This is Nourishment

Today I was walking to the the mini fridge on my floor to get my afternoon snack when I was struck with a feeling of normalcy.

As I mentioned before I have struggled with some very disordered eating since a very early age. Food has always been about so much other than food. It is pleasure, punishment, and distraction all at the same time. In the past, when I was feeling sad or overwhelmed, I would want to eat a pan of brownies so that I could experience the pleasure of eating something delicious, while punishing myself (my body is very sensitive to large amounts of sugar and wheat), followed by a period of obsession over how many brownies I ate, as well as a ghastly stomachache. But then the stomachache would wane, and I would be left with regret over my sometimes masochism and frequent incapability to really care for myself.

It amazes me how valuable it is to learn how to dialogue with oneself. It is not that I don't binge eat anymore, though I do it much, much less; it's just that I know how to come back from it. Years (or months) ago, a night of binge eating would lead to a week or weeks of more binge eating. And the longer it went on the harder it was to come back from. But I feel now as though I have some idea of how to talk to myself about the binge: to frame it as self-care (learned from Geneen Roth), to drink a lot of water, to journal, to combat the thoughts of "you don't know how to care for yourself" with viable proof that I most clearly do know how to care for myself.

I keep wondering how I got here from there. How I got to a point where there is an element of true nourishing when it comes to food, if even just for one snack. I suppose it has to do with the work I've done to love my body just as it is. It has to do with how I clothe and wash myself. It has to do with letting my body be, with letting her want or reject whatever she needs. It has to do with all the times I let it be okay that I ate ice cream every day for a week or had two cupcakes (or four) at a party. It has to do with the freedom to have cream in my coffee and to sometimes drink that coffee in bed, in my pajamas, even though I should be doing other things. It has to do with riding my bike, with feeling connected to the world through that little 15 pound mass of metal and rubber. In yoga, I felt connected to the earth. But when I am biking I am a part of the whole round world. On my bike, as I learn to yell at drivers about to hit me and ride in a lane clearly designed for cars, I am learning how to protect myself, how to take up space in the world. It has to do with going to my dance class and seeing my body in the mirror, back fat and stomach fat and bruised, scarred legs, and thinking, "that is MINE." And then plie-ing like I am a graceful swan. Because I am. Just a fat one.

What else have I done?

Lots of crying. And talking. Lots of eating. Lots of drinking. Lots of journaling and biking and sad dancing and happy dancing and online shopping. Lots of reading. Lots of reading the same thing over and over until I get it. Lots of hugging. Lots of anger. Lots of forgiveness and grace.

And then today I got hungry so I walked to the little mini-fridge to get my yogurt and honey, mixed together in a little tupperware this morning, and I ate it, and I licked the top of the tupperware cause it was so delicious, and I wasn't thinking about anything else, just how delicious that yogurt was. Every meal or snack is not like this. But this one was. And there have been others like it. And there will be more.

Coffee

About 6 months ago I started drinking coffee. Before I drank it I always WISHED I drank it. People who drank coffee looked so cool and together (remember this post?). While I was unemployed I would get up at 8am and drink about 5 cups of coffee while reading the paper. Was I turning into my father? Perhaps. My Dad (who is hella old) retired when I was 9 years old and since he's been retired (that's 20 years now) reads the whole paper everyday. And up until he became a Mormon/his doctor told him to stop drinking coffee he drank 2 LARGE cups of coffee while reading that paper. He sits at the kitchen table in complete silence, reading the ENTIRE PAPER. He recently started getting the Wall Street Journal sent to his house because the Dallas Morning Star is apparently too liberal for him. He also maintains that Fox News is the only unbiased news station. Oh Dad. But this is not the point. The point is the coffee.

My mom is sups picky about her coffee. When I was little my favorite thing to do was make my mom her coffee. She took it with half an Equal packet and two heaping tablespoons of coffeemate (aka corn). She would tell me to add enough coffeemate that the coffee was the color of my skin, and I remember holding my hand up to the coffee to compare. She tried to make me my coffee when we were in Florida in June and I threw a mini temper tantrum when she tried to put milk in my coffee instead of half and half. That's what happens before I have my coffee. I throw temper tantrums. Sometimes I also throw temper tantrums when I have to go to the dentist, which I did when I was 22... I was literally lying on the floor screaming and crying because I didn't want to go to the dentist... Did I mention I was 22? God is going to smote me with highly emotional children. And I will deserve it.

