How Do I Say This...?

I've noticed a new trend in Feminist writings (and, remember, I am one with a capital F), that I find rather concerning. Of course, talking about it will surely make me unpopular. But, so what? Popularity has never been a concern of mine.

There seems to be a new wave of encouraging women to feel good about being heavy, while condemning other women for being thin. Some of the encouragement I've read borders on bullying. It doesn't make sense to me. The assumption is that heavy is normal, while thin is forced. As a woman, I find that somewhat offensive. We are still attacking each other, still trying to define what is right and wrong. After all this time, is this where Feminism has gotten us?

Let's be honest: People who are severely overweight typically don't feel good, physically or emotionally. Ask someone who's lost a lot of weight. I get being supportive of women accepting themselves for who and how they are. I get being against the rail-thin models and the airbrushed magazine covers. What I don't get is the fact that we aren't talking about being our best, about caring and respecting ourselves enough to eat well and exercise, not because Madison Avenue or Hollywood says we should, but because it's good for us.

You know I'm a big proponent of health care reform. But I know that starts in our shopping carts. Let's start pointing the finger at how we eat instead of what we see on TV, magazines or on film. Back in the 80s, we were made aware of anorexia and bulemia and how widespread they were. Those are terrible eating disorders. But so is constant bingeing on sweets and processed, high-fat unnatural foods. Overeating is as dangerous and deadly, yet we are silently accepting it as "normal".

Somehow, it's acceptable to say, "Ick. You can't expect me to eat rabbit food my whole life," like fruits and vegetables are the enemy. Or "Exercise? I don't want to get all sweaty," like it's cute to be that much of a princess. But it's not acceptable to say, "I'd like to lose ten pounds." Immediately, you are diagnosed with either an eating disorder or a poor self-image, obviously warped by some gossip weekly. Because, somehow, women still can't make up their own minds. We are so weak that we are easily guided by glossies. We see a starlet who is a size 0 and we must be a size zero, too. Or, we are thin because we want to live up to some male fantasy. Skip the bread basket and you are accused of being a carbophobe instead of getting a back-pat for avoiding white flour. To me, it's nonsensical.

As women, we should be at a point in society where we have the right to accept who we are, or change who we are, as it suits us. Hopefully, that acceptance or change will always be in a healthy manner. Of course, sometimes it's not. Sometimes we are trying to live up to a fantasy. Sometimes we are starving ourselves to death. Sometimes we are eating ourselves to death. But the fact that we are still being told what is "normal" is nutty.

This rallying cry to celebrate obesity is as dangerous as championing anorexia. Yet, why don't we see that as such? Whether the medical issues are showing or not, we know being severely overweight is not healthy for the body. And there are a lot of unhealthy people dealing with this. Weight gain and loss is just simple math. But, for it to be blown out of proportion in either direction, that speaks of issues deeper than one too many pieces of pizza. It's easier to stay as we are than it is to change, but that doesn't mean "acceptance" is the answer. I would rather women respect and care for themselves enough to be the best they can be than accept where they are. Shouldn't we care enough to feed our bodies the healthiest foods out there, move our bodies so they stay nimble and strong, and look inside to find out what makes us tick than to merely accept things as they are? To paraphrase the Serenity Prayer: Change what we can, accept what we can't and have the wisdom to know the difference between the two.

It's not society that makes us feel bad about ourselves. Media is not to blame for a poor self-image. Women aren't that weak. This is 2009, after all. We are in charge. Everyday, we make choices. Some are good for us, some are not. Each day, we get to make new choices. We can repeat our mistakes or go a different route. The only thing we should utterly accept is responsibility. There are always reasons for why things are the way they are, but we should know by now that if we want a happy ending, we need to write it ourselves. And, when it doubt, edit.

Cancer Is Fattening

There's just no way around it: Cancer is fattening. Or chemo is. Well, mostly spending a week with a friend going through chemo and trying to keep her weight up is thigh-widening. Fabulous, but fattening nonetheless.

It's really not Joy's fault. I mean, she didn't force me to eat the (organic) cookies or the soy/flax chips (with guacamole) or the shrimp burrito or to choose pasta for every dinner...but the one that involved fish and chips. At least she and I split that. It's not her fault I couldn't say no. No. But it's not like it was a level playing field. She gets the bonus of having a tiny appetite (chemo bonus?). I have the appetite of an Olympic athlete. If only I trained like one. Which is the other problem: Chemo and cardio don't really go together. Throw in a shot of Neulasta (to help her build T-cells) and you have bone pain on top of fatigue. So, a few laps around the block weren't really going to happen. Not like I couldn't go on a walk by myself. But that's so not the point. The point was to spend quality time with my friend going through the cure. And so I stayed by her side...and went toe to toe as we snacked my butt into oblivion.

