hip hip

My scale is a bad fat liar and a bastard. Not the good kind of liar, like when your friend says, "That person who took your old position at, say, that ski resort where you used to work is nowhere near as fun, interesting, or as smart as you." Or, the kind of liar who says, "Your haircut isn't too short. You look just like Mary Stuart Masterson!"

My scale is the kind of liar that, when I ask whether my pants are too tight, it says, "I'm thinking about ham."

My scale is the kind of bastard that yells across the beach when I feel just fine in my bathing suit, "Nice beer gut!"

Despite my efforts, my scale claims I have lost no weight during the entire month of November. This can't possibly be true. My pants are falling down. My collarbone has emerged from its snug little downy comforter of fat. I can actually see a waistline forming.

Other than Groom, who is legally obligated to tell me I look like I've lost weight, only one person has commented on my weight loss. And she's 98. And she was heavily medicated at the time.

I suppose I should be flattered that nobody is noticing. It means my fluctuating poundage remains unseen when I feel like I resemble the hanker for a hunka cheese guy. But, that's cold comfort.

So, imagine my surprise when I visited the doctor this past week to get my numbers checked. I was certain I would see very little change in my cholesterol. I was so positive my veins were still filled with molasses and butter, I couldn't concentrate--I was wearing only one earring and I know I forgot to put on underwear.

After a tense "How are you feeling" and an ominous "Have you seen your lab work results yet," my doctor revealed that my cholesterol has dropped an overall 78 points since late September. Those other two numbers? The LDL (bad) and HDL (good) have dropped 73 points and raised 13 points respectively. AND, I am within the "better" and "near ideal" ranges.

The vegan nonsense is paying off. The doctor did ask whether I could keep up this lifestyle and I answered with a resounding YES! He was happy for me, but honestly I sort of expected...I don't know...I wanted applause and balloons and show girls and confetti and I really thought a banner would drop from the ceiling reading, "CONGRATULATIONS!!"

Come on, man. I just took your advice and got the results we were looking for! Shouldn't you be excited?!

As it turns out, no. What the hell does the doctor care? While it's probably nice for him to have a patient he doesn't have to lecture, it's also not his body or his life. It's not his problem that I am genetically and habitually inclined to have heart disease when he has a building full of hacking smokers' coughs, renal failure, heart attacks, and flu. In the medical community, I'm considered young and mostly healthy. He doesn't have time for young and healthy.

I'm going to let that sink in for a moment. Young. Healthy.

Speaking of young and healthy, I've spent most of my day prepping my post-op recovery room for the week after my cervical spine surgery on Tuesday. Groom is insisting we purchase a 50" plasma television with TiVo and streaming Netflix and Hulu even though I have insisted for years that we don't need a TV. The bastard.

But, that's the kind of bastard I can get behind.

surgical precision indecision

I am the strangest type of extrovert. While it's true I prefer to talk things out...and talk...and talk...and talk, I also tend to curl up like a pill bug when something is bothering me all deep down or maybe like a cat behind the couch. I actually don't like either of those comparisons but I'm too lazy to do anything about it.

I'm headed into surgery next week for an anterior cervical disc replacement, which is different from an anterior cervical fusion, which is what Peyton Manning received. Twice.

Show off.

I have been chewing on this for weeks. I suppose, if you're struggling with pain and/or tingling and/or numbness in your arms and hands and you're diagnosed with a bulging or herniated disc in the C-section of your spine, this might help you a little.

First, I had to decide. Do I get the surgery or not? This, I handled through a series of questions:

Did physical therapy help? No.
Did two treatments with oral steroids help? No.
Did an epidural shot help? Hell no.
Am I able to work at 100% capacity with this injury? No.
Is the pain unbearable? No.

Ay. And there's the rub. I can totally live with the level of pain I'm experiencing. I mean, when I went in for my surgical consult, I saw people crying in the parking lot because they couldn't stand their pain. There were people who couldn't stand up straight and people who were begging for relief. I am not one of those people. My left hand is numb and I have trouble holding a pen or a fork. But, I can type and, honestly, I could stand to hold a fork a little less. And, I'm fine with chopsticks for some reason. Which isn't the point. I know.

I realized, the sooner I have this fixed, the sooner I can get back to my life. So, there it is. Surgery decision made.