Coffee is like a thing. I still associate it with being an adult which means now that I drink it I am like a real adult. Sort of. I recently bought this coloring book and have spent 3 out of the past 4 evenings coloring in it. So maybe real adult is a stretch. Anywho, my roommate likes her coffee black, and she has very sensitive taste buds and can notice all these subtle nuances and flavors. I add half and half to mine, so the taste is sadly lost on me, but I appreciate her appreciation. On Sunday, during "Hurricane" Irene we sat on the couch and drank coffee and watched Say Yes to the Dress and What Not to Wear. Well, until the power went out. To be honest, I think the concept of spending so much on a wedding dress is a little excessive but it is fun to watch people cry about dresses. I ESPECIALLY love seeing the women who love ridiculous dresses and then end up buying them and crying about beautiful they are when they are in fact ridiculous. 

This one is see-through.

I also love it when there are chunky ladies on there. I also enjoy hating the women who insist on trying on dresses outside their budget when their parents are paying. I enjoy it all! I am nothing if not a voyeur. Anyway, I got to drink coffee out a legitimate mug on Sunday morning, NOT a travel mug, which I haven't done in FOREVER. It was my city feed mug. 

I was also wearing my pajamas. Drinking coffee out of a mug, on your couch while wearing your pajamas and watching bridal shows is very pleasurable. Only one thing would've make it better.

Sigh.

Bagged Caesar Salad

I am one of the most supremely lazy cookers in the world. Is "cooker" a word? I don't think so. But I am certainly not a chef. And "person who cooks food" is too long. So lazy cooker. That's me.

I technically know how to cook (thanks, Jan!) but the only time I ever liked it was when I was unemployed. And that was because I didn't have anything else to do, so putting on some tunes and chopping onions for 30 minutes sounded like a great idea. But now the LAST thing I want to do when I come home from work is make anything. And as summer approaches (slowly and FINALLY surely) I find I crave salad more than soup. BUT I am SUCH a lazy cooker that the idea of chopping, washing, and drying fresh lettuce makes me want punch myself in the face.

Enter the beauty that is the bagged salad.

For my birthday this year I had some people over for dinner. Jan encouraged me to purchase 3 Caesar salad bags to add some variety to the meal. But I was so stressed out over preparing the lasagna (the baking of which took about twice as long as I thought it would) that I forgot to prepare the salad. So for the week following my birthday that's what I ate: leftover lasagna and bagged salad.

This is why I love Bagged Caesar salad:

1) Caesar. Dressing. Is. Delicious. Back when I was on Weight Watchers I would only eat fat-free raspberry vinaigrette or fat-free Italian dressing. Barf. First of all, I don't like fruit on salad--well unless it's dried. Or beets. But beets aren't a fruit. They are just sweet like fruit. Mmmm. Beets. Anywho, if I don't like fruit on my salad WHY would I like fruit in my salad dressing? I didn't and I don't. I spent all that time eating dressing I didn't even like. Sad. Face.

2) Croutons. Back when I was on Weight Watchers I would never the Croutons. And then back when I was trying to cut wheat out of my diet I would never eat Croutons. Here's a secret: I fucking love croutons. Little crusty, crunchy, delicate bread nuggets? YES PLEASE.

3) Romaine Lettuce. It is almost sweet. I wonder if Dole adds sugar to it when they are washing and bagging my lettuce. Either way, Romaine = lettuce candy.

4) Parmesan Cheese. Mixed with the Croutons and Lettuce? THANK YOU.

5) It's all there. In a bag.

The one sad thing about my love of bagged salad and lazy cooking is that I am somewhat of an advocate for the slow food movement and for local agriculture, neither of which are supported by bagged salad. Especially because I don't even buy the organic kind. I am pretty sure the Parmesan cheese in that PERFECTLY SIZED LITTLE VACUUM SEALED BAG is coated in some sort of corn by-product. 

But I guess you can't win 'em all.

As a side note I would like to share the following.

1) I can't stop listening to this song. But then again why should I? IT. IS. SO. AWESOME.

Make my body big and strong, INDEED!

 2) I just read this article that I found on my boss's desk while cleaning out his office. I would like to feature my favorite part here, though I encourage everyone to read the whole article. It's really quite incredible. And, as you probably assumed, I added the italics.

"I recall one of the strangest conversations I had in the city. A woman came up to me at a party and said she had been moved by a piece of writing I had published. She confessed that prior to reading it, she had never wanted to talk to me, and had always been sure, on the basis of what she could see from across the room, that I was nobody worth talking to, that I was in fact someone to avoid.