Laughter might well be the best medicine, but it is total crap at burning calories. Seriously. Because we laughed a lot. A lot a lot. Not even Percocet could dull Joy's sharp wit. We were doubled over, catching our breath. And that requires a good deal of ab work. Shoulders, too. But I saw no results, other than laugh lines.

You would think that waking up at seven each day to help with Laddy's breakfast and make his lunch would help burn some calories, too. Nope. But I suppose I didn't have to eat the cut off crusts on top of my toast. Not literally on top. You know what I mean. The way-too-basically-simply idea of putting them into the trash didn't sit well with me. Thanks, mom, for tattooing all those starving kids in China onto my brain. Food guilt is child abuse, people. Piggyback rides and park playing aren't calorie busting either, FYI. But, it is fun.

My dieting discipline was something I seemed to forget to pack. Breakfast consisted of carbs. Lunch consisted of carbs. Dinner consisted of carbs. Dessert, well, that was chocolate, and that is God's gift to us. But it's full of carbs. And a bit of fat, too. That's not to say we didn't eat healthy. We did. But Joy can't have too much fruits or vegetables because her digestion is a bit sensitive. Sure, I could have gone to the store and bought some, whipped them up on my own. As a matter of fact, I did go to the store. A few times. And I made dinner every night. But that extra effort of chopping and washing and steaming...what was the point? I was only going to be there a week. We all deserve a little break, right?

Justifications must be full of carbs and calories, too, because when I got on the scale after returning home, I found four (FOUR!) extra pounds. Feck. Okay, I've already lost two, but I'm grounded until the rest are off. No more cookies or chips, and chocolate is to be used for medicinal PMS purposes only...and only in moderation. Control, people. It's a choice.

In spite of the pounds, I wouldn't trade an ounce for a moment with Joy, her hubster or adorable son. And let me tell you about how great my friend is:

A week after what we hope is her last chemo treatment, her hair is starting to grow back. You heard me. This after two IP chemo treatments as well. This coming from a woman who was moved to Stage IV. By the way, once they mark you at a stage level, they don't downgrade you. Sure, we know the statistics of ovarian you-know-what (that's the only C word I truly hate), but Joy is the fluke. Statistically, she shouldn't have gotten it. So, screw statistics. She is already thriving. She's one of the healthiest people I know. And I'm looking forward to the days when we are old ladies, doubling over laughing and wetting our Depends.

Lick It

On Tuesday nights, I go to a Toso and chant with a group of fellow Buddhists. I know. You aren't supposed to be spiky or opinionated when you're a Buddhist, but I like shattering myths. Besides, it's my karma. And I've got a lot of it to work out. There are times I think I'm working off stuff from a future life along with the stuff I accrue by the minute. I know. What the hell do you care what my religion is, right? Seriously, do we all have to announce our religious and political affiliations all the time? (I'm a Democrat, by the way.) I usually only mention that I'm a Buddhist because of the bitter irony. (And, after two years of chanting, I'm still spiky and opinionated, but more aware of it.) Buddha rocks the humor, though. Like ninety-eight percent of his statues and other likenesses have him smiling/laughing. The rest, he's totally Zen.

Anyway, the Toso starts at seven and goes on to eight-thirty. If I'm not careful, I can easily miss the right time to have dinner, and then I'm left to grab grub way too late to be eating, especially when it comes out of a bag (because I'm so not going to cook at nine o'clock at night).

Theoretically, I'm on a diet. Usually, this means that I'm steaming up green veggies and eating tofu and brown rice. Right now, it means I'm having a green tea soy latte for breakfast, eating organic raisin bran cereal for lunch and having a Boca burger on Ezekiel bread for dinner. Not because I'm test driving an eating disorder or anything, I'm just really not in the mood to cook, I'm tired/lazy, and this menu gives me the illusion that I'm kind of being healthy. (Let me enjoy the denial/delusion at least until I catch up with work.) I am for sure getting my fiber, though.

Sadly, I had run out of cereal, and I'd had the Boca for lunch. Sigh. Going off to chant without dinner isn't fun. So I swung by a Starbucks for a half-calf soy latte to tide me over. Only problem was, they accidentally gave me real milk, which gave me a mild asthma attack about fifteen minutes into the Toso after only a couple of sips (and, yes, I did think to myself, Hmmm, this tastes a little off). Chanting while wheezing is totally good times. (I did go back to that 'Bucks and got a kindly refund, and a coupon for a freebie. See why I can't stay off the sauce?)