Second, I had to decide whether I would get a fusion or a disc replacement. This wasn't as black and white as the decision to have surgery. I consulted with my surgeon again. I went online and read about the differences between the two procedures. I talked with an orthopedic doctor. I talked to the guy who cut my hair into a mullet. I read insurance reports and clinical trial data. I talked to people who have had similar operations. I watched YouTube videos (no, I'm not linking anything here...too graphic and as my operation date approaches I'm starting to freak out so I don't even want to see them).

What I learned about fusion vs disc replacement is that they are super similar procedures. For both, the surgeon will make a horizontal incision across my throat (which is so badass I almost can't wait for that scar); he will perform a discectomy (which is a fancy way of saying he'll scrape out the schmootz between my vertebrae); he will insert something between the two vertebrae; he will drill a plate to my vertebrae. And that's where the similarities sort of stop. So I made a pros and cons list.

Fusion

• The surgeon inserts a piece of cadaver bone between the vertebrae. (PRO!)
• The bone fuses everything together. (CON!)
• I could be susceptible to adjacent segment disease because of the pressure on the discs within the vertebrae surrounding the fusion. (CON!)
• Recovery might be a little longer. (CON!)
• Insurance will pay for the entire procedure. (PRO!)

Disc Replacement

• The surgeon places a sort of mechanism between the vertebrae and drills it in place to the outside of the vertebrae...what? (ProooConnnn? I don't care.)
• Preliminary studies show that maybe there might be some better range of motion after surgery. (Pro)
• Preliminary studies indicate recovery may be faster. (Pro)
• Preliminary studies and the marketing department at the places that manufacture artificial discs indicate and promote that disc replacement can help prevent adjacent segment disease. (Though the information gets a pro, the fact that they're shoving it down my throat while it's entirely unproven makes me want to give it a con on principle.)
• This is so new that I might have complications later, like how all those artificial hips were recalled because people jumped the gun on new technology. And, ew. (CON!)
• In some of the clinical studies and insurance information, I noticed that Cigna (which is not my insurance carrier) will pay for disc replacement but will not pay for disc replacement if a patient has already had a fusion in another section of the spine. This makes me think insurance companies might start writing policy like that. (Pro)
• My insurance will not cover the entire procedure. (CON!)

So. My gut tells me, disc replacement it is. And it's scheduled for Tuesday. I go under the knife next Tuesday. I'll spend one night in the hospital and then head home for hours and hours of Dexter reruns on Netflix.

If you're reading this because you googled disc replacement vs fusion and you ended up here, I hope this information helps you. But, don't beat yourself up over it. If my surgeon called tomorrow and said, "Don't get a disc replacement," I'd be like mkay. I don't know that it makes that big of a difference right now, and the one thing that red-flagged it for me was the Cigna information (bullet #6 above). I'm basing all of this on a feeling that things might trend this way. But, I also wore a poncho in the 8th grade because I thought people would start wearing ponchos, so....grain of salt and all that.

I kind of want to mention one final thing that makes me look like a complete idiot. I knew I had chosen a good surgeon when I called his office to find out more about disc replacements. First of all, he looked up my insurance and contacted the people who make the artificial discs to see if I could get coverage for the procedure. Not his medical associate. Him. Second, he called me himself to talk more about it. He didn't have his medical associate or his nurse call. He called me from his office phone. I've never had that happen before. So, I totally went all Maeby Funke on his ass.

 

and it was worth it

Hoo boy. I screwed up. What started as a 12-hour break from vegan-ish-pescatarian-ism gradually turned into a 24-hour break...36 hours...48...an even three days. Fine. It was four.

But I had a great weekend. And, I reminded myself that I am now very careful about what I ingest so I can have such a weekend of pure debauchery. It all started at Katahdin--the restaurant, not the mountain. 

I met some friends there for cocktails on Friday night. Honestly, that Winnie serves it up right. I'm a sucker for a pretty woman calling me "lovely," as in "Hello lovely! Would you like a Manhattan?"

Yes please.

After delightful conversation and a Manhattan with a sidecar of more Manhattan, we started to walk to Ruski's to see Darien Brahms (check out Jekyll & Hyde. Perfect.) and Chicky Stoltz (listen to Girl Trouble. Brilliant.) with a side of Captain Noah Barnes of the Dolphin Strikers. Since Otto was on the way to the show, I made the executive decision to eat some cheese. It's fine, I told myself. And, you know what? Even if it isn't fine? It would be worth it.

