Monday, January 27, 2014

words are important

Even though I'm definitely not recovering from surgery anymore--I mean, I have this low hum of very mild pain and I'm careful about what I lift and all, but for the most part, I'm fine--I do still spend a lot of time doing nothing, which leads to a lot of time thinking. I'm sure I do nothing mostly because it's been really cold and windy and I'm not skiing and Mr. Magoo the dog doesn't really go for walks anymore, so I don't spend all that much time outside. Instead, I sit and think and try not to become a crazy person.

This post, I'm realizing, has nothing to do with exercise or food. Unless we're talking about food for thought.

Annnnnd...I owe a dollar.

Not too long ago, I was reminded of a debate, an argument really, I had in 2006 with a good friend about a certain word and its meaning. I contended that words are words and, although some bite, every word has a reason for its existence. Recently, however, I heard that debated word tossed into a conversation and I had a very different reaction than I did seven years ago.

I still think words are words and we should celebrate both the history of language and the evolution of language, but I've changed my mind on a few things. I definitely dislike certain innocuous words and always will. For me, it's the same as liking certain colors and disliking others. I like blue. I don't like green.

I flinch when I hear the words fridge, din din, hubby, veggies, kiddo, and Taylor Swift. But, I don't get really upset when I hear them.

All right, fine. I just don't like Taylor Swift. I have a feeling if she weren't famous and she were hanging out near me when I was in my 20s, I would have tripped her in the bar. I find her behavior, her posture, her lipsticked mouth objectionable. I'm sure she's a fine woman. No. Scratch that. I'm sure she'll mature into a fine woman. Right now? Objectionable.

I have a running gag with my sister-in-law's kids that the worst sentence in the English language is Taylor Swift saying, "Eat your veggies, kiddo, or they go back in the fridge."

To be clear, I don't like that sentence but it doesn't offend me. I'm not going to be up in arms because Taylor Swift wants me to eat my veggies or has the audacity to call a 45-year-old woman "kiddo."

I used to lurk on a forum to read some comments and threads because the people on the forum were crazy--crazy, like sitting home alone because it's too cold outside and you're living in the echo of having recently recovered from surgery crazy. I won't call the forum out here, but it was a forum for people who enjoy a specialty recreational activity and hobby. A charming yet harmless hobby that would definitely draw people away from the table and into the shed or barn out back to see the fruits of the host's labor--or in one case, into the small room in the city apartment where the end-product of this hobby was hanging from the ceiling. (You're totally curious right now, aren't you?)

The people hosting the forum eventually had to create an entirely new section called "Miscellaneous--non [hobby] related" where all the crazies would gather to talk about gun control (or not), abortion rights (or not), how much we love our president (or not), religion (my way is best and you are an idiot or not), and all things not suitable for that dinner table we just left to examine the canoe hanging from the ceiling.

Heh. See what I did there?

It's where I learned the phrase ad hominem attack. It's where I learned all my LOLs and IMHOs and ROTFLMAOs. (Or as someone I used work with would write it ROTFLMBO. I think she was Mormon.)

In this Miscellaneous thread (Discovery! I did not know how to spell "miscellaneous" until today. Thank you, auto spell check!), one man prided himself on being some sort of back-to-the-woods intellectual. He envisioned himself as a member of the E.B. White, Thoreau crowd, but he was more of the pedophiliac (not a word, I know) Ted Kacynski variety of person. And, he loved to talk about things that made people uncomfortable, like how he felt sensual with his cat (named Catawampous, can you imagine?) and how the 15-year-old checkout girl at the local grocery store was giving him the eye, because he felt it was his duty to bring these things to light and he felt he was merely commenting on society and the world he lived in. (Ugh. That sounds a little too close to what's happening with this blog. What is happening with this blog?!)

Actually, I don't really know what was driving him but I loved him. Not because I agreed with him, but because he was so delusional I couldn't stop reading his posts. He would casually toss out the words cunt, nigger, spic, paddy, pussy, faggot, retard, and whatever horrible word pops into your head right now. And, I'm sorry for that. I really am. I'm not writing this to shock.