After leaving the chant and returning the tainted latte, I was starving and exhausted from trying to breathe. And so, I went to the Baja Fresh on the corner of Lincoln and Wilshire to get two shrimp tacos. Kind of lo-cal/healthy, right? (Go ahead, lie to me. When I'm on a diet, that's the only time I want to be lied to.)

As I was walking toward the entrance, I looked into the car making the corner and heading toward me, and saw this chick in the passenger seat licking the seat belt strap. I stopped in my tracks and took a closer look. Yep, she was licking it. She stopped when we made eye contact.

Can anyone tell me why someone over the age of three might do that? She was definitely over twenty and looked like a typical local collegiate. Seriously, WTF?

I lost my appetite for about five seconds, then recovered. It had been a long time since lunch. As I stood waiting for my tacos, I recalled another weird sighting I had a couple of years ago, and a reminder of why you really shouldn't look too closely into nearby cars when you are in L.A. (or Santa Monica, which I was technically in at the time). You never know what you might catch a glimpse of, and the EEEWWWW! factor it might bring.

Click here if you care to join me for a stroll down that memory lane.

Thimples

My mother has a set of Shirley Temple dimples. When I was little, people always looked at me with disappointment when I smiled. "Oh," they'd say. "You didn't get your mother's dimples." Once I hit college, I could reply, "Oh, yes I did." They were simply on my thighs.

It's been an ongoing battle smoothing those ripples. I got to the point a few years ago where they were almost nil. I was living on the South Beach Diet, working out at the gym like a madwoman, burning 1,000 calories on the treadmill at a time, and slathering my thighs with Neutrogena's Anti-Cellulite Treatment twice a day. That seemed to be the right combo for my DNA. I was confident sitting down in short skirts or wearing light twill white pants. I didn't even cringe under the lighting of changing rooms. It was a glorious summer.

Then I went on a two-year writing binge, stopped exercising like a madwoman, would be lucky to burn 1,000 calories per week on the treadmill, had to bail on South Beach (you can't have copious amounts of artificial sweeteners with an inflamed stomach lining, nor should you when you are trying to eat all organic, and effing Stevia hasn't gone mainstream...thanks for nothing, FDA), and I can only find that Nivea stuff on the shelves. It seemed I had found the perfect cellulitic storm of writer's lifestyle, age and genetics. Something had to be done.

Not to be catty, but when Jennifer Love Hewitt tried to tell the world that's what a size 2 ass looks like, I had to cough out a bullshizzle. Try multiplying that by four. For a second, I thought someone had sold them a shot of me. But then I remembered I haven't been to Hawaii. To put it mildly, I'm no 2. It was a sad day at the Gap when a 6 didn't fit, and I used to be a 4 there. With a heavy sigh, I bought a bigger size. I knew there was nothing I could really do about it until I finished the book and the writing on my to-do list. My discipline only stretches so far. Now that it's done, I've gotten a bit more wicked with my diet (food will no longer come delivered in white paper bags). I'm back to a 6 now, and I've accepted that, until I can find two hours in the morning for the gym, I won't see a 4 anytime soon.

When I saw the photos of Mischa Barton sitting at a fashion show the other day, I again had a flash of, Is that me? Outside of the cankles, those are my legs right now. All of a sudden, I've gone lumpy. Something is definitely amiss. This has only happened once before when I went on the wrong Pill. Practically overnight, my breast grew a cup-size and small curd cottage cheese moved onto my thighs. I was okay with the boobage, but there was no way I would tolerate the rest. I went off the Pill immediately and both side effects went away. Unfortunately, I cannot blame oral contraception this time. Effing genetics.

Alas, the Nivea stuff just isn't packing the punch I need. For one, it doesn't have that tightening tingle that both the Neutrogena and Clarins creams provide. That's the caffeine, crucial in the fight against thimples. Nivea lacks that, and their L-Carnitine can kiss my cheeks. I've gone to CVS, Walgreen's and Long's, but no one has the damn Neutrogena. Haven't in ages, and I will not drop $75 on the Clarins. It works miracles, but I'm in a bit of a cheap phase right now. Instead, I did something I'd rather avoid at all costs: I shopped online.

About the only thing I buy online is music (but iTunes is a quick in and out). Occasionally, I'll purchase a book over the internet, but would much rather wander the aisles and annoy clerks by asking them to help me find a book that I inevitably end up standing next to when I finally request their assistance. Outside of that, I like to walk into a shop and get what I want or need. I'm a tactile individual. Keystrokes just aren't enough. Netflix is something I only recently warmed to, and that's because I absolutely loathe video stores (I had a traumatic experience working at one my first year of college).

