the cove

My husband regarded me with a skeptical eye. "So in your view," he was saying, "the primary purpose of a day at the beach is to avoid the sun at any cost."

I nodded. "Yes, that is the goal. Actually, if it's at all possible I would like to emerge even whiter than before. Bleaching would be ideal." I waved my sunscreen lotion at him, laughing. "Look ~ SPF Clorox!"

We had donned our bathing suits for the second time this century and, armed with an orange striped umbrella, a wide brimmed straw hat and enough Banana Boat SPF 50 sunscreen to protect us from harmful UV rays even in the face of a nuclear explosion had headed for the pristine sands of Crystal Cove State Park.

"You're already whiter than an Irish albino," said my husband. He was sprawled recklessly beyond the comforting shade of the orange striped umbrella, cap pulled low upon his brow, eyes scanning the horizon for signs of dolphin or whale. Or maybe Spanish galleon. Like an old pirate.

"Yes, well, I've done enough damage to my skin over the years to horrify many a Clinique salesgirl as it is," I replied. I thought of all the years I spent slathering my body with baby oil and going up on the roof of my Long Island home, the better to be closer to the sun. I would fry up there for hours. I had sun poisoning more than once.

"You do understand that you are still going to age," he said, grinning.

"I know," I lied. "But you can't blame a girl for trying."



We had come to the Historic District of Crystal Cove to celebrate my husband's birthday, something we'd been wanting but unable to do for years; the cottages fill up within minutes of opening reservations, which book online 7 months in advance. After weeks of trying to snag a cancellation, we scored ~ first one, then two consecutive nights at Cottage #2, the Shell Shack. I am certain it is only due to Turk's most excellent karma. And he never doubted we would succeed for a minute.

Built in 1926, the cottage was a step back in time, a chance to experience the California beach style of a bygone, golden era. This was a community of artists and surfers, middle-class bohos and wealthy ne'er-do-wells. I've always felt I was born in the wrong time and place ~ as if, waiting in the wings to make my entrance on the universal stage I had stepped out for a cigarette and missed my cue to appear, stumbling out in some much later, less interesting Act 21. This is the scene I was meant to play in. This is the era in which I was meant to live.





Our front porch overlooked the cheerfully retro Beachcomber Restaurant, where they hoist and salute the martini flag every evening at 5:00, not so sharp, and ring the bell at the frequent dolphin sitings. The playful mammals cavort a mere 10 yards or so from shore. A waitress told us of a visiting seal pup as pelicans flew in formation over our heads. At night a chorus of frogs living in the nearby creek sang us to sleep.


And of course, there is nothing quite so wonderful, so soothingly powerful as the pounding of the surf outside your wide-open windows at night. It is, simply, bliss. From the oceans have we come and to the oceans we must return. I should live like this. We should all live like this. And if we're very, very lucky, thanks to the Crystal Cove Alliance, for a night or two we can.







Somewhere the martini flag is flying, and a very pale woman and her long-suffering, sun burnished pirate husband are making their way back up from the beach. Happy birthday, Turk. Cheers!

starry feets and lorakeets

"The time has come," my friend had said
"to talk of many things.
Of men and love and bikini wax:
Why some are just for flings.
Why some are charming, and some are not
And whether fish have wings".


So off we went to the Beach that's Long
In the land of sun so fair
Where stars have feets and lorakeets
Fly straight into your hair
Where the seal pups play as the dragons sway
And sharks cruise deep within their lair.



When the sun went down, the thought profound;
"It's time to quench our thirst!"
So off we went to the Mai Tai Lounge
"We'll start with Mai Tais first.
Then a place with a view and a martini or two!"
And if I must say so as weekends go it really could have been worst.

happy shiny people singing songs

There was a time when men were kind
When their voices were soft
And their words inviting
There was a time when love was blind
And the world was a song
And the song was exciting
There was a time
Then it all went wrong

For the life of me, I do not understand why people seem to be so genuinely amazed that a plain woman can sing beautifully. Susan Boyle seems a lovely person; charming, cheeky and cherub-faced, her willingness to face the likes of Simon Cowell and whatever dim duo of dyspepsia he has keeping him company this week strikes me as nothing short of courageous. Because you know that they were setting her up, in the best tradition of current reality programming, for public humiliation. And she wasn't having it.

