100th Post

Hooray!

And what better way to celebrate than with fun links and a pretty new header?

The beautiful header is courtesy of Jen who lives approximately 6,431 miles away (I looked it up because I'm a medium-sized nerd) on the world's teeniest island in Japan and yet still had time to whip it up for me. Gotta love technology. I'm also going to enjoy telling people who compliment it, "Thanks. I got it from someone in the FUTURE." Like Marty McFly sent it to me or something. Sometimes that 16 hour time difference really comes in handy (in case you were wondering, the rest of the time it bites. Stupid Air Force).


That's her in the blue at my Dynasty birthday party last October. (And that's me in the black in my oldest sister's prom dress. Jealous?)

If you're wondering about the confounded blond chick in the header, you need to consult your Classic Film dictionary. That thing she's staring glumly at is a 'typewriter' and I feel your pain, Jean. Writing is such a little bitch sometimes. And it's just my luck that I can't seem to do anything else.

Egregious Sin About to Happen

In blog world anyway. See, I was toying with this food blog for a while but I got bored with it. I love food and cooking and blogs about food and cooking but I just don't have any interest in taking pictures of food I've made and that whole sharing recipes thing. Too lazy. I'd rather be eating. So the whole sweetly conceived idea kind of fell apart.

I have a point, I promise and I'll get to the Blog Sin part. So, I checked out Decorno's new food and diet blog Vodka Has No Carbs and I just can't get into it. And I was trying to figure out why I couldn't and how I could best explain my own relationship with food these days, when I realized- I'd already written the whole damn thing on my now defunct Food Blog.

So, yeah. I'm repurposing it here. (Cause I'd like to keep the piece, especially once I hit the all-too-scary Delete Blog on poor little Buona Forchetta). Begging your forgiveness.

PS I do occasionally repeat posts with my other blog but that's for work and I'm very tired and nobody's reading it anyway. ;) Keep my secret, will ya?

Oh, GIGI (originally written February 21, 2008)

If my life were a movie and Food was my costar, this would be the "Gigi" moment. I am standing in front of a chocolate fountain, just now coming to terms with something I think I've always known, deep in my heart (which, incidentally is as chubby and warm as I am). Food and I were meant to be. Who cares if Food is only, like 16, and when you think about it, it's kind of gross (wait, that's the real "Gigi").

We started out as friends, Food and I. Things were good. Hell, I'm Italian. Things were great. Then I was ten and things got a little too...out of hand. Basically, Food knocked me up. And I've been carrying that extra twenty lbs all my life to prove it. The combination of sheer appetite, hormones, too many fashion models and typical emotional stress resulted in fifteen years of a silent war with my own body. And when I mean war, I mean WAR. Full-out bloodshed. Endless casualties. Spielberg couldn't film this stuff.

It was my pop-culture-societal-values sodden Brain versus my Body and Food was the weapon of choice on both sides. Like in ancient Greece, if the God of War first instigated a battle and then turned himself into rocks and swords. I would parry with Weight Watchers and those 100 calorie snack packs. Detox juice diets. Two hour long gym sessions. Crying in dressing rooms. It would hit back with chocolate chip cookies and cream sauce. Talk of thyroids. A bag of fucking Baked Lays.

Up-down, flat-flabby, back and forth, day in and day out until fifteen (Jesus) years had eked by. And what was left? I know how many points are in a piece of pizza (7). I know how many calories I can burn when I run 5.0mph for 12 minutes (178). I know my highest weight (172) and my lowest to date (150). I can't remember all the nice things people have said about how I look but I remember all of the bad things, every single one. If you like I can reenact them for you, starting with the horror of a particularly gruesome moment in 7th grade that still makes my chest hurt (Let's not and say we did. Ever).

