The Blahs: Mid-Winter Edition January 22, 2008

It happens every year around this time. I should be surprised that I am surprised.

Everything - from the sky to, you know, life - starts to take on a grey pallor.

There is much to be excited about: Eli Manning finding himself at just the right moment, visiting Molly in three weeks, nearly-done Save the Dates, receiving mock-ups of invitations very soon, the realization that it is possible to re-fall in love with your fiance, as insane as that sounds.

But, really, all I want to do each and every day is put on my sweatshirt and the sweatpants M hates so much (splattered with bleach, ripped, unflattering, more comfortable than anything I own) and curl up in bed and drink hot chocolate and not have to talk to anyone.

I don’t know what has gotten into me. Things that were once shiny (even you, blogging) are now dull. Unappetizing. Unattractive (to borrow from Sandra Day O’Connor because, why not).

I blame the bone-chilling cold. The kind that makes me shudder when I even think about leaving the office to get lunch. So, I skip it. Or I forage around in a drawer for some cashews, an orange. Anything to stop the hunger.

Oh yeah. About that.

I’ve taken on “healthy” as my new word of choice when it comes to eating (I know! I’m such a pioneer!). I’m trying hard to eat 1200 calories a day and abide by this rule: “eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants” (credit: In Defense of Food). Some days it seems like an insurmountable number, impossible to attain. Other days, it is a drop in the bucket and I feel I could eat 1200 calories before noon.

I’m working out. I’m drinking water (and peeing. Often. So often that it is getting embarrassing because I work in an open-plan office and, yup, the tall girl with the long hair is going again). I’m doing what “they” say to do so that I don’t, you know, either die or binge my way through life.

It’s working. Kind of. I have headaches, which is annoying, and the bitch that lives in the back of my mind is still hanging out, stilettos on, slim legs and arms crossed, look of disdain, all “you are fucking eating too much. Stop it. Stop it now.” I’m learning to drown her out, mostly with some Kanye or Eminem as I commit to a treadmill for forty minutes or more. I picture the endorphins I get from exercising lobbing spit balls at her and it spurs me on.

Oh. And (raining, pouring, etc.), I recently found out that the Almighty New Job with Old Boss that I was supposed to start in two weeks has been put on hold. Except, um, I already quit my current job.

Sometimes this industry makes me want to throw things. Things like daggers, straight at the chests of a few suits in Los Angeles, whose whims we are at the disposal of.

In a word: blah.

I’ll get over it. But right now, I’d really like the sun to come out and play. I’d really like to have a job in a few weeks. I’d really like to have an epiphany about food and eating and be cured. I’d really like Heath Ledger not to be dead (wtf?). And I’d really like my new shoes to arrive so that I can coordinate a “meet Molly” outfit around them.

This is not turning into a disordered eating blog. I promise. January 10, 2008

This is something I wrote for myself, before I had the balls to publish my post about my sporadic bouts with not eating. Writing “fiction” helps me process things; I don’t know why I don’t do it more often.

She writes; doing something with her hands keeps her from picking at her nails.

Truth: keeps her from moving anything into her mouth.

A fiancé who doesn’t know means that there are Doritos on top of the fridge and cold pizza within it. They taunt her from the other side of the wall and she wants to eat them, to shut them up. And then vomit, to shut herself up.

Fuck you, cheesy gordita crunch. Fuck you, anyone who can go to Taco Bell and enjoy a meal and not give it a second thought. Fuck you, fiancé, for being one of those people.

It’s the hunger. It makes her mean. It makes her not want to be touched. It makes her scour the internet for information about whether or not she is killing her metabolism and thus will have to eat nothing forever.

She pictures her metabolism, grey and empty and parched. The fire has burned down to ash. It coughs, looks up at her with weary eyes. Pleading eyes.

“Please ma’am.” She hears Oliver Twist, British orphan, and laughs.

Thinking about how she got to this point is not original.

In short: girl goes to college; girl meets unlimited buffet at dining hall; girl gets fat; girl learns from other girls the tricks of the non-eating trade as college girls do, late at night, in darkened dorm rooms, with Guster on the stereo. Cue the rollercoaster.

