiefloof, and then, he’s all mine!”
No Use
Have you ever noticed that no matter how much you beg and plead for silence, once your stomach starts making noises, it’s just about impossible to get it to stop? You just have to wait for it to go back to sleep.
The Food
With four cats, I have several bowls of kibble out and available, yet the cats will hunt me down to tell me, “I’m hungry. What do we have to eat?”
What they really mean is, “Give me a treat.”
A Writing Problem
I have a new problem to relate to my writing process, something so fucking stupid that it’s monumentally irritating. It’s one of those things that make me go, “Grrrr.”
Lately, hunger is interrupting my writing process.
Hunger, as in, “I’m hungry, my stomach is rumbling, and I want to eat.” It’s not like I’m starving to death.
I know, as living and writing goes, it’s not an impressive problem. I imagine many people reading this will think, “What a whiner. I wish being hungry was my writing problem.”
Yeah, I know. It’s definitely a first world complaint, right? Who else but a white American male can complain like this?
Yes, I know.
Let’s back up a moment and add some exposition. I write in a coffee shop. I usually leave the house around 10:30, a few hours after eating breakfast. I like that process. I need to escape the house (and the cats and distractions) to write. Plus, the walking I do prior to writing helps me settle into the writing groove. Right, wrong, indifferent, this is my process, and I like it.
It used to work great. Eat, dress, walk, arrive, buy coffee, set up, work for a few hours. I generally begin by reviewing news and other blogs. I then make a few brief posts. I consider them to be clearing my throat. Then, off to work. I usually achieve ninety minutes of writing and editing punctuated by a couple breaks, and feel satisfied by the process and progress. But since returning to the writing process after going east across America to visit with family, I start getting hungry about a quarter of my way into the writing session.
The first time it happened, I wrote through my hunger. I figured it was isolated because it was rare. The next day, when the same thing happened, I bought a cookie at the coffee shop. The third day, I ate a tangelo before leaving to write, and the fourth day, I brought a Larabar with me and ate it as I walked. Then, the next time, I cut my time short again, and again the subsequent time. By now, I recognized a problem.
All these actions of eating something bought me a little time. Today, though, I had to leave later for my writing. This was due to a cat. One of our cats, Tucker, decided to re-arrange his litter box. (Oi, the mess.) An hour of clean up was demanded. Since that put me behind, I figured that I’d eat lunch before leaving. That was okay; I’d eaten breakfast (waffles) at eight, and then ate lunch at eleven fifteen, departing to write at eleven thirty. I should be good. Yet, here I am, hungry by one, dreaming of sandwiches, salads, wraps, and burritos.
I considered, of course, buying lunch here at the coffee shop. That doesn’t fit in with my budget or dietary plans. I have the money but can’t stomach the idea of paying five to ten dollars a day for something to eat here. The food offered is standard sort of fare, and while generally tasty, it isn’t particularly healthy for more than a once in a while thing.
What it all seems to be pointing to is that I need to leave earlier to write, closer to when I finish eating breakfast. That provides a different problem. The coffee shop is busier earlier in the day. That makes it harder to get a good writing location. I define a good writing location as a table or counter space with an outlet and sufficient room to not hot or be hit whenever someone moves. Further, it’s not just during my writing time, either, plagued by hunger. I’m hungry after dinner. I’m hungry in the evening. I wake up hungry.
I don’t understand why I’m so hungry. I’ve been eating normally. Yes, I’ve kicked up my walking again. Yes, I’ve lost some weight. (Hurrah!) Yes, I’ve reduced the sugar and fat in my diet. Yes, I feel great, other than being hungry.
I guess I’m done for the day. I feel like I’m cheating myself because the writing was going well, and I have more to write. I also feel like I’m weak, giving up writing for eating. That’s silly, of course. (Right? RIGHT?)
Worse, I try to walk two to three miles after writing. It helps my writing process and it’s good exercise. Today, I’m so hungry, I’m heading straight home.
So, calling it a day on writing like crazy. Time to go eat. It’s Pi Day. Maybe I’ll go have some pie.
Damn it.
The Sisters Dream
I dreamed of my sisters, sisters-in-law, and their daughters. My wife was also present, but ‘off-stage’, in the other room. Sometimes I heard her, but I never saw her. Only one male was in it; he didn’t enter until the end.
I was in someone’s house. I don’t know whose house. Toward the dream’s beginning, one sister-in-law entered. She and I hugged. She said, “How long until December?”
There was a calendar on the wall beside us. Indicating it, I said, “You’re behind. It’s already December. It’s almost the middle of December.”
She and I joined the others by a coffee table. Everyone was happy to see me, and I was happy to see them, but I knew it was a dream, and I was trying to understand why they were there, and what was going on. Bowls of finger-food and plates of sandwiches filled the coffee table. My two youngest sisters were beside it. The youngest was talking and laughing with several nieces, while the next oldest sister talked to me about the food and asked me what I wanted. I saw my older sister and my other sister in another part of the room. Multiple overlapping conversations were taking place, and there was a lot of laughter. I couldn’t hear much of what was being said. My sister-in-law sat close to me, trying to talk to me, but my sister was also talking to me, leaving me unable to answer either.
Taking a break from them, I went into another room. My Dad was in there, doing business. I was trying to understand what his business was, and what was he doing. Although I asked these questions, I couldn’t comprehend his responses. Eventually, I went back into the other room to find something to eat.
Which is where memory of the dream fades.
Moving Dream Vignette
“We’re not living here any longer,” my wife announced. “We’re moving. Come on, pack up. Let’s go.”
I was bewildered. It was a dream, of course. I didn’t recognize our home, which didn’t matter. We were outside, on a busy street. So were our belongings. Cars were passing. It looked like San Francisco.
My wife was packing fast. A friend was helping. “But we don’t have anywhere else to live, honey buns,” I said, even as I began picking things up to pack.
That small matter didn’t slow my wife. She was like the a cartoon packer, collecting and putting our stuff into boxes with amazing speed. I was hesitant. A tray on a table still had my hot food. She wanted me to pack it. Instead, I furtively grabbed a handful of baby carrots in butter sauce and crammed them into my mouth.
“But hon,” I said. “Stop a minute and think. Shouldn’t we have another place to go before we pack up and go?”
No. My wife was emphatic, that this didn’t matter. We were moving. Let’s pack! So, like a dutiful spouse, I packed, eating my dinner on the side while I did. My friend, helping, saw this, and laughed.
Warning? Hope? Meaningless?
I woke up thinking, ah, we’re moving into the unknown. She’s pushing us forward, but I’m less sure, a reversal of our usual perspectives. It’ll be fun seeing what happens next.
A Writing Cat’s Advice
If you’re given something other than your desire, wait for what you want. Be patient, my pet. Be patient.
Michael Seidel, writer 