But she had been wrong about this, she told me: It was now plain to her that I was a person with great reserves of feeling and insight. She did not ask my forgiveness for this brutal misjudgment. Instead, what she wanted to know was—why had I kept that person she had glimpsed in my essay so well hidden? She confessed something of her own hidden sorrow: She had never been beautiful and had decided, early on, that it therefore fell to her to “love the world twice as hard.” Why hadn’t I done that?

Here was a drunk white lady speaking what so many others over the years must have been insufficiently drunk to tell me. It was the key to many things that had, and had not, happened... If you are a woman who isn’t beautiful, it is a social reality that you will have to work twice as hard to hold anyone’s attention. You can either linger on the unfairness of this or you can get with the program. If you are an Asian person who holds himself proudly aloof, nobody will respect that, or find it intriguing, or wonder if that challenging façade hides someone worth getting to know. They will simply write you off as someone not worth the trouble of talking to.

Having glimpsed just how unacceptable the world judges my demeanor, could I too strive to make up for my shortcomings? Practice a shit-eating grin until it becomes natural? Love the world twice as hard?

I see the appeal of getting with the program. But this is not my choice. Striving to meet others’ expectations may be a necessary cost of assimilation, but I am not going to do it. 

Often I think my defiance is just delusional, self-glorifying bullshit that artists have always told themselves to compensate for their poverty and powerlessness. But sometimes I think it’s the only thing that has preserved me intact, and that what has been preserved is not just haughty caprice but in fact the meaning of my life... In lieu of loving the world twice as hard, I care, in the end, about expressing my obdurate singularity at any cost. I love this hard and unyielding part of myself more than any other reward the world has to offer a newly brightened and ingratiating demeanor, and I will bear any costs associated with it.

The first step toward self-reform is to admit your deficiencies. Though my early adulthood has been a protracted education in them, I do not admit mine. I’m fine. It’s the rest of you who have a problem. Fuck all y’all."

So Many Things to Love, Part 2

Well, it's June. And I live in Belmont (which is not too shabby) with Steph (who is pretty fancy and fab). But I realized I have been neglecting loving things since my move. Well, let's say this... one thing I DON'T love is moving. I hate it. HATE IT. HAAAAAAAAAATE IIIIIIIT.

But on to more positive things...

1. Riding my bike.

God, I love that bike. Even when I am riding up a hill and want to die there is a part of me that is still having fun. Riding a bike reminds me of being a kid (which as you all know is my life goal: to be as childish as possible while still paying my bills). I even looked online to see if I could get handlebar streamers for my bike. No lie. I didn't purchase them. But I thought about it. I also have a really great helmet. 

I look cool, right? Don't even answer. I know I do.

2. Saag Paneer

I could eat this everyday for the rest of time. And I mean everyday. One time I had it for at least one meal a day for 6 days. And I didn't get sick of it. Also, I love rice. Especially basmati rice. It's so nutty. I recently discovered that you can buy the TV Dinner version of Saag Paneer at Trader Joe's. You better believe I have at least 4 of them in my freezer at all times. This leads me to my next love.

3. Trader Joe's

It is here I must confess I f*cking hate Whole Foods. 

Because it is pretentious. Whole Foods is still a chain. Whole Foods is still big business. Now, of course, there are certain things I can only obtain from big businesses (i.e. my face lotion, my soy free meatless crumbles, and, apparently, taco shells), but I do so begrudgingly. I walked into Whole Foods to purchase the aforementioned list of goods just the other day. It was really crowded. And everyone was all clean. And I was super sweaty from riding my bike and had helmet hair. I enjoyed being in that big, clean place all gross. I might have bumped into people on purpose. I might have even considered peeing in one of the aisles just to see what the pseudo-crunchy, pretentious, Whole Foods shoppers would do. I didn't. I purchased my items, rubbed my sweaty armpit on some lame, hetero-normative douche-ster, and then went across the street to Trader Joes.

WHERE ALL IS BEAUTY. Trader Joe's are always smaller and hence more manageable. I am pretty sure TJ's is still big business. But they feel... I don't know... less antiseptic. Their produce isn't great, but their prices make up for it. My boxed Saag cost $3. The people who work at Trader Joe's are always nice. Normal people can shop there. I feel it is free of pretention. And their employees wear T-shirts with flowers on them. I like flowers. When I moved into my new house, Stephanie had left me flowers in my room. Isn't that nice? She is nice.

**Addendum - I know a lot of my friends shop at Whole Foods. Know that I am not talking about you when I talk about pseudo-crunchy pretentious Whole Foods shoppers. Know that when you shop at Whole Foods  you up the coolness of their clientele by a million. The. End.