It’s such a cliché, but one she is not fully ashamed of. An eating disorder, she thinks – as an image of Posh Spice flaunts itself in her mind – is decidedly more glamorous than, say, meth.

“You’re glamorizing an addiction,” the therapist that lives inside her head says. “Just like Hollywood glamorized smoking. Just a fresh coat of paint on a rotting wall.”

Rotting. That’s kind of how she feels, especially without the energy. Without the muscle tone. Without the zest that comes from being a fully fed adult.

“Just another few weeks,” she tells herself, like the heroin addict who wants “one last hit – a big one” before rehab.

Another few weeks and then what? And then I’ll eat like a normal human being? And then I will extend the olive branch to food and we will live in perfect harmony? She pictures herself skipping down the street, hand in hand with a Twinkie. Cowboy hat and all.

She’s in her own head a lot these days.

On the messageboards (and there are always messageboards), they say that drug addicts are the lucky ones. They don’t have to “redevelop” a relationship with drugs. They, technically, can survive without the subject of their addiction.

“We,” writes SexyRexy129, “do not get that choice.”

She eats exactly two dried cranberries and then immediately searches the internet for their calorie content.

And so it goes.

Exposed. But it’s okay. January 6, 2008

I feel exposed. Which is normal, seeing as I revealed a side of myself that I had really only hinted at previously.

I feel a bit embarrassed, too, but that’s okay. That comes with the territory of admitting that you are far from perfect; that you sometimes fail at something that is so…primal.

On Friday I was sitting at work thinking about how I should post something but I couldn’t stop thinking about food long enough to come up with anything. Instead of writing, I went onto a recipe website and stared at a photo of mac and cheese and literally - literally, people - had to wipe a bit of drool from the corner of my mouth.

And then it hit me (I’ve never been incredibly quick on the uptake) that, um, I should probably write about not eating and all that comes with it: the emptiness that can feel almost like a high, the panic attacks I have in the middle of the night because I’m afraid I’m going to die, the lies, the 300 calorie days, the breath.

And so I did. And so you commented and emailed. And so you said amazing things that made me feel warm and bubbly and most of all safe because I have the best freaders (friends + readers) ever.

I drew strength from every comment and email - every word of support, every “I have been there too” or “I am right there now.” Essentially, I drew from you the strength I did not have.

Because, you know what? Sometimes we project our ideal selves on blogs because that’s the easiest thing to do. Being a better version of yourself is easy on on a blog; you can depict the bits and parts of your life that are awesome and leave out the shit.

Except that I knew that leaving out the shit, in this case, would just make the shit worse. Not writing about the shit would allow it to linger inside, taunting me. The shit tends to do that. And if you let the shit do that, it will build and build and build until you no longer have any control of it and your hair is falling out and you’re too weak to get out of bed and life has lost all of its sheen.

I’m better now. Not well, but better. Not eating as I should be, but better (as in, I’ve had a salad today. Yes, just a salad but it’s better than nothing and I ate almost the whole thing). It takes time to talk myself down from the ledge, to pull myself from from the wreckage of disordered eating, to sit down and have a talk with myself about what’s really going on and how what’s really going on is not related to the size of my thighs.

As for telling M - it is rational for me to tell him and rational for you all to want me to tell him. But I’m not rational when I’m in it - when I’m secretly writing down every calorie I eat, down to the piece of gum, when I am drinking water until I feel like vomiting just so I can attempt to feel full, when I know I should stop but also know that another week or two will allow me to drop some more weight - I can’t think clearly. I’ll tell him, when I’m ready. In fact, we had a roundabout conversation about it just last night and that’s about as close as I can get right now. I don’t know how to explain it and thank god for those of you who have said “we know why you’re not telling him” because you’ve been where I am and you know what it is that I just can’t articulate right now. I can’t articulate it to anyone, except semi-anonymously on the internet.

After a particularly ugly bout with this earlier in my life, where disordered eating and I went a few nasty rounds (where was my blog then, dammit!), I now know what I need to get everything under control when it starts to slip from my hands but before it is completely out of reach. It took a long, long time to get here but the fight was worth it, as you can imagine.

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. Thank you for, as I emailed cdp or Peter or maybe both, making me feel less like I was floating in the middle of the ocean in the dark and more like I was in a crowded room, with outstretched arms and warm smiles.