He would then get all defensive when someone called him out for using these words. "They're just words!" he'd shriek into his keyboard. "This shows how closed minded, racist, homophobic, and misogynistic you are! You're the one thinking all those bad things, not me!"

It was brilliant. He would always win his argument. And it brings me to this debate/argument I had almost 10 years ago. Words are important, not just in the PR sense in that nothing is ever less expensive or, god forbid, cheaper. It's always affordable. Words are important because they bring a certain stereotype to mind or a certain emotion to mind. If a word is used to bring someone down, it matters.

I didn't think this in 2006. I thought words were words. I was at an art opening or something similarly uncomfortable yet smug and a man I knew casually but not closely hissed breeder at me. I was shocked and offended. I have never liked that word. One, because while I am heterosexual, I'm not a breeder and as someone without kids, that word stings. For the record, by the way, I am straight but not narrow, thank you very much. (I just made myself laugh.) And, two, all those babies people adopt? They are squeezed out of lady breeder parts. So, you can't hate breeders and yet adopt their babies. Yes, even the Asian ones.

Hey now. Sorry. That's a nasty stereotype. But I can't resist a joke, no matter how offensive. And, as my friend D says, "Stereotypes save time."

Oh, god. Sorry. No.

How I responded to this man was to say the word "breeder" is as bad a word to me as "faggot" because I weighted all words equally. I stayed away from certain words, such as the ones listed above, because I knew they hurt, but I attributed the same weight to each word. For me, personally, the word that got under my skin was "breeder," but I gave it the same weight as any other word, including the word faggot. This turned into a weeks-long debate with other friends because I would bring it up in conversation whenever I could. God, I got really boring. It had turned into a real thing for me.

And then, a few years ago, I watched Louis C.K. talk about it on his show "Louie."

So I did a little research. In some circles, the word derives from the word "fagot," which meant "contemptible woman" or "ball buster" in the early 20th century. Or it could be derived from late 18th century when "to fag" meant to do tasks for an upperclassman as an underclassman. I haven't found evidence that the word "faggot" is directly linked, when talking about a homosexual male, to the sticks thrown on a fire, but as The Straight Dope says, words happen.

With all of that behind me, faggot has become the most objectionable word to me. Call me a cunt. Call me a bitch. Call me a ball buster. Say I'm retarded. Tell me I'm emotional because I'm on the rag. Criticize me for being a bad driver. Make fun of me because I can't fix the kitchen sink or change a tire. Allude to my love for romantic comedies or my desire to drink sweet cocktails in fun little glasses while shrieking with my girlfriends. Those words and those stereotypes all carry the same weight and I will choose to fight or not to fight, depending on how Taylor Swifty you are and how much bourbon I've had to drink.

But, don't ever use a word that however remotely or inaccurately links to the days when human beings may have been used as kindling. I'm not saying what happened to people who were burned at the stake is in any way better than someone used as a faggot, but at least the heretics and witches mostly died of asphyxiation. That poor man being thrown down on the bonfire and held there with sticks and poles by a crazy mob of barbarians to make the fire grow faster and hotter? No. (Lord knows, the Irish would have been a better choice anyway, what with all that whiskey running through the veins. Did the Irish ever actually burn at the stake or did they just get burnt by the English landholders? Sorry. Off-topic.)

People are not kindling and we should all know what we're saying when we say it because words are very, very important. Dink.

[I should mention a former colleague of a colleague shared an unpublished rant directed toward an unreasonable and disgruntled customer about a year ago. When he was done with his reasonable yet flippant response, he ended the letter with "Dink." I've stolen it here because it makes me laugh.]

Wednesday, January 22, 2014

"You're a fraud."

[This post was initially supposed to be about packing food for a weekend-long party when you're trying to watch what you eat. I failed with the eating and I failed with this blog post. Enjoy.]