Cut to Ruski's, some delicious music, several glasses of bourbon, and I found myself wandering back to an apartment where Noah and Chicky were staying. Suddenly, I found an egg, bacon, and cheese sandwich on a bagel sitting in front  of me. Well, I didn't want to be rude, right?

The next morning, I was awoken by the chitter chatter of my buddies who both have small children and are accustomed to getting up far earlier than those of us who live most the time alone and work from home.

A quick trip to Local for some breakfast where I ordered a mushroom, kale, egg scramble with a buttery english muffin and homefries, and two mimosas. The fellas ordered yogurt, fresh fruit, granola, and a salad.

Assholes.

And here's where things started to get dicey. On my way back from Portland Saturday afternoon, I started to convince myself that a pile of french fries would make me feel so much better. With a cheeseburger. And a big coke. I kept trying to talk myself out of it but continued driving until I discovered I had pulled into Five Guys. I was sitting in the parking lot staring at the door. It was a busy Saturday afternoon and people were coming and going, pulling in and pulling out. I thought, who's going to know? One greasy cheeseburger with a small french fry. Who's it going to hurt?

Me. That's who will know. That's who it will hurt. I'm not living this vegan/fish lifestyle so I can impulse buy a cheeseburger from some chain restaurant when I'm hungover. Regardless of whether or not it's a locally owned, operated establishment, I started to think about everything I had read about fat content and more fat content. Would it have been worth it? No.

I thought that might be the end of my meat and cheese fest, until I decided to meet another friend at...wait for it...Katahdin again Saturday night. This time around, I wasn't even pretending. We shared a ricotta cheese squash pie, a warm crab pot filled with cheese and cream, and a salad for good measure. For dinner, I ordered the salmon, which had been fried in bacon fat. So. Good. And it was worth it.

By the time Sunday morning rolled around, I was feeling the effects of grease and fat and booze and...in the interest of full disclosure, the cigarettes. I came downstairs to discover a box from On Target Living containing two bags of flaxseed, two bottles of cod liver oil, a jar of coconut baking oil, and a bag of Chlorella & Spirulina tablets (in short, a bag of pond scum tablets). It was like waking up to an angry neighbor who has had enough of your late-night shenanigans or like waking up to a parent as a teenager after stumbling home at two in the morning. The judgment and disappointment coming off that box was soul crushing.

Did I mention Groom is now the head of HR at his company? Yeah, from this point forward, I believe I shall refer to him as Toby Flenderson. But, my Toby now has a bead on all this wellness information and health habit diet lifestyle live longer nonsense. I'm on board, and my poor broken down Sunday morning body was pretty eager to get back on track. Some oatmeal with dates, some water, a spoonful of cod liver oil, a bunch of pond scum tablets throughout the day. All good. And, yes, it was worth it.

In a nutshell:

• Cod liver oil has Vitamin D, Omega-3 Fatty Acids, Vitamin E, and it's not as bad as you think, but it totally gives you dog breath
• Pond scum tablets aid digestion, support the immune system, and act as a detoxifier, and I think you know which one of those items interested me most on Sunday morning
• Flaxseeds decrease inflammation and help lower cholesterol, and I have nothing snarky to say about that

I'm not in tune enough with my body to really notice any difference, but I will say already I can cross my legs with the back of my knee over the front of my opposing knee. I haven't been flexible enough to do that in years. Years. So, whatever I'm doing? I'm going to keep doing it.

Groom...I mean Toby...and I went for a walk Sunday afternoon with dog down by Spirit Pond and I was feeling all smug about being back on track even though I had to cut the walk short because my neck was bothering me from looking down at the path (I was trying to avoid the tree stumps and roots but looking down is no bueno).

Otherwise, still good, still back on track. My brother sent me a picture of his lunch Sunday (bacon donuts) and I smugly sent back a picture of my lunch Sunday (hummus and tomatoes on soy pita with apple slices). I was back, baby.

For the most part, I was feeling better, getting my sanctimonious attitude back, until Toby reminded me we had dinner plans. So, I made the executive decision to stay mum with my hosts about any dietary restrictions and continue with my truce.