**Second Addendum - I just realized there are some redeeming aspects to Whole Foods. They do sell some local fare, which I appreciate. And you can get grass-fed beef there. And they sell freshly baked sprouted grain bread which is SUPER DELICIOUS. So let me rephrase. I only sort of hate Whole Foods. And I think that is mostly cause it is so expensive, and I feel like good, clean food should be affordable for all people. EVERY PERSON should have access to it. It is ridiculous to me that good food in this country is only available to those of a certain socio-economic class. Ass. Okay. Done for reals now.

4. The Civil Wars

They. Are. Awesome.

And also I have those shoes.

If you are a little gay for Joy, don't worry. You aren't alone.

Woody's Grill and Tap

So, I moved to Boston in 2004 to attend the Boston Conservatory (of Ass). No lie, I hate that fucking place. But it was worth it to give them slightly less than a billion dollars in order to meet some of my favorite and specialist people in all the world.

My Soul Twin

My Biscuit

My Jan

Well, tonight the four of us are meeting at our old grad school stomping ground, Woody's Grill and Tap.

Woody's was the first place I ever drank green beer. It was in the alley of Woody's where I first smoked some "funny stuff" (as Dee would say). It was walking home from Woody's where I first realized that when I drink too much I fall over. Oh the memories.

Drunk Memory 1:

 So we had to be in choir in grad school, and because I was KIND OF a diva (can you imagine it? Me self-centered and dramatic?) I kind of hated it. So the night of one of our concerts I got all dolled up and met some friends for pre-concert drinks (4 drinks to be specific). When I stopped by my house to pick up my music, I thought, "I'm not wearing enough teal eye shadow." So I put on more. This was the result.

HOT.

Drunk Memory 2:

My first year at Tanglewood my dear friend Gretchen was a piano teacher at BUTI. One night, we walked from her house to a local bar, got plastered and then walked back. On our way back we laid on a stranger's lawn because the stars were just so beautiful and quoted the e.e. cummings poem "i carry your heart" ("this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart"). Then we went back to her house, and I fell asleep in her bed. I had a dream that I was in a very ornate bathroom in a Chinese garden. The bathroom was painted red, and there were ferns everywhere. I REALLY had to pee, but I just couldn't. When I finally did, I woke up and realized I was peeing myself. In my friends bed. Great. Luckily, I didn't pee very much. It only got on me, not on her bed. Is this too much information? Probably.

There is no picture to accompany this story. You're welcome.

Drunk Memory 3:

When we would get drunk, my friend Joel would always try to make out with me because it made me so amazingly uncomfortable. He would also speak to me in Italian. If I was as smart then as I am now, I would've just called his bluff and made out with him, but alas. Live and learn.

To bring it full circle, grad school was not any less fun because I can't remember half of it. And though I don't drink hardly at all anymore, I am glad I got to get drunk and stupid while I could. I am also glad that, bearing in mind all the ridiculously stupid things I did while drunk, Soul Twin, Biscuit and My Jan are still my friends.

Holla, bitches!

Brussel Sprouts

Hi friends. It's been a while. I could waste time apologizing but I have too many feelings for that.

Oh man. Even looking at them makes me salivate. You cut those babies in half, olive oil, garlic, sea salt, roast that crap in the oven, DONE. Last night my friend Nicole (Empress of All Things Awesome) made two large dishes of brussel sprouts. I almost pooped my pants I was so happy. And she sent me home with some of those little nuggets of joy.

Since it's been a while, I would also like to share that I love this man:

OK. So he's a douchebag. But I can't stop listening to his new album. I actually think it has improved my self-esteem to listen to it, because sometimes, while listening to it, I imagine I am black and that has always been my dream. I maintain I was born the incorrect race. So, while listening to the album I imagine I am black and that makes me feel better about myself.

 While I'm on the subject of being awesome and African-American I'd like to discuss this woman:

She is the best singer on Glee. Yeah, Rachel is good. But Mercedes is better. And she has gotten the SHAFT this season. She sang that Florence + the Machine song this week (which, BTW, if I had a blog of things I thought were all right but felt slightly indifferent towards Florence + the Machine would be featured) but come on! Give the girl something she can sing that crap out of, for Christ's sake.

Also, what's with her not getting a boyfriend when EVERY OTHER GIRL on the show has one? I think Ryan Murphy is a size-ist. I think Mercedes doesn't have a boyfriend because she is big. But this blog is not called, "Things that Piss me the F*** Off." This blog is not called "Rant about TV shows that I love cause they have singing and dancing and in the first season were awesome but now are slightly mediocre and are terribly written and have plots that make no sense." This blog is about things I love.

So I will end on a happy note.