Someone called me a fraud the other day. I laughed and heartily agreed. "Yes ma'am, I am!"

She didn't even crack a smile.

I have a habit of talking too much and this weekend I talked a lot about being vegan(ish), but I was totally cramming my mouth full of beef chili and macaroni-and-cheese at a party.

Let me back up. I arrived at a weekend-long party with good intentions. I had healthy snacks in the car. I had some fruit; a container of cooked oatmeal; a snack mix of dates, raisins, seeds, and nuts; some unfrosted vegan cupcakes for emergencies; and a giant bottle of Maker's Mark.

My first night, I was careful about what I ate. I did sneak some Goldfish, but I ate quinoa for supper. The next morning, I quietly heated up some oatmeal while the host of the party chopped some sirloin for his chili. By Saturday afternoon, I was piling that chili, along with cornbread, mac-and-cheese, chicken and sausage etouffee, and cookies onto one single plate before going back for seconds and thirds. This is when I was called a fraud.

The comment came from a person who doesn't read my blog (gasp!), so my stupid little jokes about going vegan were completely lost on her. Although I'm serious about taking care of myself, I'm not serious about my diet. But she wouldn't know that. And I justified her comment as a result of her not really understanding me.

Nothing gets under my skin more than someone making a false assumption about my behavior. Over the years, I have been called passive-aggressive for making plans with one co-worker within earshot of another (it still makes my throat close to think of that); I have been accused of having an affair with someone (I could barely type that through my clenched fists); I have hurt people because they thought my careless actions were intentional (I don't want to give examples because it still makes me weepy); and I have been ignored because people have considered me self-sufficient and stable (I still can't wrap my head around that one). So this woman who viewed me as a hypocritical gasbag? She was killing me.

The more I tried to explain, the less interested she was. I slowly realized that maybe I am not as charming as I think I am. Since I'm an extrovert who talks too much, that realization was heartbreaking. She made several judgmental comments over the course of the weekend, and finally outright told me she is annoyed by people who talk about their dietary restrictions.

But, I thought. But. I'm self-deprecating and delightful!

She did not smile at me. She did not want to engage in conversation with me. When I told a story, she would either interrupt or talk over me. 

I made my second realization.

This woman did not like me.

Of course, the more someone ignores me, the more I need them to acknowledge me, so I turned into the Looney Tunes abominable snowman. A funny thing happened. The more I engaged her in conversation, the more I got to  know her. Finally, by the second day, I made my third realization--the most liberating one of all.

I did not like her either. 

With that weight taken off my back, I went about the business of having a great time, eating what I wanted, and spending time with the people I adore while chatting with the people who know I am comprised of 50% bullshit, 25% bourbon, 15% sarcastic bitch, 10% jackass, 5% smarty pants, and 100% not good at math.

What's not to love?

Monday, January 13, 2014

defining disappointment

Well? I'm disappointed

I dislike this feeling, but who doesn't? I'm the first to admit I was raised in suburbia with very few problems and very few needs or wants, and though I had suffered the same disappointment any suburban kid experiences (didn't get the bike for Christmas, didn't get to go bowling with my friends, didn't get into the soldout movie), I hadn't identified a feeling as disappointment until I was 12.

When I was in the eighth grade, we were one of only a handful of families with cable. I'm firmly entrenched in the MTV generation and maybe, just maybe I still have weird fantasies about Rik Emmett, Joe Elliott, and Geddy Lee (and though my love for him came later, James Hetfield remains on my list of five people I'm allowed to sleep with if I ever meet them for real).

Unrelated: Am I the only person who has a sub-list of five people I feel I should be allowed to sleep with if they become famous? It's a dangerous list. I have some really talented friends and acquaintances.

Back to the eighth grade where my list of five started with Rik, Joe, and Geddy (with a hint of Jane Fonda from Barbarella, but that's another post for another kind of blog). I had a fantasy that Rik Emmett would get throat cancer and would have a concert in Boston but would need emergency care and I would break my arm and we would end up in the same hospital room and he would fall madly in love with me and write a song like Lay it on the Line just for me.