What you’ve given me, I will never forget.

Note: For any of you who have struggled or are struggling with disordered eating, reading www.goodwithcheese.wordpress.com will make you feel even less alone. If you’re anything like me, you’ll find yourself nodding, crying and trying not to think “she exercises so much; maybe I should do the same to lose more weight” because it’s not about picking up tips, Clink, it’s about not being the only one to go through it and, hopefully, to get out of it also.

In happier news: Woo! KLC! I can’t even deal. Go congratulate her, even if you’re really not supposed to “congratulate” a bride. It’s supposed to be “best wishes” or whatever but hey, I’m pretty sure either will do.

So… January 4, 2008

I haven’t been eating much these days, mainly out of sheer will.

I got drunk on a glass and a half of wine last night; my sushi remained largely untouched.

I tell myself that it’s just “detox” from the holidays, but I know better. I know that this is the start of something that can wreak havoc on my life if I don’t get it under control.

And if I can’t post about this? Then the entire blog is a whole lot of bullshit because this is what’s going on in my life right now.

The wedding planning is fine. Things with M are wonderful. My family is fantastic. My career is about to turn in a whole new direction if I can just wait one more month. My new clothes are adorable. So are the boots I’m wearing today. My friends are lovely. I’m excited about politics again for the first time in a long time.

But I’m not eating. And that trumps all.

I’ve been saying my stomach hurts so that M doesn’t suspect anything when I don’t want dinner.

My breath stinks. It’s what happens if you don’t eat. I’ve gone through packs and packs of Trident.

I’m lethargic and snappish.

My eyes glaze over at work, to the point that I have to go out and get a coffee (black) so that I don’t fall asleep.

I go to sleep early to ignore the rumbling in my tummy.

It’s all there. It’s something I haven’t truly dealt with since before M and I got serious, and I’m not entirely sure what prompted it.

The wedding? Upcoming trips to Vegas and Hawaii? My grandmother saying that the skirt I was wearing the other day looked a bit tight? The need to control something?

My parents have a friend who is a therapist and I usually call her in times like these and she usually kicks my ass back to reality. I’m going to pick up the phone as soon as I hit publish.

I guess it’s a bit weird for me now that I’ve gone from anonymous to semi-anonymous. It’s hard to write posts like these because I’m afraid I’ll be judged.

I’ll probably be judged either way, but that’s ok. This is me, and if anyone has gone through this or knows someone who has, I guess I just want you to know that you’re not alone.

It can’t be just me, right? December 3, 2007

There are certain things I’ve experienced in my life that I want to protect my as-of-yet-imaginary daughter from.

First and foremost is, of course, struggle with body image. Which, yeah, hi, good luck with that Clink.

It’s near impossible. In fact, I don’t know a single woman - not one - who doesn’t have a problem with her body, whether it be forty pounds of extra weight or a small chest or hammer toes.

Women like to whine about how men have done this to us. They’ve gone and created unattainable standards that no woman can live up to and…well, you’ve heard the arguments. Hell, you probably wrote a paper about them in college.

I’ve found that it’s women who are harshest, however. No man has ever made me feel bad about my body; a woman has the ability to do so with just a look. Women can be brutal, usually as a defense mechanism against a society that intertwines beauty and self-worth so carelessly.

We judge the heavyset girl eating the hamburger.

We judge the size 00 eating the salad.

We judge. We compare. All the time.

I’m guilty of it. I’m guilty of seeing those photos of Jennifer Love Hewitt’s ass in a bikini and feeling smug and superior; I mean, come on, never in a million years would I have thought that my ass would look better than Ghosty McWhisperboobs.

It was when I showed the pictures to M and he commented, a bit bewildered, on my unbridled glee that I sobered up and realized that I did that thing. The thing that I hate. The thing that frustrates me most about this thin-obsessed society.

I reduced another woman down to nothing but her body.

Sometimes it feels as if being thin trumps all else - success, compassion, intelligence. You could arrive back home, having brokered peace in the Middle East, fed all the starving children in third world countries and also had the time to create a billion-dollar internet start-up, but if you got fat during your time away, you will be nothing more than fat in the eyes of your gender. The fat would level the playing field once more as this is a culture that worships at the Temple of Thin.