As luck (and logic) would have it, I found the Neutrogena miracle cream on several sites. I hesitated for a moment, noticing the company did a packaging re-design. I don't trust that. But, I got over it. I even got over my cheap streak and bought two bottles. Sometime within the next five-to-seven business days (still too cheap to spring for overnight shipping), I'll starting feeling the the cheese melt. Let the smoothing begin! In the meantime, it's back to being a madwoman. At the gym at least.

Off the Vagon

My vegan life lasted 33 weeks and three days. Well, technically, I suppose when I realized that denouncing leather was also part of the pact, I really didn’t get past day one. And then there was the cake clause, which I realized was beyond hypocritical (like a vegetarian who eats fish). There weren’t going to be a lot of birthday parties or weddings involving vegan pastry. Cake was going to happen and there was nothing I could do about it.

It’s really not easy being a vegan. For me, anyway. Or maybe it’s being a social vegan that’s the problem. Going out with friends for dinner to any place that’s not vegan-themed (and, let’s be honest, friends will tolerate that on occasion, but their patience with faux cheese and tofu runs out quickly), makes finding something on the menu, that’s sans meat, dairy and egg, generally limited to spring greens and the hummus platter. I could easily dine daily at A Votre Sante, but most of my friends prefer someplace a little less “healthy”.

Being in LA, the finicky palates and restrictive diets brought on by the latest trend are regularly tolerated at most restaurants. Some actually add a small parcel of menu real estate for those of us who skip meat or avoid those pesky carbs. Other establishments figure that if they add a quesadilla or cheese ravioli, they've got their bases covered. Even before being vegan, cheese was not an option. Not with these allergies. Fortunately for me, there’s Hal’s in my 'hood. Hal’s offers the perfect storm for my social life: 1) It’s walking distance from chez moi; 2) It has a killer cocktail menu; and 3) I can get the “vegetarian plate”, which consists of your choice of any four of the “sides”. I always selected the tofu, brown rice, spinach and either the broccolini or asparagus. It pairs nicely with my cantaloupe martini.

I could equally live at Hal’s, and most of my friends love it as much as I do, but sometimes they want to venture out to someplace new. Being a creature of habit, I loathe that. Especially as a vegan, cake eating or otherwise. So many menus had limited offerings of what I could/should eat, and I need a little something more in my belly than lawn trimmings. Salads just aren’t my idea of a dinner. And, as I gazed at the scallops on the James’ Beach menu the other night, I knew my vegan days were numbered.

I’ve been going back and forth about putting fish back in the mix. Mostly because I have fantasies of living in Dublin or Tuscany for a bit and figured I would be a less annoying dinner guest if I at least ate seafood. And, truth be told, I really only love about four vegetables. I tolerate the rest. Friends often encouraged me to go for the scallops, get the salmon. But I was afraid. What if something went wrong? I thought it would be more prudent to do a test meal at home...just in case. I have an allergy to crab (but not any other shellfish...yet), and it hits quick. Cold sweats, stomach cramps and...it’s not pretty. I also can’t eat seabass or halibut; the reaction isn’t anywhere near the crab, thank God. It’s the same as eating raw fish; I feel like I’m digesting glass. Quinoa and pears have to be avoided, too. There is no rhyme or reason to this, I know. It’s all just the fun part of being me. I’ve also come to find that once I take something out of my diet for a length of time, it may not be welcomed back.

I figured the window would soon close and, if I was going to start eating seafood again, I might as well do it now. Being the kind who leaps off the high board and then wonders on her way down if someone did their job and filled the pool, I grabbed the menu for my new favorite Indian restaurant and ordered up some Shrimp Vindaloo. Because of the $20 minimum for delivery, I also ordered the veg curry and some samosa. Go big or go home. And, because I was home, I was prepared for anything.

It’s amazing how little your money gets you when ordering seafood. I dumped the entire contents of the Vindaloo container onto the small serving of rice I doled out on a dish (I’m trying to watch my intake of refined carbs, you know). I ordered the Vindaloo at medium heat, as I like to taste my food after the first bite. And the first bite was delicious. So was the second, third and each one after. I ate every piece of crustacean they put in (which I think totalled six), and when I was done I waited. I waited and wondered what might happen. Was the wheezing that I felt coming on the first sign of anaphylaxis, or was that the whipped cream I had in my chocolate soufflé the night before? (Okay, maybe my vegan stint lasted 33 weeks and two days.) Was the burning in my belly from the intense spices, or was something worse on its way? I ate a samosa and had a small serving of the curry an hour later (I was hungry from skipping lunch), just to see how far I could push it. Another hour passed and it seemed everything was going to stay down. My windpipe would remain opened. My plumbing would not be tested. I would indeed live to see another day.