The Empress of all Things Awesome got a pole in her apartment. Like a pole-dancing pole. And she swings around it like a sexy monkey. And when my shoulder gets better, I am going to learn how to swing around it like a sexy monkey too. And then I am going to invite Mercedes to come swing around the pole with me. And Dee's manatees. And Dee and Heather in their wetsuits. And we are going to have a sexy monkey party. And Nicole aka the Empress of all Things Awesome will make us all Brussel Sprouts.

IT HAS COME FULL CIRCLE.

Lattes

Real people drink coffee. People who have jobs and contribute to society. People who don't have trouble waking up before the sun comes up. People who know how to change tires and fix the dryer. People who don't giggle at the work "caulk." People who really just like flavored milk drink lattes. People who like to waste money going to Starbucks, Peets or City Feed and purchasing a $4 drink, they drink lattes. And sadly, oh so sadly, I am the latter.

I don't like coffee. When I say, I really need some coffee, what I mean is, I really want a latte. Don't be confused. When you are drinking coffee I might say, "Wow, your coffee looks great." But that is only because you look so cool. 

Jan pretty much always looks cool, but she looks PARTICULARLY cool when she drinks her iced coffee. As a side note, Jan also has fixed our bathroom doorknob about 9 times. Which only further proves my point about coffee drinkers and their work ethic.

When my Hetero and I worked about 10 feet from each other (Dickens was thinking of this specific year when he wrote, "it was the best of times, it was the worst of times." Yeah, that's right. Eff you, Pip. And yes, I know that quote is from Tale of Two Cities not Great Expectations, but how often does a person get to flip Pip the bird?) we got lattes everyday (Biggest. Waste of Money. Ever.). Now, Penny is one of those miraculous people who loves lattes AND coffee. This is why she is my hetero. She is COMPLEX. 

Are there lattes in those red cups? Maybe...

Anywho, we would get lattes every day, and usually one of us would cry. Mostly about work. And then we would go to Dunkin Donuts and get these

which at one point was only 3 Weight Watchers points, but one day, mysteriously, ballooned up to 7. I want to know what exactly they changed about the donut that doubled its caloric value. So this donut was $0.79. But everytime we got a latte, it was probably $4.00. Cause Penny and I are both lactose intolerant and had to drink soy milk. And then, in order to save the environment, we had to get matching reusable travel mugs. I mean we HAD to. TO SAVE THE ENVIRONMENT. We gave so much freaking money to Starbucks I'm pretty sure the two of us singlehandedly paid the salary of our favorite Barista, Doug, whom we affectionately called, Douggles. 

Also, Penny made me a special Starbucks card. 

It says, "Coffee Breaks are like a day at the beach."

So what is the point of all this, you ask? 

I love lattes. I also love fruity girl drinks that taste nothing like alcohol, small dogs that fit in purses, poofy skirts, sparkles, the color pink, and holding hands. And yes, I wasted a lot of money at Starbucks, but hanging out with my hetero for 30 minutes a day every weekday, was worth it. 

That is all.

Pie

When I wed I will have one requirement and one requirement alone of my man candy: that he bake me pie. 

 That's what I'm talking about. 

Oh, Ned the Piemaker. You are so dreamy.

Now friends, Pie is the perfect dessert. You can pretty much have any type of pie. Fruit Pie. Cheese Pie. Fluffy Glorious Meringue Pie. Pudding Pie. Meat Pie. Nut Pie. Squash Pie. Now I don't want to be the fat kid here, but I will eat ANY. TYPE. OF. PIE. God. They are all so perfect and delicious. If I could, I would eat pie everyday. And regardless of what my dearest KelKel says, I would eat it each and everytime warm, with vanilla ice cream. The kind with the little black specks in it.

One time I was at the farmer's market with a dear friend of mine and we saw a dude who looked like this man

standing behind a large table COVERED in pie. I jokingly asked him, "Did you make all these?" He sheepishly responded, "Yes." To which I not so jokingly said, "Will you marry me?"

Okay. So I didn't actually say that. But I did become so enamored of the Kevin Youkilis look-a-like pieman, that I stalked him every time I went to the farmer's market, so in love, that I could never actually speak to him or even buy a pie. Sad for my heart and my stomach indeed.

But this is why I am now going steady with this woman.

Do you see what she's holding? Oh yes. That's a HOMEMADE APPLE PIE. She woke up super early to make it. And though she probably was actually thinking of this woman when she made it

I still got to eat it. 

And it was amazing. Duh.

If my boyfriend ever asks any of you about advice in terms of what engagement ring to get me, tell him, diamonds are whack. I want a pie.

OK? OK.