As you might guess, food is the hardest part of Fix so far.  Not eating in restaurants means that I have to think about how to feed myself for the whole day, examining what my plans are and figuring out if I have time to run home and fix something.  And this weekend I reached a critical point: I'm almost completely out of convenience foods like cereal and crackers, and I've used up my stores of mac and cheese, frozen spinach pie, and some turkey chili I made and stashed in the freezer. 

When I designed this part of the experiment, I was imagining putting more consciousness towards what I put in my body, and integrating food preparation/consumption more intelligently into my lifestyle.  I was also envisioning myself as more self-sufficient somehow, not susceptible to the lures of drunk food or street food because I'd already eaten a balanced healthy meal that I prepared myself.  Though I've enjoyed a few Fix food experiences very much - some meals I've made myself, an adventurous eating weekend in Boston, making pancakes and bacon with my friend Chad - so far I've basically had the equivalent of what happened in high school when I decided I was a vegetarian and ate pizza, cookies, Cheez-its, and bread instead of the meat my mom prepared.  This year I haven't eaten in restaurants - I get drinks or coffee when I go out with friends who are eating - but I also haven't done any serious planning or cooking yet, relying instead on leftovers from work or the aforementioned food stores.  The little cooking that I have done relies on the recipes I've used forever: my friend Laura smiled knowingly, "you been making a lot of stir-fries, haven't you?"

So here are the issues:

I'd rather not buy processed packaged stuff -- and I've got to figure out where the line is.  I know I can't go without buying any dry pasta this year, but I'm not sure that things like cereal, crackers, and granola bars should be allowed.

I'm athletic and I'm a grazer: I eat often and I require a lot of calories to get through the day.

I'm away from my apartment for long stretches of time, meaning that I need stuff to carry with me (not too heavy!) as well as quick stuff to fix when I get home. 

Like anyone trying to solve these problems, I did the logical thing and participated in an email recipe chain letter that came my way a couple of weeks ago.  With a cry for help referencing Fix, I received five responses. (I also got a couple "what the hell are you doing sending me a chain letter!" responses - sorry!)  I organized my recipe book: of the 60 or so that I have, half are everyday kinds of recipes, and half of those I'm not sick of -- 15 new ideas!  Looks like I'm going to have to do a big plan-shop-cook this week...I'm hoping that I'll get used to the process and actually enjoy it eventually but for now it feels really painful.  Let me know if you have any better ideas...

 P.S. I'll be looking for a crockpot and a blender in my secondhand forays - email me if you have one you're not using.

I've gotten a lot of questions about this endeavor: puzzled and probing, curious and dismissive.  I've created a page for feedback sent by email - people have raised compelling issues and applied Fix to a range of scenarios.  Thanks for sending me your thoughts and suggestions.

I find it interesting that my friends with money define the experiment as about spending money; one of them explained Fix as making a project out of my poverty.  My artist friends, on the other hand, envision me going to great lengths to make things myself or achieving some kind of enlightenment through discipline and careful consideration of every move.  And then there's my mom, a great re-user, who takes the practical view: she mailed me this when I noted I didn't have the right size travel bag for my soap and shampoo.             

I spent the weekend describing Fix with varying degrees of articulacy.  One of my favorite conversations went like this:

text #1: what if you need to buy shoes
megan: i have at least 10 pairs
text #2: and if your phone breaks?
megan: let's hope that doesn't happen
phone call: "ok, then, what about a manicure?"
megan: "um, I'm not sure.  When you get a manicure are you paying for the nail polish or the experience of a manicure?"  (I think at it's most fundamental it's an experience, really, but never having had a manicure, 2007 won't be the time to start.)

"Wait, so you're allowed to buy experiences but not things?  But you have to buy food, right?  Are you eating in restaurants?"

"No, I'm not eating in restaurants"

"What?! Who came up with these rules?  Don't tell me you're the director of it?!"

"Yeah, I am. I made up the rules."  

"Can I buy you food? My sister says no manicures.  You know what, I can buy you stuff, I'll just buy you things." 

This guy has given me some of my favorite books but I can't remember any other stuff he's bought me besides food in the 18 years I've known him.  I'm looking forward to how this conversation will continue.

I'll mark today as the first that I really broke my rules.  I bought a plastic folder at Staples for $2.16 - I have to submit a press kit tomorrow and I couldn't find anything to reuse at home or work.  In my defense, I only bought one (even though I have a bunch of other applications this month), with the rationale that I need more time to come up with a Fix-appropriate solution.  This area will be the source of most of my transgressions, I think: things I buy - and they've got to be brand spanking new! - for applications, presentations, and projects.  I know I'm out of dv tapes, and I'll soon be out of dvds - and I definitely feel like I have to have them in order to play the art game.  In her year of Not Buying It, Judith Levine made exceptions for anything for business - but I'm not exactly sure I can call my artmaking a business at this point...it's more like an expensive and persistent habit.   I promise to do my best to plumb the depths of my surplus supplies and seek other sources for paper goods -- and I know that to present myself as having my shit together and going places, I've got to pass out crispy photos on beautiful paper in sleek folders.  It is art, after all.