Maybe I’m being harsh. Maybe I’m just being pessimistic, having read this post on Jezebel about people calling Nigella Lawson fat, claiming she promotes an unhealthy lifestyle by cooking and - GASP - eating food that actually has calories.

Because, you know, god forbid a woman eat anything more than a stick of celery, lest she be labeled as unhealthy or lacking in self-control.

This isn’t an anti-thin post. Or a pro-fat post. It’s an anti-bullshit post. An I-wish-we-could-all-love-ourselves-for-who-we-are-kumbaya post.

Your size does not equal your worth. Size 2 does not equal perfection just as size 22 does not equal failure.

Only you can determine what you as a person are worth and whether that worth is based on more than the number on the inside of your jeans that no one else sees.

The rest of it - especially the celebrities and the Tinseltown obsession with thin that has trickled down to us mere mortals - is just noise.

All of these words are born out of a frustration with myself, I guess. A desire to love my body as is, instead of constantly feeling as though it’s not good enough. A desire to view other women for who they are, not what they look like. And vice versa.

I hate the way I’m wired, sometimes. I hate that when I am in the company of women who are bigger than I am, I feel automatically confident. I hate that being around someone thinner brings out the judgmental bitch in me. Also, the insecure bitch. Sometimes the depressed bitch.

I hate that I notice.

I hate that flipping through a Victoria’s Secret catalog makes me want to skip dinner. And breakfast. Lunch, too.

I hate that I watched the BBC documentary Super Skinny Me - about two journalists who try extreme diets for five weeks - and took mental notes about which diets worked and which didn’t. I mean, fuck, one of the journalists developed a fucking full-fledged eating disorder and I was still all “but she looks great.“

We’re all fucked, I guess. We can blame it on men, on “society,” on other women, on ourselves. It doesn’t matter who got us to this place; what matters now is how we’re going to get out of it.

I guess I’m just hoping that this shit all works itself out before I bring another woman into this world.

Confession. November 19, 2007

I bought Spanx. Kind of by accident.

I was in the Bloomingdale’s hosiery section, having wandered away from M, who was in the process of choosing a winter coat in the men’s section. I can’t really shop with M as we take an opposite approach to spending money: I am impulsive, I go with my gut, I am able to make a decision on the spot (despite my usual Libra indecisiveness); M is a researcher, a comparer, a “let me think this over” shopper and hi, I have no patience for that.

So, the hosiery section. I was browsing the tights as I am currently on a bit of a tights kick (note that I said tights and not stockings because stockings are evil, the end).

I noticed a girl in the Spanx section. She was not what I would consider a traditional Spanx shopper (as in, isn’t Spanx for older women and not, like, taut twentysomething blondes with perky asses?) but there she was, stocking up.

She noticed me noticing her and the Spanx, gave me a confident smile and said “I’m obsessed.”

“Oh really? I mean, I’ve heard of them. I’ve just never…”

“Omigod. Here. This.” She handed me something called Higher Power. “It whittles your waist, your ass, your thighs…I mean, I don’t know where it all goes, but hey. I can fit into pants two sizes smaller when I wear it.”

And that’s pretty much all I needed to hear because did she just say two sizes smaller? As in, I could be a size two without stapling my mouth shut and spending eight hours on the elliptical? Sign me up.

I made the purchase quickly because, let’s be honest, even if a pretty, blonde, twenty-three year old stranger admits to wearing Spanx, it’s still kind of embarrassing.

I have yet to try them on. They’re still in the packaging, hidden in the bottom of my “work out clothes” drawer. I am still not convinced, though they may be dug out for wedding dress shopping because, well, you know.

I really should just get my ass to the gym. I should stop eating chicken parm for lunch (but! But! It made me feel better about being at work on a Sunday, after having been at work on a Saturday!). I should hunt down my former healthy habits, wherever they may be hiding, and force myself to get reacquainted.

In a way, I feel like I’ve let M down a bit. I know that sounds crazy.

When he met me, I was about fifteen pounds lighter than I am now. I was a bit of a stick, I’ll admit it, but I was a hot stick. The gym was my home away from home and I had trained myself to not even crave unhealthy foods, that’s how rarely I ate them.

And then it all went downhill as it does when you’re in love and happy and eating like a guy.