We had delightful conversation with some old friends. And bourbon and wine and chicken marbella and chocolate and cookies. And it was worth it.

I thought I was done with the meat and cheese weekend again until I got a text from a friend of mine yesterday afternoon while I was enjoying a nice snack of lentils and arugula. Would I be interested in having dinner at El Camino? I thought I might bail on it until she then mentioned it would include a trip to Drapeau's Costumes of Maine in Lisbon. A costume shop Halloween week in the creepiest town in Maine. Like I'm going to say no to that.

She, of course, doesn't celebrate Halloween but dresses up like a giant dalmation and wanders around Boothbay because she and her husband own the delightful Two Salty Dogs Pet Outfitters. If you're in the area on Halloween, make sure you goose the black and white dog getting accosted by a bunch of children. She'll love that. While you're there, make sure you get all zombie around their dog Coal. He barks at zombies. Best dog ever.

But I digress (and I can't find a clip of Hans Landa of Inglourious Basterds saying, "But, I digress," so I'm giving you this instead). After picking up her costume, we ended up at Enoteca Athena (sister restaurant to the most awesome ever Trattoria Athena) because El Camino was closed. We shared (aka, chowed on) cauliflower fritters, vegetable dolmathes, artichokes and prosciutto (yeah, I fell hard) to start. Then she ordered fish tacos and I got some falafel.

My friend said the last bite was the absolute best bite of each dish and we realized we were eating so fast that the flavors weren't even fully settling in. That's how good it was. And that's how disgusting I am.

And that last bite was definitely worth it.

crow

Because I can't do much more than walk lately, I am focusing on food. I know. Whatever. Shut up.

I took a bunch of pictures of dinner the past couple of nights and I hate to delete them from my phone before showing you some deliciousness, and some not so deliciousness. I mean, it's hit or miss as I figure out how to make an all-veggie, some-bean dinner taste like a cheeseburger and fries.

I cooked up some broccolini and it was delicious. I had never prepared it before and offered it up as a snack while I made some spring rolls. I was so excited, I exclaimed, "This is my first vegan recipe!"

I didn't expect any follow-up questions, but I should have known better. Groom the Detective pried the truth out of me. The recipe? Throw some olive oil in a pan, scrape in a pantload of garlic, cook at a high temperature until the garlic goes brown, throw in some steamed broccolini, mix it all around, squeeze some lemon on it, and shake a little crushed red pepper over it. I was slightly embarrassed that I had overstated my cooking prowess, but it's always nice to see Groom chuckle.

Doesn't matter. It was perfect.

Then, I chopped up some cabbage, cucumber, red bell pepper, green onion, basil, and fresh mint. Grated some carrot. Tossed some tofu in the leftover oil from the broccolini. And, rolled up some spring rolls with avocado. So good. (The wrappers in that picture above? Not so great. I can't remember what I used last time, but yes there's a difference between rice wrappers. Who knew?)

Last night, Groom cooked up some quinoa with sauteed shallots, carrots, spinach, and green onion. It was meh, but nothing a little Sriracha couldn't help. Plus, we ate some roasted asparagus so I could pretend I was eating french fries.

I realize I'm criticizing a meal that Groom cooked. I should point out right now, he is far more advanced in the kitchen than I am. I'm not afraid to say the quinoa was bland because I know next time it won't be and he isn't easily offended. 

Final item on the menu: seaweed salad from Shaw's.

When I was at the checkout at Shaw's, the cashier looked at the seaweed salad and asked, "Do you really think this is any good?" Valid question. So I said sure, yeah, it's good. Tastes really fresh, it's kind of a vehicle for soy sauce and mirin. The cashier sneered and said to the woman in line behind me, "Gross. To each their own, I guess."

I will admit I had unkind thoughts about that cashier at that moment.

As I relayed the story to Groom while setting the table, I was reminded of a trip we took together to Montana. We had been skiing at Big Sky then took a few extra days to drive around and ended up at a small bar in Livingston, MT. It was one of those bars where everyone was wearing a cowboy hat without a stitch of irony or posturing. The ladies were crowded together separately from the fellas. There wasn't much loud talking except for an occasional burst of laughter from the gals in the corner.

too afraid to stop and take a real pic

We got the record-skip stare when we walked in, but for the most part everyone ignored us. The conversations were happening over us--the guy on Groom's left was chatting with the guy on my right. Eventually, one of the fellas asked whether we had been skiing. It was a fair question since I was wearing a ski coat.