I would watch MTV for hours, waiting for Def Leppard's video Bringin' on the Heartbreak (pre one-armed drummer) while facing away from the television, stretched out on my stomach on the couch, so I could watch the video by looking over my shoulder and arching my back because I thought my ass was my greatest asset. So, to recap, I would pose all sexy for the television. (I was 12. Yeah. Kids these days. Yeesh.)

Another fantasy involved a gun man coming into the school library and holding everyone hostage. I, of course, would save the day with a few well timed and perfectly executed karate kicks. My art teacher, upon whom I had an enormous crush, would fall madly in love with me and I would become the new Helga. This was before guns in schools was a reality, but way after the Texas Bell Tower and absolutely after I had viewed those disturbing and iconic Kent State and nepalm images. And, it was definitely after John Hinckley crushed on Jodie Foster and after the assassination attempt on Pope John Paul II. As a kid, even without talk of metal detectors in schools, I had no doubt that a gunman could come into my school and start shooting.

I promise there's a reason I bring all of this up. When it comes to removing meat and cutting the cheese (heh-heh) from my diet, my head isn't in the game. I'm still waking up every morning with "Today is a new day. Today I eat what I'm supposed to eat." And, at the end of the night, I'm still saying, "There's always tomorrow."

I've gained so much weight and my eyes are puffy and I have acne and my clothes aren't fitting the way I want them to.

I'm disappointed in myself for falling off or falling away or whatever you want to call it when you say you're going to do something and then you fail. This is tricky territory. When I hope for something to happen, I hold those hopes in check so I won't be disappointed with my friends and family. Plans get broken. People blow people off. A car breaks down. Someone gets the flu. These things happen and I force myself not to be hurt or angry or upset. It works for the most part. I'm okay with controlling my enthusiasm in order to avoid bitter disappointment. But, what if it's me? What if I thought I could actually do this? What if I'm the disappointment?

I'm an Irish girl raised Catholic in New England. I always carry a low hum of self-loathing and disappointment. I mean, without feeling major disappointment in oneself on a regular basis, what do you have left? It works along the same reasoning as not wanting to wash my really old car out of fear the entire thing will fall apart. Without the dirt, what is it? And, here I go, piling more disappointment onto myself because I ate Christmas cookies this week. I partook in some homemade nachos with the most delicious chicken while the Pats nailed it in the playoff game this weekend. I ate butter and cream and meat. I ate a bagel

When I was 12, I thought I might be a musician. I wasn't adept at playing any particular musical instrument, but I could read and write music. It made sense to me. I could hum the music in my head just by looking at the paper. I knew what sounded good and what didn't. I recognized the humor and the level of communication that happens between two guitarists. I loved ballads and anthems because they were so completely ridiculous.

I spent a lot of time alone. My sisters and brothers had all moved out of the house and my mother had very recently moved into assisted living to care for her Multiple Sclerosis. I had very few friends because I was a handful. I was kind of a bigshot know-it-all pain in the ass who felt privileged and special and entitled. And, I was like Teflon when it came to girlfriends. Once anyone got too close, they would just slide right off and walk away.

I spent hours in my bedroom alone. I would seek out all the LPs I could find in my sister's old room and raid my mom's and dad's stash in our living room and pile albums onto the little turntable in my bedroom. Triumph (Allied Forces); Peter, Paul, and Mary (Peter, Paul, and Mommy); Conway Twitty & Loretta Lynn (Louisiana Woman/Mississippi Man); The Who (Who's Next); Elvis Presley (Sun Sessions); The Cars (The Cars); The Muppets (The Muppet Movie); Carole Bayer Sager (Carole Bayer Sager); Rolling Stones (Sticky Fingers, which had that super naughty and bulge-y jacket cover with a real zipper); Cat Stevens (Tea for the Tillerman); Peter Frampton (Frampton Comes Alive); Jeff Beck (There and Back); Supertramp (Breakfast in America); Dan Fogelberg (Phoenix); Styx (The Grand Illusion, before they got all domo domo); Queen (News of the World); Dolly Parton (Jolene). All piled up, each album dropping onto the turntable one by one until the needle was balanced on top of the heap and it was late at night and I couldn't sleep because the music kept going.