And now I'm 26. And I should not be this tired. But I am- I am more tired than a woman of 50 after an All-You-Can-Eat turkey buffet at the Sizzler. One day I woke up and thought, "How nice it would be to be released from this WEIGHT- not my own weight but the weight of thinking about it all the time. ALL THE TIME." Measuring and counting and weighing, hedging and guilt and agonizing. Not to mention how tired you get of thinking about yourself so much during the day (which is kind of funny considering how much I blog).

I never want to count another calorie in my life. I don't want to weigh a piece of chicken ever again. The next time I do a calculation in my head it's going to be so I can figure out the interest rate in my savings account or if I can afford a pair of Joe's Jeans, instead of whether or not I earned a cup of fat free ice cream at the end of the day.

I wanted to think about something else. I HAVE to think about something else, anything else. Forget my body- we need to start talking about my life now. I needed to get one before it got to be too late.

Thanksgiving passed, Christmas passed too. I dabbled with Weight Watchers one last time but my heart wasn't in it. I can kill at WW when I put my mind to it- I have the discipline of a drill sergeant, plus I LOVE making lists of things. And those public weigh-ins are fantastic motivators. The problem is I get bored eating the same things all the time. And I think, quite honestly, I really just hate being told what to do.

I was flying back to LA (which is itself a problem, when you feel like the largest person in a city that stretches 30 miles wide. 'Image' is King here and 'Thin' is its Queen) and was wasting time in JFK before my flight when I saw French Women Don't Get Fat, a simple blue book in the bookstore. I would've bypassed it, it wasn't the first time I'd seen it sitting around, but the line underneath it got my attention hard. "The Secret of Eating for Pleasure."

Pleasure. Eating. That sounded...familiar. I tried to tap into what my body was recalling without me and soon realized what it was...taste. I vaguely remembered taste. Something to do with salt and pepper? Right? I'd been dulled by too many years of fat free cream cheese and Jello snack cups.

So I bought the book and read it and I can tell you right now, it's not for everyone- nothing is for everyone. I told my friend about it but she'd already bought and read the book, said she did the Leek soup thing (gross) and the make-your-own yogurt thing ("Do you want to buy my yogurt maker?") But it spoke to me and not in a fad-diet sort of way- it was offering exactly what I was looking for- a way to love food and eating and not turn into one of those women who has to be airlifted off a couch. Or worse- to avoid finally hit my goal weight, only to find a life where I'm forced to maintain it by sucking down diet pills and limp McDonald's salads. Those women are incredibly grumpy. I want to be happy.

I'm a good student, I always have been. I do as I'm told because it's easier than it sounds- I avoid processed foods as much as possible (if it has more than two chemicals in the ingredients, I say no thanks- as much as I can. I mean, I did just eat half a Twix bar at the office. I'm not made of stone, people) I eat foods that are in season because, surprise! They taste better. I chew. I appreciate.

And I can cook now. What a surprise that turned out to be. I used to be a terrible cook, even with my distinguished pedigree (Hi Mama) I would try too hard while preparing for a dinner party and come up with something that was a passable mess but never as good as I imagined it would be. But I read something in Mireille Guiliano's book- it said that when you cook with the best ingredients you can find, failure is almost impossible. You'd have to be some kind of sadist to ruin it. So I tried it. I went to the Farmers Market near my house. I sprung for the $4 a box chicken stock instead of the old Swansons cans. I made Provencal Soup, Wolfgang Puck's recipe, because the ingredients are seasonal for winter.

It was so good I almost burst into tears, right there in the kitchen. I made something that I actually wanted to eat, even savor. It was FUN. I didn't hate myself afterwards. The only thing I counted was what's listed on my measuring cup. Who knew a person could live like this?! You know, other than the French.

Which brings us to where we are today. I cook as much as I can. I go to the Farmers Market when I can but I don't kill myself over (which is lovely and not a chore at all because it's outside and the insane Santa Monica people are fun to watch, elbowing people aside in their Pucci and flip-flops, pushing $1,500 strollers) Otherwise there's my favorite local supermarket (Pavilions- they are so sweet and friendly there, I swear to God. It makes such a difference) I cheat when I have to, ingredient-wise, because I am not made of money and my $30 a week budget was starting to suffer, though not as much as I thought it would but still. I am a single working girl (I've since upped it to $40 which has surprisingly made a big difference).