But, I detected an undercurrent of judgement. And, I didn't want that. So, I mentioned that my husband was driving me around Montana to show me the sights because he pops around the state to hunt birds every year.

Boom. The conversation switched to hunting and fishing and...how much the government sucks (uh oh) and how ladies are bad drivers (what?) and people should live their lives how they want (okay!) except for the gays (awww no).

Groom has a better poker face than I do, so I let it be and removed myself from the conversation. I started to watch the ladies at the bar and the lady bartender, who was badass with a capital B. She won me over when she continued to pour more bourbon into my glass without so much as a raised eyebrow, but I almost proposed marriage when she walked out of the kitchen with a plate of hummus.

"What the hell is that?!" shouted one of the ladies. The bartender explained what it was and said she wanted to make different kinds of foods available to customers and that hummus is really good. Almost in unison, everyone in the bar shouted, "NOPE!"

I live on hummus. I realized, even with my manipulative "my husband shoots guns" approach to this bar, I'm just not a man of the people. Groom can somehow make himself fit in, but my pickle face gives me away every time.

As we finished laughing about my irritation with the cashier at Shaw's, I dove into my plate of seaweed salad.

It was the most disgusting thing I have ever had in my mouth. I love seaweed salad, but I realize that cashier I had so ungraciously judged had probably eaten whatever it was that Shaw's was selling. And, that was no seaweed salad.

That seaweed salad tasted a lot like crow.

in time for the holidays

Sometimes eating vegan doesn't need to have a vegan label. What I mean is, sometimes a yummy dish just happens to be vegan at the same time. I've received plenty of advice and recipes and such from friends and readers, for which I wholeheartedly thank each and every one of you. Dinner the other night was courtesy of Ina Garten by way of my friend with bitchy resting face. Butternut squash salad with warm cider vinaigrette.

I just read that. I should clarify: Most of my friends have bitchy resting face. I mentioned the lovely lady who sent me this recipe here in this post that I am linking here.

I totally channeled Perd Hapley with that last sentence.

This was not called out as a vegan recipe; it was just a recipe without animal products, except for some parmesan cheese grated over the final meal, which any vegan can simply skip. Wait. Let me think. Were any animals harmed or exploited to make this recipe... I don't think so? But, I didn't know honey isn't vegan until I started researching why vegan recipes call for agave and not honey. So, who knows.

That fact, that honey isn't vegan, sets Groom into a fit of nearly violent anger. And, Groom is so nonviolent, he makes Gandhi seem like Genghis Khan. I use honey since my vegan/pesca tendencies aren't philosophical.

the water pump culprit

The recipe arrived via text. I was planning to make some spring rolls for supper, with some boiled shrimp for Groom since he shouldn't have to survive on my nuts and berries. (Instead I have to survive on his. Hey oh!) But GF with the BRF sent me this and I was immediately sold. Done and done.

Let me tell you, this is the simplest recipe ever. I was able to cook it with a broken water pump, which tells you how simple it really was. Yes, our water pump broke this past weekend and we were without water for two days. It was like camping without the weird tree root that shows up under your back at 2 in the morning. And, to answer your question, no, I had not showered since I hiked Morse Mountain.

Hiked. It always makes me laugh to say that in regard to Morse Mountain.

Back to the recipe--man, I get so distracted so easily. My biggest problem in the work place is that I tend to distract people from their work. It's a real problem, which is why I work from home.

While I'm up and distracted, I'm going to say it, what I don't like about this new routine is the look I get from people when I pass on something I can't really eat. It's judgie. People actually say, "A little chicken isn't going to kill you." I know that. I allow things to sneak through all the time, which is why, right now, at this moment, I'm going to pass on the steak or chicken or shrimp (yes, I pass on the shrimp) you're offering me. Then, my meal falls under serious scrutiny. God forbid I eat something that has a flake of cheese on it or a dab of meat juice.

Meat juice? I don't know where that came from.

"So, you're not really vegan then," I hear.