I woke up with a jolt about 2:30 that morning. For a moment I wasn’t sure what was happening. Then I remembered what acid reflux felt like. Charming. Maybe the Vindaloo was taking it a bit too far. Perhaps it wasn’t the wisest choice for someone with such a sensitive tummy to partake at the same time seafood was being reintroduced to the digestive system. But I’m not half-assed about much. Do or die. Go big or...I took a sip of water, propped up my pillows and went back to bed.

Merriam-Webster officially added the word pescetarian to the American lexicon earlier this month. That’s a vegetarian who eats fish. I always thought that was just someone who didn’t eat mammals or birds. I guess it comes down to what’s the best way to describe the kind of a pain in the ass you are to eat with. I suppose I’ll need to create my own terminology for my distinct lack of discipline. In order to avoid being offered vegetable lasagna at dinner parties or eggs dishes at friendly breakfasts, I’d still rather equate myself as vegan, even if I’m a fraudulent one allowing cod and cake. So, I’d like to coin the term fegan. Or perhaps ficakan might be even a descriptor.

I do intend to be a vegan at least 80% of the time. The tofu still calls. Hal’s will always be home to cantaloupe martinis and brown rice based entrees. A Votre Sante will remain my first dining choice, even if it’s most of my other friends’ last. But, next time I’m faced with the choice of spring greens or hummus, I’ll have the scallops if the mood so strikes. The whipped cream on the chocolate soufflé might have to go, though. Damn allergies.

The Easy Way

I got an email from an Australian friend of mine in which he told me of the skyrocketing price of beer there. It seems the government is trying to curtail Aussie drinking by levying taxes. A case of decent American beer (and I do realize some will call that an oxymoron), costs $60-70 US. Crikey.

While I shudder to think of my martini being taxed, maybe those Aussies are on to something. What if we put a tax on fast food? Look at all the crap we Americans eat, leading us to those fuller figures, health concerns, diseases and all-around cruddy quality of life. What would be so wrong with a trans fat tax?

I can hear you now, ACLU. That would be robbing the people of their inherent right to clog their arteries. I hear others saying it would hurt the underprivileged who are in need of affordable food. And the underprivileged sector is rapidly growing here. We can’t afford gas, we can’t afford our homes, we can’t afford our food...and we can’t afford to keep this up much longer.

Considering where we are at economically, I’ve been wondering how we, the typical American citizens, can turn this around. Or can we? Because the changes required would take massive effort. Then it occurred to me that we don’t like to do anything hard, do we? Perhaps the biggest problem we have in America, as Americans, is that we tend to choose the easy way. Right or wrong, good or bad, as long as it’s easy, quick, less hassle, that’s the route we’ll take. And, who can blame us? We are overworked, underpaid, undereducated, in debt, out of shape, overweight, and in desperate need of a vacation. But that’s also the cost of the easy way of life we strive for.

If we want it and can’t afford it, we charge it. If we are hungry and don’t want to deal with pots and pans, we can drive up to a window and order. If we are done with something, we don’t bother to think about the landfills. And why does one need to recycle when some needy individual will root through the trash to get that nickel? We don’t consider that what goes into our food may not be healthy for us because, surely, the government would never allow something harmful to be used. We don’t bother exercising or eating less because, any moment now, they are going to come up with an anti-fat pill. And, if not, there’s always surgery.

Look at the ads on television today. It’s almost all pharmaceutical. Like a pill or a shot is the answer to all that ails us...then you hear the side effects. I especially like the ones that may cause cancer...or death. It’s nutty. And, with all the controversy over immunizations and the potential (or likely) link to autism, I just don’t understand is this push to vaccinate young girls against cervical cancer. A shot — which may or may not have been researched as thoroughly as it should be, especially considering how it’s going into still developing young females and the few HPV strains it protects against — we are being told, is a good thing and you are a bad parent if you don’t do it. Really? What about giving these girls a shot of awareness, self-esteem and the empowerment to protect their health across the board instead? Herpes, HIV and other STDs are still rampant. Besides, there is another cheap, easy and reliable solution: A condom.

It’s all about choices. And sometimes those choices are simple, yet people feel the need to complicate them.

I had a conversation with a very concerned woman who kept herself up at night wondering about paper or plastic. “Seriously?” I asked her. She nodded. It turns out that she got great anxiety at the grocery store when she was asked that question and didn’t know the right answer. I looked at her, unable to hide my consternation. “How about buying some reusable bags,” I offered. Oh, but she’d just forgets those. No, she would much rather worry than create a solution. Repeat after me: She is sofa king wee todd dead.