The only times I really eat out is when I know the place is going to be GOOD. When I eat something cheap and crappy, my taste buds betray me and let me know, "Yo, this is cheap and crappy." I ate a bowl of Instant Oatmeal the other day and could just taste the chemical sweetener. Gross. I couldn't even finish it.

I eat slower, I chew more thoroughly. Some of the French Women stuff doesn't work for me. Like "light candles when you eat" and "don't do anything but EAT". Sorry, sweetie, I'm an American through and through. I'm going to eat while I read a magazine or play Scrabulous on my computer during my lunch break. Or a book. Or watch TV. Or, you know, talk to another person. Crazy pants.

As for going to the gym, I go occasionally when I need to work something out in my brain. That's when I work out the best anyway. But I don't kill myself about it. I take the stairs at work, four flights a day- sometimes twice a day. It's a little thing but it's a difference. I walk in the morning. I sleep late when I want too.

For the first time since I was a kid, my body and I are at peace. My friends asked me what my resolution would be for New Years and I said, "I'm not going to treat my body like a whore anymore. I'm going to treat it like a princess." No more punishments, deprivation, counting, weighing, obsessing. That time is over. I've stayed a 10 since this started and I actually think I might be a 9 now. But if I'm the same? The truth is I've started to like the fact that I'm a 10. Remember when Bo Derek was a 10? When frat boy idiots judged girls and held up signs rating their attractiveness? A 10 is hot. My curves ROCK. I'm not 102 lbs like my best friend but I don't think of us in those terms anymore- I could shrink down to 102 lbs (and subsequently be hospitalized) but she'll never be tall (love ya, Vic, but it's true. I mean, we live together. I have to see you in a bathing suit occasionally. For the sake of my mental health, I only think of your appearance as Short now. I know you understand.)

Plus, it'll be nice to think about someone else for a change. Now that the guilt is gone and the war is over, there's just so many more hours in the day to devote my brain to things endlessly more worthwhile- like the people I love and the shenanigans they get themselves into. How I can help. How I can make them, and myself, laugh a little more every day. It's not the world and it certainly don't look like France but it's not a bad start either, if I do say so myself.

Things That Are Awesome

At 5:33 on a Wednesday... and every other time for that matter.

One Other Thing Before I Go

Can I just mention how supremely irritating it is that I can't buy Bob Seger's "Hollywood Nights" on iTunes?

Supremely. Irritating.

I'm posting this here, now, so it's there when I need it like RIGHT NOW. God. Take me out of this godforsaken place, Bob.

Blog Glee

I'm sitting in my office right now, it's 9:15 at night and I want to go home but I haven't hit my two page quota for my novel and I'm stuck in a serious ditch here, people, for real. The kind of creative anguish that comes when you know exactly where you're supposed to go and for the life of you, you just cannot get there. At this point, I couldn't write my way out of a paper bag. I can't even think of a better metaphor.

Otherwise known as the Dread Middle. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, let me just tell you that it royally sucks. I mean, I stayed, I'm sitting here alone in a dark office and I have nothing to show for it today but two wasted hours, one measly, greasy page of text I'll probably chop in editing, and a few dozen movie trailers I've watched online to get myself back into the mood. (PS The summer movie situation isn't looking so hot. God, I'm such a sad sack right now. Sorry.)

Having said all that and thus whining enough to fill a full glass, can I just say that there is quite possibly nothing that could have made me feel better than to get two of my favoritest blog-treats ever, which is 1) the world's sweetest mention on my friend Jen's own fantastic blog, Sumeba Miyako, including bringing up my short and oh so sweet brush with Internet fame this past summer. Even though she's only been blogging for a few months and is such a natural at it that I sometimes get the urge to hurt her.