No, I'm not. But, I'm going to pass on that steak for now. Thank you. It's like I have suddenly found religion and everyone else is atheist. I promise you, I will not try to bring you to Jesus and I won't quote scripture at the dinner table.

One trick is to say nothing about my food habits, which is so hard to do because I am an extrovert through and through (and I used to work with an introvert to her dismay). Another trick is to never, ever, ever, use the word "vegan" or the highly objectionable and annoying term "pescatarian."

Wow. I distracted myself again.

With Thanksgiving around the corner, I present to you a pictorial remembrance of the not vegan but it just happens to be vegan butternut squash:

I have never peeled and cut a squash before

toss the cranberries on for the final five minutes

Grocery store-bought shallot (left) vs organic farm shallot (right)

simmer simmer simmer is it done yet simmer some more

then whisk whisk the dressing

moosh it all together in a salad bowl

add cheese for your loved one who can eat what he wants

cut up a lentil cake for some protein--god this plate looks so sad

empowerment in a flawed system

I'm obsessed with Miley Cyrus. There. I said it. Don't get me wrong; I am exhausted by the whole VMA conversation, like anyone else, but I have questions. When was the last time you paid attention to the VMAs? Can you name another recent performance? Can you name any other performance from the night of August 23, 2013?

For my money, she's kind of brilliant. We hear less about Justin Bieber and his status as a role model for children but he's doing drugs and dragging capuchin monkeys through airports (Seriously. Really?) and walking around shirtless at strip clubs with his underwear hanging out. Not to be dramatic, but I get kind of a rape-y feeling from him. Somehow that's okay because he's just a boy, but Miley Cyrus at roughly the same age, working within the same parameters of this screwed up system and walking around mostly naked with her tongue hanging out, that's not okay? She's been treated as an object her whole life. Of course she sees herself that way and of course she's going to capitalize on it.

I heard a story the other day about a high level female executive and her dealings with a female celebrity. I considered dropping names, but I heard this story from someone who heard it from someone who claims to have witnessed it. So, grain of salt and all that.

The celebrity in this story was asked to sign a wall of celebrity signatures after doing some live, national interview. All celebrities who arrive at the company sign this wall, apparently. The celebrity in question tagged the wall in hip hop graphics.

The company executive, a woman of the Lean In school, tried to get the celebrity to change it. She then tried to get her employees to erase it.

My friend telling me the story said, "Isn't that the point? When you empower women, you empower all women." For this celebrity, this was empowerment. This was her version of being in charge of her life. This was her version of taking control.

When I was a bartender, I was not above leaning deep into the beer cooler so my skirt would ride up. I was fully aware that certain gentlemen sat close to the sink where I washed glasses to look down my shirt and leer at my version of leaning in. And, though I played dumb when some fellas told me the beer taps were dirty, I knew full well what it looked like when I soaped up a sponge and ran my hands along the pull handles. Those fellas returned every night and spent money in my bar.

It's objectionable, sure. I should have been able to keep people around with my rapier wit and stimulating conversation--and don't get me wrong, there were some fellas who were in the bar for the chats--but I couldn't keep all of them around by keeping their minds interested. I may have cheapened myself by stooping to that level, but that the end of the day, I went home with my brain and a wad of cash. They went home with a head full of booze and a wad of nothing.

The way I was raised, I never thought about the difference between men and women. I didn't know a woman running her own company might be considered groundbreaking or that a woman at the conference table could be distracting. My older sister came home from work once--she was probably in her mid-20s, which would have made me a teenager--and she told me about a guy who had pulled her aside after a meeting to tell her he could see the lace from her camisole in her cleavage. She was outraged. I was confused.

My dad would make jokes about the "weaker sex" or complain he didn't like sharing a bathroom with three daughters, but he never taught me and it never occurred to me that I couldn't do something just because I was a girl. By the time I went to college, this was as the '80s were turning into the '90s, I didn't know there was a difference in definition between the words "feminism" and "feminine." I didn't understand the concept of women not being equal. If you were feminine, you were feminist.

By the time I left college, I understood. Not because I went to some liberal elitist university that pounded some lefty agenda into my brain--I didn't need that--but because a bunch of frat boys and male professors pounded me with the idea that I was an object and that I was only looking for a husband. I learned the difference after I was shoved into a bedroom at a college party and the door was locked. Someone much bigger than I was pushed me onto the bed and my foot got caught in the bottom of the bed frame so I couldn't get up. My ex-boyfriend came into the bedroom and put an end to things and I was extremely grateful because I was extremely scared. My ex-boyfriend, however, accused me of "asking for it" and wouldn't speak to me for the rest of the night.