I don’t look overwhelmingly different, but someone who sees me naked everyday would definitely be able to notice a difference, as opposed to someone who only sees me clothed. I’m a bit soft where I used to be muscular, a bit filled out where I used to be svelte.

I know M loves me for me. He always tells me that I’m sexy, that I’m hot, so this is definitely the insecurity talking. But he fell in love with a skinny girl and now he’s marrying a not-as-skinny girl and I wonder if he’s disappointed. Like I faked him out.

I’m overreacting (today’s special: a SHOCKER!), I know. I guess I’m just disappointed in myself that I even bought Spanx, that I am so lazy that I would rather put on a body shaper than work out my young, lithe 26-year-old body and make it look the way I want it to look.

Maybe those $34.00 Spanx should just go unworn.

Clink, get your ass to the gym. Enough with the shortcuts.

Unbalanced. October 16, 2007

I tend to live in extremes; I don’t think I’ve ever really grasped the concept of moderation:
 
I’m either at the gym for two hours a day, everyday or I don’t go at all for weeks.
 
I either turn casual “shopping” into a full-blown “spree” or I don’t purchase anything.
 
I either heavily restrict my calories to the point that maybe it’s not so healthy or I eat like a five hundred pound trucker at a roadside diner.
 
There’s really no in-between or if there is, it doesn’t last long. I’ve had a resistance to balance for most of my life and that’s something that I am desperately trying to overcome, especially when it relates to my eating habits.
 
Food and I? We have a shitty relationship. I am either in love with food to the point of stuffing myself long after I’m full or food and I go on a bit of a break and I only eat enough of it to live. For example:
 
On a day I’m not eating:
 
Breakfast: A coffee, if that. (Just recently I’ve tried to incorporate a bowl of cereal or oatmeal to get my metabolism going and so that I don’t overeat later. So far, so good.)
 
Lunch: A piece of fruit. A few almonds. Half of a Lara bar if I ate the other half for breakfast. I pull the “I’m too busy for lunch” card out entirely too often.
 
Dinner: A small salad. Or a bowl of cereal. Or a piece of grilled chicken. Sometimes nothing but a Diet Coke.
 
On a day I’m eating entirely too much:
 
Breakfast: Bacon, egg, cheese on a roll. If I start my day out with this, it’s all downhill.
 
Lunch: Pizza. Burrito. Huge-ass sandwich with chips. Something equally unhealthy and gluttonous.
 
Snack: Chocolate or chocolate chip cookies or maybe both. Plus ice cream.
 
Dinner: Usually at a restaurant and usually a pasta of some kind. With bread. Naturally.
 
See? See why I’m a freak? I can’t just eat in-between. It’s either eat a ton because I figure “eh, my day started out with a bacon, egg, and cheese, there’s no use trying to redeem myself” or barely eat. And I’m sick of it.
 
So I’m curious as to what you (yes, you!) eat on a typical day. Tell me how you balance, tell me how often you indulge and how often you restrict, if ever. (Also? The fact that I even feel comfortable asking this? Reason #14,673 that I love blogging. So please don’t ruin it for me and criticize. I have delicate feelings.)
 
Reading your responses will hopefully give me a sense of what’s normal, juxtaposed against what I do, which is not. And hopefully, I can learn a thing or two and food and I can finally reconcile.
 

Sunday: A photo essay September 16, 2007

I’m writing this on Sunday, because I won’t be in the office tomorrow, because I’ll be out doing something all important-like for my job and please take a moment to say a little prayer that I don’t royally fuck it up and expose myself for the fraud that I am. (Does anyone else feel like a fraud at their jobs? I keep waiting for them to expose me, because I can’t clearly be deserving of the money they are paying me and the title they have bestowed upon me…can I?)

No, they’re not from the Hooters next door because Hooters has many things but good wings is, sadly, not one of them. That Hooters has good wings is a tragic popular misconception:

 

 

 

“Oh, I’ll just have one.” One or, you know, seventy bajillion. Also: Coke Zero is the nectar of the gods, and that bowl came from Ikea, and I heart it with the heat of a thousand suns:

 

 

 

At least there were wings to bring me joy because the Giants certainly didn’t bring me any after getting crushed by the damn Packers:

 

 

Oh! And the living/dining area is starting to come together. You’ll notice that there are no more boxes in this picture, only M’s couches that I am learning to live with and M himself, reading the paper in his beloved lazyboy. Yukka plant Huey makes a cameo in the corner:

 

 

 

 

Yes, we still need a table. Yes, I am very picky. Yes, I arranged the chairs around a fake table. Yes, I am crazy.