And, those are just the full LPs. Don't let me get started on the 45s. Plus, my dad would chase me around the house singing Ain't She Sweet and If You Happen to See the Most Beautiful Girl and Jeepers Creepers Where'd You Get Those Peepers. For someone with no instrumental talent and no ear for singing, I was a goner.

Side note: This reminds me all of this was happening around the time backtracking was super popular, after the whole "Paul is dead" business and right around the "Ozzy worships satan" period. I was friends with a kid I knew from band. He had all the markings of an '80s musician. David Bowie shag cut, skinny black tie with a white shirt, awkward body language, skinny little butt. I think he played more than one instrument, but in band he played the keyboard. Think Alan Hunter without the suspenders meets Mitch Taylor in a tie.

This kid would record himself playing music and occasionally hand one of the tapes over to me. It was super sweet. One day, he handed me a tape and said he had been practicing backtracking and he had "you know, basically recorded all my thoughts about life and stuff."

And this is what kind of an asshole I was. I immediately shared it with a friend who helped me slowly and meticulously take the tape apart, flip it, and play it back. His message?

"This song is baaaaaaackwards...this song is baaaaaackwards."

Back to the original post: I'm not claiming I had good taste in music and I definitely don't pretend to have good musical taste now, but music was important to me. Popular music was important to me. You can imagine my enthusiasm when I heard MTV would be airing, in its entirety, Tommy when I was in the eighth grade. (Can you guess what I love about the clip I just linked? Pimball. That's awesome.)

I was blind with excitement. My father had planned a dinner party or some such gathering on the night of the premiere and I told him, in no uncertain terms, nobody, and I meant NOBODY, was to disturb me in the TV room, a converted screened-in porch located just off the dining room, and a mere eight feet from where my father kept his home bar. It was the early '80s. Everyone had a working bar and a recently retired fondue pot in the house.

I made up a plate of food--probably scrambled hamburg with mashed potatoes--poured myself a ginger ale, and marched myself into the TV room, which we still called "the sun porch." The only thing keeping me from the party noise was an old french glass door, most likely built and installed in the 1930s. I could see everyone and everyone could see me.

I set up a TV tray and clicked 41 into the heavy metal remote. (We had a remote control for our TV!) Channel 41. The new Music Television station. It started. I saw some scenes from World War II and then TSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHH..... Static. Nothing. The movie was gone. No Roger Daltry. No Elton John. No Ann-Margret. I was devastated. Like the moment I identified Steve Allen doing a poetic read of Donna Summer's Hot Stuff in 1980 as comedy, this was the first moment I could identify, for me, soul-crushing disappointment. The knowledge that just because you want something so badly to happen, that's not enough to make it happen. Nothing ever becomes what you want it to be and wishing for it gets you nowhere, counting on it will get you nowhere. My mother wasn't coming home. My brothers and sisters had all moved out. I was alone on the floor staring at static and listening to my father's laughter in the other room.

Monday, January 6, 2014

this little piggy ate roast beef

I've hit the skids. It all started when my friend Hollander showed up last week and fried some of her Vietnamese spring rolls made with ground chicken. No wait. It all started Christmas Eve when Groom and I went to Camp and ate cheeseburgers, french fries, sweet potato tater tots, and if I recall correctly some kind of yummy chicken.

What I'm trying to say is there has been nothing vegan-ish about me for about two weeks. I mean, sure, I roasted some brussels sprouts for a snack instead of reaching for Doritos (which I ended up eating later in the week anyway so I don't know who I was trying to fool), and okay I cooked up a soba noodle soup with vegetable broth and broiled tofu triangles. Of course, I made some quinoa with brussels sprouts and cranberries and it was good. And, yeah, I even made a polenta something with tomatoes and a slightly sour tomato sauce that I thought was disgusting but Groom ate with gusto.