Reusable bags are the wave of the future, folks. I love them. I have the fabulous 99¢ Trader Joe’s bags (six of them) and have added two chic Gelson’s bags and a huge Staple’s shopper to the bundle. At first, it was hard to remember to bring them into the store. I would often have to run to my car while the cashier checked me out to grab them. But, now it’s a habit. On the odd occasion when I forget to return the bags to my auto, where I keep them for convenience, I just cough up the cash and buy new ones (hence the Gelson’s additions). And, don’t hate me for saying this, but I think stores should start charging you if you do want paper or plastic. I know, I’m a crazy lady. But what else do you think would entice our society as a whole make that needed change?

I hear you again, ACLU. We have a right to pollute the environment. I get it.

Still, it’s the easy way of doing things has gotten us where we are. And now things are getting harder each day. Change is needed. And I have to make some as well.

While I don’t have a hybrid, I feel I am doing my part by recycling my 2000 Jetta every day. She’s due for service; time for brakes, oil change, etc. The dealership is nice enough to drive me home, but not nice enough to pick me up again when the car is ready. Usually, I politely impose on a friend to fetch me as a favor. This time, though (and for the first time in my life), I’m going to take the bus.

I’m not a mass transit fan. I prefer taxis when I am in New York. I think most Californians have a healthy reluctance to going underground. We also have a bad habit of being alone in our cars when we commute, hence our crappy traffic. And, after having to take the bus to school as a kid, I’ve learned not to like them. Remember the bus from the movie “Speed”? Yeah, that’s the bus line that serves my hood. But, I’m going to suck it up and get on the bus. I have to admit my hesitance. I’m not always excited about the unknown. But finding a way around that will ease some of the burden on traffic (and friends) is something I need to consider.

And now, I’ll get off my soapbox. I don’t mean to bash US. I only wonder when we are going to wake up to our complicity and responsibility. Because until we make changes, big changes, things are likely to get much, much worse. And the biggest change we need to make is to get really pissed at our government for putting the rights and profits of corporations ahead of its citizenry. But, fortunately for them, they know that we are too overworked, underpaid, undereducated, in debt, out of shape, overweight, and in desperate need of a vacation to really take them to task. They have it easy.

And So It Vegan

It was my last Thanksgiving. And on Thanksgiving, you expect tradition. The bird. The stuffing. The yams. The pie. We had all that and then some. I had waited to go vegan until the day after Thanksgiving because my friend had threatened me with Tofurkey. Instead we had Turducken. I’m still not sure which is scarier. In case you aren’t familiar with this “delicacy”, it’s a boneless concoction of a chicken stuffed in a duck stuffed in a turkey. I stayed on the “tur” side of things, enjoyed the vegetarian stuffing my friend made for her daughter, downed heaps of the roasted vegetables, and savored a slice of pumpkin pie. It was enough.

“Why?” was the question most friends asked about my veganism, especially when attempting to figure out what to serve me at a dinner party, as though I wasn’t difficult enough before. The answer isn’t very direct. I’ve been pondering this since Live Aid. Yeah, that concert way back in the day to end famine in Africa. While waiting for David Bowie to take the stage, little punk rocker me I went into my friend’s kitchen to make a sandwich. As I reached for the bologna, I decided to give up meat. And easy decision in that situation, but my friend and I had been talking about going vegetarian in the preceding weeks. That day seemed to be the day to make that choice, and I had a lettuce, mayo and cheese on Wonder instead. That’s pretty much what my diet was for the next year-and-a-half: meat-free, not vegetable-full. Back then, before you could easily reach for tasty vegetarian fare, there wasn’t much for you but cheese pizza and bean burritos, generally made with lard, which isn’t quite a vegetable. Skipping meat was easy. I remember nutritious cafeteria lunches of yogurt and mashed potatoes. See what I mean?

After eighteen months of not getting enough protein (I was a lazy student who had yet to find love of the leafy greens let alone tofu), I stared at a chicken breast for an hour before I could eat it. Fish and fowl were brought back in to the regime, but dairy was out. It made my allergies worse. Snotty is not just an attitude with me. And so, after my final lobster tail and turkey breast, I said adieu to animal food. It was time to vegan.

Being a vegan today is a piece of cake. Egg- and butter-free cake, that is. But, fortunately, those exist. Friends have worried when they call me up to go out, “Oh, can you eat anything there?” Yep. Luckily, most restaurants have these things called “vegetables” and “salads”. There’s always something to eat if you look hard enough, or order off menu. But, if you think that going vegan means a rapid drop in weight, think again. For, I have discovered in the days that have followed Thanksgiving that you never actually have to eat a fresh vegetable or piece of fruit if you don’t want to.