 

 

 

I got the urge to bake. (Not shown: the other two trays.) The apartment still smells like chocolate chip cookies. My mouth is happy even if my thighs and my ass are all “fuck this bitch with her fucking cookies.”

 

 

 

 

Oh and my toe! Remember? From the other night? When the god damn toilet paper holder fell on it? It’s healing quite nicely:

Things I can’t imagine my life without. And other stuff. Because it’s Friday. September 14, 2007

Hi there Friday. Welcome. I’ve missed you. In fact, I’ve been thinking about you all week.
 
We have no plans this weekend. I just checked my planner to make certain because I have a habit of sometimes thinking my schedule is free and clear and then, oops, um, shit, we have a wedding to attend. Five states away.
 
But no weddings this weekend. No anything, except for the Interpol concert tonight. Excuse me while I do a little dance at my desk because think of the possibilities: the cleaning, the gym going, the cooking an elaborate and healthy meal while wearing an apron and heels.
 
Or, um, the lounging around in my underwear until five in the afternoon while watching an America’s Next Top Model marathon. That too.
 
Last night, M and I went out for a kick ass dinner that cost about half of our rent but good lordy sometimes it’s nice to have perfectly cooked steak and expensive wine and your napkin folded for you the minute you get up from the table to go to the bathroom. I almost had a heart attack when the bill came (entrees started – STARTED – at $45), but M paid for the entire thing because he rocks. And also, I haven’t gotten paid at my new job yet.
 
Afterwards I watched Big Brother. Rather, I watched most of Big Brother on fast forward because I couldn’t bear to listen to the gloating and I won’t tell you whose gloating it was just in case you haven’t watched it but let’s just say that they suck. Especially her, with the whining and the waifness and the WHINING.
 
Somehow – through my anger and yes I get very angry at television and yes I should probably see someone about it – I remarked to M that the DVR is probably the one thing I would grab in a fire, for that is how much I love it so and we don’t have any pets so it’s not like I’d have to worry about saving a living thing’s life or anything.
 
I seriously cannot live without my DVR. I can’t imagine a world without DVR. I can’t imagine a world with commercials or being tied to a schedule. DVR has changed my life.
 
It got me thinking about just what else I can’t imagine life without and so – since it’s Friday and the creative part of my brain has a big Gone Fishin’ sign up – I’ve compiled a list. The list only includes material things because, um, it pretty much goes without saying that I can’t live without M or my family or my friends.
 
-Curling iron: I know, it sounds ridiculous, but my curling iron has changed my life. Okay, okay it’s changed my hair but if you’ve ever had a bad hair day you know just how much your hair can affect your life. My hair is not the kind of hair that dries perfectly straight or perfectly wavy or perfectly curly right out of the shower. It needs to be prompted in a direction and the direction I am most fond of is soft waves. The curling iron helps me achieve that look on a daily basis and if it weren’t so covered in product, I would kiss it.
 
-Fine point Sharpies: Yes, I have a favorite type of pen. And no, I will not write with anything else. My handwriting has always been good but there’s something about my handwriting via a Sharpie that makes me so very happy.
 
-MAC Refined Golden bronzer: I haven’t been to the beach this summer. Please reread that last sentence again if paralyzed by shock. My toes? They have not felt sand. Or the ocean. Or a melted popsicle I accidentally stepped in on the boardwalk. This makes me sad. It also makes me pale. So it’s – dun dun da da – Mac to the rescue, as usual. Just a touch of refined golden on my cheeks and the tip of my nose and my forehead and yes, my chin makes me look like a normal human being with a slightly faded tan as opposed to a pale hermit who hasn’t left her apartment in decades because the government!Is out to get me! I know it! I should put another bolt on the door.
 