AND a comment from a Blogger I seriously love and read every day. Petunia Face is awesome, in case you're slow and/or have not yet gotten the memo (my friend/coworker Michael is also a fan and it's almost impossible to tear him away from Facebook and TWoP so that's a serious endorsement there) and I think with these two little pieces of blog-heaven, I might actually be able to tear my ass out of my chair now. Thank God for that. I'm starving.

Oh, Mickey

There are two types of people in the world- those who love Disney World and those who have been sucked of all joy and child-like wonder and instead prefer to sit back, roll their eyes and say smug, cynical things like "I'd rather have a fork jammed in my eye repeatedly for twelve hours than go there." These are the people who jump to tell you that Disney World is a terrorist's dream. And remind you how much money you'll spend to stand on line for hours on end with hordes of screaming, sweaty children.

To which, your only recourse is to nod politely and tell them they're absolutely right while inwardly feeling deeply sorry for them, because they don't get it and they never will and there's a loss there that they cannot possibly fathom, that they don't even realize has taken place.

I'm not immune to Disney's trappings- the endless lines, the price gouging on bottled water in 90 degree heat, the strategically placed souvenir store at the end of the ride. I don't turn a blind eye to any of it. But I get it. In fact, I was a pretty skeptical kid- my mom says that I used to just stare at the characters, studying them for inaccuracies, making note of their shoes and their hands and those little grates where the person inside can see out. I'd wonder out loud why the Easter Bunny was wearing sneakers and what was he doing in the mall anyway? Things did not get past me then. So, when I say I get it, I mean I understand even more than my child self.

My niece is four and she's at the age where she believes, whole-heartedly and without a doubt in her mind, that the real Cinderella lives in this magic place, that her tall, blonde, immaculate princess-self is standing there in the flesh, just wrapped her arms around her and signed her perfect signature in the little pink book that bears her likeness. When Piglet turns the corner, her eyes widen and I'm so lost in her reaction, that for a second it IS Piglet, straight from Pooh Corner and the books in my old room. I'm almost as giddy as she is.

People talk all the time about the maniacs at Disney, how they're practically Nazi Generals when it comes to their staff and rules. I don't doubt it. But you know what? It works. From the time you step off the tram from the parking lot to the moment you pass back out through the wrought-iron gates, every single employee you pass says hello. They smile and you smile back. They wave from their golf carts as they putter by and you wave too, even though you'd look at someone like they were deranged if they tried that with you on the street.

You walk in and you're struck by the sheer brightness of Main Street. It's just as clean and white-washed and gleaming as you remember, with the kind of colors and charm right out of Burt's street drawing in Mary Poppins. There's music playing everywhere, songs you remember and your niece is singing along too, every word just as familiar to her as it is to you now. You're not distracted by people arguing, trash on the ground, graffiti, teenagers taunting people and snickering, because none of that is happening. Road rage does not exist in this place. As crowded as it is, people say "Excuse me" and pat you on the shoulder if they're come too close to your feet. They're just trying to get a look at that castle after all and who can blame them? Every princess fantasy you've ever had, even when you were older and caught daydreaming about the very real Prince William (it was always Harry for me), this was the castle in the back of your mind. Tall and blue and perfect. I didn't even post a picture of it, because the one in my head is so much clearer.

And by the time you've taken in as much as you can with your eyes and your stomach is full and your feet ache and the sky gets darker and the fireworks start, there's one last hit- right to the gut. Forget who you are during the day- swearing at traffic, stuck in an office chair all day, listening to the same pop songs over and over, complaining about bills and learning about who's health is failing and what's on your to-do list- it's gone, it disappears as soon as a singular glow of perfect, yellow light shoots across the sky, right over your head, right to that castle, into your past when you yourself were only four and you believed in fairies. Of course you did.

It's cheesy, sure, but these days you'd be a fool to turn your back on it. I say, take the magic where you can get it before it disappears for good.