I dreamed a dream in time gone by
When hope was high And life worth living
I dreamed that love would never die
I dreamed that God would be forgiving
Then I was young and unafraid
And dreams were made and used and wasted
There was no ransom to be paid
No song unsung, no wine untasted

So what was so shocking to the judges and the sniggering audience about her performance? A woman dares to be plain and still believe herself capable of beauty. Oh, dear.

But the tigers come at night
With their voices soft as thunder
As they tear your hope apart
And they turn your dream to shame

Of course, the people who write the songs that make grown men cry are not, as a rule, the fair of face or physically blessed by birth. But performance has increasingly become the sole province of pretty people, and never more so than now. It's all about marketing and always has been, they tell me, although they didn't seem quite so slickly savvy back in the days of Ella or Janis, back when the music was the message and the messenger an artist. But it's not called Britain's Next Top Model after all, it's called Britain's Got Talent. The delightful MS Boyle will get her hair done and her eyebrows waxed; a fleet of stylists will be summoned and before you can say guest appearance on Oprah she'll be happily on her way to fulfill her dream of singing for the queen.

And we can all wipe away our tears of incredulous joy that beauty really can come from within and go back to watching glossy, witless young things plumbing their meager depths to find the meaning in songs of haunted love and devastating loss, of shattered illusions and dreams made and used and wasted. I'll pass. Give me a homely artist with soul over a pretty one with a mirror any day.

I'll see you down at the karaoke bar. Drinks are on the pretty girls.

I had a dream my life would be
So different from this hell I'm living
So different now from what it seemed
Now life has killed the dream I dreamed.

I love tv ~ sad edition

Oh, network executives, why dost thous torment me so?

Rumor has it that yet another one of my favorite shows, in this case NBC's quirky, clever and much under appreciated Life, is poised to get the ax after tonight's season finale. This makes me very, very sad. And frankly, I blame you.

I don't know what you're watching or doing or reading while you should be watching my...wait, you haven't turned off the TV to read, have you? What the...that is what commercials are for! I swear, I don't know what is wrong with you people.

Anyway, whatever you're up to, you're not watching this endearing little gem of a cop show, and that is truly a shame. For me.

Damian Lewis plays Charlie Crews, a cop back on the job after having been framed for a heinous crime, and possibly the only redhead I've ever had a crush on. Charlie did some seriously hard time before his release from prison, from which he emerged a changed man, richer in both spirit (the result of Buddhist study) and bank account (the result of millions in settlement money). The mystery of who framed Charlie and why forms the overarching back story to each week's crime du jour, but it is Lewis' performance as a man torn between a reawakened joie de vivre and an equally compelling lust for vengeance that is a pure pleasure to behold as, week by week, we see the struggle play with controlled ferocity in Charlie's dreamy blue eyes. Add Sarah Shahi as Charlie's hot but troubled partner Dani Reese, and Adam Arkin as Charlie's fallen ex-CEO of a roommate in performances nuanced, sympathetic and eminently believable, and you've got one pretty entertaining hour of television. Not to mention writing that contains one of my favorite conversational exchanges on TV in recent memory:

"You can't always get what you want," Charlie tells his captain, played with schlumpy earnestness by Donal Logue.

"What do you want?"

"I want a peaceful soul. I need a bigger gun."

My sentiments exactly. I feel ya, Charlie. That's Life.

sideways mom

I spent the first couple of years of my life in foster care with a number of families, the last of whom left me alone in their house while they went on vacation to Florida. Over time I'd had enough of these 'moms' that in order to keep them straight I gave them different designations, with all the extreme literalism of childhood. The woman who finally adopted me and took me into her heart was Mommy-in-the-Kitchen, because that's where she always was; cooking, cleaning, caring.