-My navy blue hoodie: Putting it on is like getting a warm hug from an old friend. No matter how much my weight fluxuates, it always fits perfectly. No matter what I’m doing during the day on a weekend, it’s perfect to throw on. I heart it and will probably wear it until I’m 102 and it has so many holes that it looks like swiss cheese and M will think I’m insane but he probably thinks that anyway.
 
-Chef’s knife: I watch a lot of cooking/chef shows. I also recently read Anthony Bourdain’s book and he said that the only knife one really needs is a chef’s knife. And since I equate Anthony Bourdain fairly closely with God Himself, I do as I’m told lest I incur the wrath of the tall, skinny, silver-haired bad boy of chef-dom. I use the knife for everything – seriously everything. Even when a less sharp, less large knife will do. It also serves double-duty as a security blanket when M’s away. I can sleep with it on my nightstand and in the event of an intruder, it will jump to life and defend my honor and then dispose of the body. Because it is magic.
 
-Newsies: It’s a VHS, perhaps the only one that has survived multiple moves. That’s because I just can’t part with it. Whenever I’m feeling sad or sick or just slightly bored with everything on TV, I pop in Newsies because Newsies makes me happy and I know every word and when I was younger I even made believe that I was a newsie and my name was Kit and all the other newsies were in love with me. It broke my heart recently to read that Christian Bale was kind of embarrassed about the fact that he was a part of the movie. Christian Bale is now on My List.
 
See? It doesn’t take much to make me happy. Some beauty tools, a comfortable sweatshirt, something sharp and a musical about singing newsboys.
 
I’d love to know what you can’t imagine your life without. Please share. There’s no judging here (hello, I just admitted that I watch Newsies. A lot.)

Please note: I am very busy. Hence the bullshit below. September 6, 2007

The status of all the major things in my life, in list form and yes, I apologize for this bullshit entry and yes, I think you should leave a comment urging M to GET ON VERIZON so that they SET UP OUR INTERNET so that I can BLOG FROM HOME and not have to PUT UP BULLSHIT POSTS: 

Apartment: Sigh. I heart. I just wish M would be a bit less methodical about his unpacking because damn it the boxes! THE BOXES. The boxes of bullshit. If there are two things we have learned about each other throughout this experience it’s that I never throw away clothes or shoes or bags and M never throws away receipts or pay stubs or ANYTHING ELSE MADE OF PAPER.  But at least my five/ten/fifteen year old shoes, clothes and bags are PUT AWAY AND NOT SITTING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE LIVING ROOM. On the upside, shredding is fun!  

Relationship: It’s weird how this move has affected us. For about a week, up until yesterday I’d say, we were much less affectionate than usual. Probably because we were too damn tired to do anything except wave goodnight to each other and turn off the light at the end of the day, but still. It scared me.  I began to overreact (me? No! NEVER.) I began to worry that we would become like roommates. It’s gotten progressively better, we’re starting to settle in to both our place and our old selves. Has anyone else experienced that while navigating the shitstorm that is moving in together? Please say yes. It will make my delicate little feelings happier.   

Operation Buff Bride: You have no idea what I ate last night. I went to dinner with a foodie/wine snob friend of mine and I left the restaurant with my bank account one hundred dollars lighter. We started with goat cheese profiteroles and delicious crusty bread. We split two entrees – rock shrimp risotto (hi, Heaven, I’m Clink. Nice to meet you) and seared tuna with a parmesan crisp disc-like thingy that was clearly created by God himself. We finished the night with a dessert smorgasboard – one of everything on their dessert menu in a smaller size than normal. There was: blueberry crumble, a Nutella-filled éclair, crème broulee, chocolate mousse, tiramisu mousse, a lemon bar and a fudgy chocolate square. Oh, and we finished two bottles of wine. I asked the waiter if he would be kind enough to roll me out of the restaurant; he thought I was kidding. Clearly, I am not exactly on track. Also, $100? EACH? ON ONE DINNER? (*Looks at bank account, sobs*) 

Job: Love, love and also love. My boss is seriously a shorter, blonder version of me. We’ve been going out to lunch and discussing our men, our weddings, the fact that we both want to lose weight before dress shopping. The job itself is a dream. I wish I could say more but I’ll leave you with this tidbit: the job makes me hungry. Like all the time.  

Blog: Neglected, clearly.