I was drunk and I'm certain I was flirting with the culprit. But I wasn't asking for anything other than self-conscious, late teen attention. I learned that I didn't want to be in that situation again. I learned that even the kindest man can be seriously misguided about a woman's intentions. And, though I remain conflicted about it, I was finally outraged.

Over the years, I have found myself in compromising situations and I have gotten out of them, but I also pushed the parameters to see where the boundaries really were, to see if all men think that because a woman is alone with a man, she is asking for something. That's the world I lived in.

I believe now--and this is where my young self gets really angry at my old self--unless you want the attention, you shouldn't walk into a barroom of drunken men in a short skirt and expect nobody to hurt you. They shouldn't hurt you. And it's illegal. And anyone who does hurt you definitely deserves to go to jail, because assault is assault. And, while I don't have empathy for men who are distracted by cleavage or a low neckline or a short skirt, ladies, don't be tootching in some guy's face unless you want him to grab your hips. That's what happens. Once you understand those parameters, though my 40-something brain may disagree with your actions, you have a right to do what you want.

As a feminist looking at today's idea of feminism, I'm saddened by how some ladies feel empowered, but I understand it. Well, I still don't understand how taking off your bra for a day helps cure breast cancer or how writing the color of your underwear as a Facebook status update brings awareness to domestic violence, but that's another battle.

I wish I still believed what my younger self believed, that there is no difference between feminism and what society brands as being feminine or being female. I'd like to think there are young women today who don't know the difference, that our younger generation fully understands that women aren't objects, that men and women are equal, and there doesn't even need to be a debate about it. I'd like to think there are enough strong adults in the personal lives of many young girls so they learn that, while sex sells, brains make more money.

And this is why I'm obsessed with Miley Cyrus. I think she might be pretty smart and she's making a helluva lot of money exploiting a seriously flawed system. So, for now, more (em)power to her.

[I've been reading debates and talking to people about Miley Cyrus and sexual exploitation and feminism. No doubt, you've seen all the highlights, but here's one of Sinead O'Connor's letters to Miley after Ms. Cyrus released her Wrecking Ball video, which she claims was an homage to Sinead O'Connor's Nothing Compares 2 U video. (I have to admit, MC's response to the letters was immature.) And, here's Amanda Palmer's response to Sinead O'Connor, which spawned a pile of open letters and blog posts and ridiculous chatter (Yes, I know I'm one of those people now). And, finally, here's Miley Cyrus talking about the VMA awards with Ellen Degeneres and how her album skyrocketed to number one, big surprise.]

the activity post

I've talked so much about food. I'm getting bored. Let's talk about activity. As you know, I can't do much with this ruptured disc. I suppose I could go to the Y and get on a bike machine and sit straight up on it. Actually, that's a good idea. Next time.

maybe he can
smell the history

Yesterday, though. Yesterday was a great outside day. If you live in New England, then you probably enjoyed the weather that makes autumn here so fabulous. Temps in the 60s, bright sun, dry air, a slight breeze. I grabbed our dog Helen Keller and walked him around Bath near the Maine Maritime Museum. He didn't care so much about the history, but if you ever have a free afternoon and find yourself in the Bath area, you should pop into the museum and wander the grounds. There's a lot to see--the schooner Sherman Zwicker (an old sardine carrier that you can board; the smell alone is worth it, that old wooden boat salty water smell...mmmm), a functioning and educational wooden boat shop, artifacts from when Percy & Small was an active shipbuilding facility, tours of Bath Iron Works, art galleries, a pirate ship...aw hell. Just check it out. I'm making it sound really dry.

Wyoming
Zwicker in background

I just got distracted when I clicked over to Bath Iron Works. It looks like the christening scheduled for yesterday for the USS Zumwalt has been postponed due to the government shutdown. Been watching this thing getting final build out all summer and was super pleased to discover the name of the captain of this first-of-its-kind, land-attack, anti-aircraft, guided missile destroyer from the DDX class is James Kirk. I'm not even kidding.