There are vegan blueberry waffles and soy sausage links to have for breakfast. Broccoli soup puree for lunch with Wasa crackers. A bean and rice burrito, vegan Indian cuisine or a “meat” loaf with mashed potatoes, corn and peas all within two-five minutes from freezer to plate if you are so inclined. There is organic, vegan “Mud Pie” rice-cream for dessert, vegan cookies, and most importantly, pomegranate martinis are vegan, too. And I’m pretty sure a vegan fast food chain is not too far off in the future.

Now, I realize eating that way is not the point of being vegan. But, when you are a busy vegan newbie, it’s easy to fall into those bad habits of yore. There is one vice I have given up: Starbucks. Yes, if your stocks took a dive, that is why. My seven-to-ten ventis a week are now a thing of the past. I’m now enjoying organic, decaffeinated green tea...and a bit more money in the bank. (I still love the Bucks though, and do enjoy a soy hot chocolate there every now and again. A tall, not a venti, sans whip.)

No, this isn’t a sign of the apocalypse, just me trying to grow up more and take a little responsibility for my health and that of the environment. Since I’m not going to be driving a hybrid car for a while, I figured going vegan was something I could do for the green team. Cow farts are really what are destroying the ozone. Our water is polluted by our grotesque animal farming techniques. And if you think the FDA, EPA and USDA really give a shit about your health, remember the amount of feces allowed in your food. Do you like your cow pies medium, or well done?

I’m sure tofu and spouts are sounding yummy now.

The Final Lob

It’s never easy to say goodbye to anyone or anything that has brought joy into your life. The decision to end that relationship or association is difficult and questioning your choice borders on obsession. At the end of the day, you have to go with what’s best for you, no matter how hard that might be.

So, I made the decision to go vegan. Considering I haven’t had red meat in decades, and dairy was reduced to the occasional slice of Brie or random crème brulée, it wasn’t that much further to go vegetarian. With all they pump into poultry, I had been avoiding that for a while. I thought about ditching the fowl but keeping fish in my diet, but with all the crud in the ocean and the grotesque fish farming being done, I realized the futility of that if I wanted to avoid antibiotics, mercury and other muck in my meals. The only thing left before arriving at vegan village was a carton of eggs.

Did you know that “free range” and “cage free” are more or less on the honor system? Did you know that they allow poultry to eat bio-chemically jacked up, not-approved-for-human-consumption grains? And if we really are what we eat, I don’t want to be a genetically modified chicken embryo. But that’s just me.

Since I had already agreed to a Thanksgiving dinner party, I didn’t want to be the “what do we serve her” guest and decided that the day after turkey fest would be my first as a vegan. That also gave me time to say goodbye to some of my favorite foods. Like the crunchy, spicy shrimp rolls at Chaya and my beloved blue-corn-chip-soy-cheese nachos at A Votre Sante (because the soy cheese has casein in it, which is a milk protein, which is non-vegan-friendly). I did not make it to Cynthia’s for her famous fried chicken, or indulge in caviar at Shutters, but I did make lobster, for the first and last time.

I couldn’t really justify the restaurant tab for a lobster tail, so I made my way to the seafood counter at Gelson’s for a nice piece of ass. I don’t care that they are bottom feeders; lobsters are damn yummy. But they aren’t a fruit or veg, or even a whole grain. Alas, my crustaceans days were numbered.

Shellfishly, I opted to have the dinner alone. I wanted to savor each bite, indulge in my gluttony, and cruise through TiVo while I did. I’m really behind on everything. I mocked an old Buffalo Club dish, and poured myself a nice glass of wine to wash it down. And when I was finished, I was done. That was it. The satisfaction of the meal was replaced with ick. At first, I was concerned that I might have poisoned myself. It was my first time cooking tail. Perhaps I made a misstep. But standing over the kitchen sink, wondering if I was going to lurch, I listened to my body and it said she was done. I really just didn’t want meat anymore. I was ready to be rid of it. And that felt good. Now, there was only a turkey standing in my way. And isn’t that always the case?

How to Write a Novel

Writing a novel takes a great deal of work and dedication. It’s not as simple as saying, “I have an idea for a story,” and placing that idea onto paper, or at least the computer screen. No. It takes much more than that, my friend. Much more.

First, you have to mentally prepare. Clear your mind so the story can fill your brain. Repeated viewings of favorite movies assist in this endeavor. It’s sort of a creative meditation, or mental laxative, evacuating all that needs not be in your head. TiVo helps with this aspect of novel writing. I recommend saving on TiVo The Departed (Boston accents are disarming), Infamous (it’s important to see a writer at work) and the guilty pleasure of The Devil Wears Prada (which helps not only to numb creative trepidation, it serves as a beacon of hope — because if that piece of shiction got not only published but adapted into a feature, there is hope for all of us).