But those moments were fewer and farther between as I snacked on whatever I wanted. I did avoid Christmas cookies (I'm sorry...holiday cookies) of all types but I fell prey to dessert at Camp (more than once) and lobster rolls from the Bite into Maine food truck, located at the top of North Peak at Sunday River where you can also purchase tall boys of Bud Heavy, which I did more than once, and finally on New Year's Eve, I stopped pretending altogether and ate roast beef and cheesecake. That's an understatement. I devoured roast beef and cheesecake and then practically smeared that sweet sweet deliciousness all over my body in some sort of carnal ritual of joy. In return, in some sort of cholesterol ritual of revenge, that roast beef and cheesecake smeared itself all over my innards.

NYE: my mouth is full of meat
aw. bite me.
Like Attack of the Blob, I continued to eat my way through through town. Pub cheese and crackers, pieces of cheese by themselves, half a bag of Doritos, and a plate of french fries with a terribly necessary bloody mary on New Year's Day. The day when most people decide they will start eating right.

Every morning, I would wake up and say to myself, "Today is day one. You're starting over. You can do this."

At the end of the night, I would say, "Tomorrow is a new day. Tomorrow is day one. You're starting over. You can do this."

On January 2, I woke up with something in my eye. Just...something...right at the inside corner of my left eye. I did all the tricks you do when you have something in your eye. I held my eye under the shower. I tried to make myself cry (not a difficult feat since I was suffering from post-alcohol depression, monthly lady time, and the after-effects of too much processed foods). I pulled my upper eyelid down over my lower eyelid. I held my forefinger and middle finger over the corners of my eye and blew out my nose. I squirted Visine.

Nothing worked. I looked at my eye in the mirror only to discover that the thing that was in my eye? It was the skin from around my eye. My eyes were so puffy, the skin around my eye was pressing into my eye socket.

I checked my face. I had acne on my chin--something I hadn't seen since I removed all animal and animal-related products from my diet. 

I looked down at my belly. It protruded above my belt like I was entering my second trimester.

I had puffed to a new size. I was a mess. Having one entirely vegan day was proving impossible. And, to make matters worse, I was convincing myself that since french fries are technically vegan, I could eat them.

All the people, including Dr. Nice, who made comments about how I wasn't really a vegetarian because I had only started this past August...all those people I sneered at and got defensive toward...they were all in the right.

So, I started again. Some oatmeal with ground flaxseed for breakfast. A fruit smoothie for lunch. Vegan enchiladas with black beans and acorn squash for supper. A few almonds for a snack.
And then I would have cheesecake. I don't even like cheesecake.

delicious piggy
My most recent Kryptonite [sorry, that's a weirdly creepy clip]? A visit with Groom's parents. A pork crown roasted with vegetables that stewed in all the yummy meatiness served with a side of sausage stuffing and an almond pound cake for dessert. With creamy cream cream for good measure. I am still drunk from those fatty, delicious foods.

I once lived with a woman who was so addicted to drugs, she would grind any and everything up, just to shoot it up her nose. I recall seeing aspirin go up her nose and I thought, I'll never be that person.

But you know what? I am that person. If there were a plate with leftover buttery bread crumbs near me, I would lick it.

Today is day one. I had oatmeal for breakfast while the family ate scrambled eggs, leftover stuffing, and brioche with butter. For lunch, I quietly skipped the shrimp broiled with panko and oil. I pushed past the baguette that had been broiled with butter and gorgonzola. I was satisfied with a simple salad with pears and avocado.

Now, I have discovered we have reservations for dinner at Deuxave. Here. This is where we're having dinner. All the meat and truffles (which aren't vegan because of the pigs or something) and butter. And, oh yes my friends. This little piggy will definitely eat the beef and go weee weee weeeeeee all the way home.

Tomorrow is day one.