So, Mr. Magoo and I wandered about a bit, but as I said, he wasn't all that interested in the history. I took him home and cruised over to Morse Mountain, a short hike/walk over a small hill that opens to the spectacular Seawall Beach, with views of Casco Bay and Seguin Light.

At my pace, the two-mile trail to the beach took about an hour but for the yoga-pants crowd, it's probably more like 45 minutes. And, for the trail runners, it's probably some embarrassingly short amount of time that I won't even venture a guess. If you head to Morse, expect your walking time to about about 90 minutes to two hours overall, more if you include beach walking, which I did.

Pro tip: Late fall means plenty of parking and no bugs. Peak summer means no parking and a prohibitive amount of bugs and tourists. Just keep that in mind if you're planning to visit next summer. And, no dogs allowed. Ever. EVER.

Typically I bring some earbuds to listen to an audiobook or some music, but yesterday I thought it might be nice to hear the birds and ocean and whatnot. Big mistake. Big. Huge.

I heard very few birds, no crashing water, maybe a few rustling trees. What I did hear was a lot of this: "And did you know he's drinking again? He's ruining his life and I'm not going to help him. Well, my husband just got a new assistant. Did I mention we're going to Hawaii? It's for my husband's birthday. MOM! I don't wanna walk anymore! Stop it! STOP IT!"

I pulled to the side of the trail and let some yoga-pant ladies ("We're hoping to move there by June but there's so much to do and I need a new car") who were behind me pass and I noted when I glanced at them that they did not acknowledge me or say hello. Hm. As I walked the trail, I noted that nobody passing from the opposite direction seemed to say hello or nod as they passed.

Don't get me wrong. I'm normally walking with my head down ignoring my fellow travelers as well, so I'm being a total hypocrite, but I got curious. I started saying hello to every single person I passed. Every single one. Here's the
tally:

No crowd:

• Yoga-pant ladies
• Blaze orange because he's in Maine and it's hunting season but he's on a private nature preserve so the orange is pointless guy
• Super athletic couple in hipster sunglasses
• Wife of the guy who looks like this guy. She looks like the kind of woman who says no because she can.
• Skinny ladies in expensive sneakers--I got eye contact, but it was brief and the lady looked down after I said hello
• Group of young campers
• Older ladies for whom I moved out of the way as I approached the narrow path to the beach
• Woman hiking alone with oversized walking stick
• Twenty-something girl in aviator sunglasses texting on her phone
• Super cutie couple in retro grunge wear, probably taking a walk after brunch at Mae's. 
• Older gentleman in his vacation plaid with taut shiny skin resulting from too many days on the sailboat without sunscreen
• Teenaged girls holding hands and working through their drama

Yes crowd:

• Big girl in gray sweatshirt and tight jeans rolled up past her knees because it was way hotter on the trail than anyone expected
• Old duffer with big belly and bad limp 
• Chick carrying her surfboard back from the beach
• Guy who looks like this guy. In fact, I got a double "hello hello!"
• Older couple holding hands 
  
• Super heavyset guy with awkwardly buckled backpack and two small girls
• Woman in yoga pants walking with her family (I did not expect her to say hello)
• Big swarthy guy who looked like a linebacker
• Woman with really big hips and bad hair in polyester culottes 
• Two fat sweaty guys talking loudly in a thick Rhode Island accent about the Sox
• Camp counselors
• Family with shrieking toddler, but that's because I gave a sympathetic look and made a crack about how long their walk would be. We had a laugh.

Kids don't say hello--no big surprise. The hipster doofus gangs don't say hello, okay, I get that and am guilty of that too. But, the older retiree crowd with money? Nothing? No love for the middle-aged fat girl in a Two Salty Dogs baseball cap and a gray t-shirt she won't discover reveals her muffin top in a truly unfortunate manner until she gets back to her car?

Oh. I see it now. I belong in that yes crowd. The bad hair, awkward clothing, take the kids for a hike to get them out of the house for christ sake crowd. I'm not a hipster doofus. I'm just a doofus. And the other doofuses recognized me and said hello. The hipster doofuses and the wealthy retirees couldn't even see me because I'm the kid who wears brown corduroy pants to school, joins the SCUBA club to get out of having to do a sport, and plays the flute in the school band.

Whatever. I bet our crowd has way better pie.