Once you are mentally ready, you need to consider what it will take to fuel your creativity. You do have to eat. Stock up on staple items; things that won’t spoil or take much effort to prepare. My favorite staple is a collection of menus from restaurants that deliver. Face it, you aren’t going to have much time or energy to fend for yourself. Crunchy food is a good thing. It helps you to “chew” your ideas. I recommend Baked Lays and Peanut M&Ms. Baked Lays offer fiber. Who knew? And the Peanut M&Ms are low glycemic index. That’s nearly a healthy meal. And your health is important to consider. These items can be procured at any liquor or convenience store, like the one three blocks from me. Walking to get your goodies allows you to combine much needed exercise and fresh air getting. You can also buy a lottery ticket while you are there, because extra funds until that publishing deal comes through will be a boon. The odds of winning the lottery or getting that publishing deal are about the same. Just believe that if you aren’t winning that Fantasy 5, your book deal is waiting.

Soymilk is good for you. Caffeine keeps you peppy. So, you shouldn’t feel guilty about all that money you are spending on your daily 2-3 Venti soy latte Starbucks habit. You can actually see it as a help to those friends who have Starbucks stock. Wine is not only a creative lubricant, but is heart healthy. Yet, if you are going to be serious about writing, Guinness is key. Guinness has spawned many a wonderful Irish tale and is only 125 calories per 12 ounces. How fabulous is that? Granted, the can is nearly 15 ounces, but you are still about 150 calories for a rather tall glass of stout. Watching calories is important when you are writing because not a lot of cardio is involved in the drafting of your tome. Unless you count screaming at the heavens for burdening you with this task.

You will also need to make a personal run to the grocery store for necessities like Charmin, Kleenix, more wine and Guinness. While you are there, get some fruits and vegetables because now is not the time to come down with scurvy. Throw in more Baked Lays, Peanut M&M’s and some cereal and soymilk. Anything you don’t have to cook is a writer’s friend.

You must be disciplined and set aside time each day to tackle the project. The first thing to go is the gym. Staying up late while your creative flames are roaring means that early alarm clock will be beaten into snooze submission. You can’t burn the candle at both ends. The sacrifice is only temporary. And, since you’ve pretty much only been eating portion-controlled amounts of Baked Lays and Guinness, you are doing okay calorie-wise. Throw in a few lunges, some sit ups and push ups in between chapter revisions and you’ll keep some of your tone.

The next thing to go is your social life. You can’t spend that precious creative time trying to figure out what to wear on a night out. Besides, you can’t be expected to get to the dry cleaners and such. You have a colossal undertaking in writing this damn book. Brunch isn’t a weekend requirement anymore. Not even when martinis are offered. Besides, you have Guinness and wine at your house...and Pink Dot on speed dial. You’ve got a job to do. You don’t need any further distractions. And The Departed is on again. That’s a sign from the creative gods that it’s time to “meditate” and hit the laptop.

You’ll also need a creative warm up before hitting the computer keys. I recommend Big Bang Backgammon. You know it’s going to be a good writing day when your Luna whoops that wiseass Sol, making him eat his dialogue-bubbled words.

When you get to about page 300, you will see the light at the end of the tunnel, but you won’t be ready to walk toward it. That’s because you have to go back and fix those first 300 pages before you can write the last 100...or 150 as it’s turning out. It’s a damn drag, but necessary. You’ll get over it. By now, everyone at Starbucks, the liquor store, Gelson’s, Pink Dot and House of Thai Taste all know you by name and/or order. They are ready with a smile and an encouraging word. These are your allies. Tip them well.

You will also need to keep your appointments. The doctor, dentist and orthodontist can’t be ignored. Neither can your roots. A ponytail can only hide so much. You have to keep up your appearance. Never leave the house in your track pants. Change into something more chic when you venture out, even if it’s just for the chips and candy. You can always put the track pants back on when you return. Each day, you will shower. Shaving, however, can be done once a week since you are no longer going to the gym each day and your “service technician” has been put on hiatus until you get the damn book done. It’s all about the sacrifice, people. That’s how great stories get told.

I’m going on month four with this. The goal was to have it done in three. Lofty, I suppose, but I can only keep up this non-exercising, anti-social, take-out way for so long before I lose it completely. Twelve chapters down...three or five more to go. Whoever thought that writing was a walk in the park must’ve been on their second bottle of wine. I’m ready for a pint.