Carol Bayer Sager has written a beautiful, heart wrenching piece entitled Anita's Girl for LA Magazine. In it she tells of the loving but complicated relationship she shared with her own mother until her recent death. With the wisdom of pain she describes how it altered, with the fluidity and changing circumstances of time, sometimes stressing and straining but never breaking the ties that bound them. At the very end:

I now see that my mother didn’t know how to leave me. On the day before she died, she seemed cheerful. She was hungry, and although I was always policing what she ate, I decided to let her eat whatever she wanted—like giving that party we’d never gotten around to having. Toward the very end, I was lying on her bed while she ate frozen yogurt, and out of the blue she asked, “Do you want to come with me?” I knew exactly what she meant, and I said, quietly, “No, Mom, I can’t. Not now.” “I know you have Bob and Christopher to care for,” she replied, then waited a few beats and said, more to herself than to me, “But how will we ever separate?”

It broke my heart to read that last line, for I could easily have written it, so close was it to the moments that I shared with my mother at the end of her life. She passed in October of 2006, and I know that I still haven't managed to fully separate myself from her. I probably never will. When Carol writes to her mother, "You occupied so much space inside of me. To me, you were always bigger than life. I still hear your voice—I know what you would say to me and how you would say it. You are still here..." she writes for me. And I am grateful.

I started Mom's portrait immediately upon returning from her funeral. I was distraught; determined to keep her with me, I painted her as I so often saw her ~ shifting her shoulders to look up from her chair, eyes alight with pleasure at the sight of me. I know in my heart that no one will ever be that happy to see me again. The colors were to be bright and cheerful, devoid of shadow, for I needed to make her happy and safe and somehow not alone. When my brother saw the picture he called it 'Sideways Mom', and that feels appropriate to me ~ a little fey, a little mischievous, a little off. Just like Mom and I. If I had to do it over again I probably would have made different choices, but this particular picture will have to stand as it is.

When I first proposed doing a portrait to Mom the last time that she was home with me, we decided together that it would hang over a bookcase in the living room, but I may have changed my mind. I've gotten so used to having her greet me from her perch on the easel as I come into the kitchen for coffee each morning that I may have to find a place for her there instead. She can be Mommy-in-the-Kitchen again. I don't think she'll mind at all.

there but for fortune go I

Cynthia posted this little nugget of a meme and because I am lazy and in need of a giggle I tried it. The challenge was to google "unfortunately, (your name)" and post the first ten non-repetitive results. Like Cynthia, I chose instead to post only my favorite unfortunate fates:

Unfortunately GiGi was used as a brood bitch and...

Unfortunately, Gigi has become victim of recent changes.

Unfortunately, Gigi’s artist name is a bit too common, so searching for her music can be a tad more difficult than other artists.

Unfortunately, Gigi threw that menu, with most of the dishes, out the window.

Unfortunately, Gigi's magical attacks also will target your partner, so this limits her usefulness in a multiplayer setting.

Unfortunately Gigi speaks today.

Unfortunately, Gigi is in love with Gaston, and though she does not wish to become his mistress, she decides that a) she loves him too much to reject him.

Unfortunately Gigi has a point when he said there'd be alot of swearing.

Unfortunately, Gigi was brought in as an accomplice in dragging that storyline out and I've had a problem with her ever since.

Unfortunately, Gigi has a problem getting her teeth in the way, and deflating old Sammy.

Unfortunately, Gigi makes every scene awkward to watch as she continuously flirts with and teases Mouth, regardless of who's around.

Unfortunately, GiGi won the battle despite that she needed instructions to play the game.



I know. That's 12. But unfortunately, Gigi, well, see above.

thar she (allegedly) blows

We were strolling along the boardwalk in front of the fabulous waterfront homes of Balboa Island in Newport Beach. I was trying to convey to Robbie why it was perfectly acceptable to peer openly into the living rooms of the homes' wealthy occupants.

"Will you please stop staring into people's windows!" she had requested, most unreasonably I thought. "It's rude."

"No it isn't," I explained patiently. "They want us to stare! Those windows are there for us, the lowly proles. They're our firsthand look into the lifestyles of the rich and not-so-famous, who are by definition insecure. We're their target audience. They need to see our soot-smudged little faces, clutching the sills, gazing upward with envy and awe at their tasteful opulence. It helps define them."

I was really enjoying waxing populist. It comes naturally to me. Especially at sunset, after a martini or two.

"They feed on our envy," I continued. "It's how they know who they are. They thrive on it."

"It's still rude," she insisted mildly, pulling out her camera.

"They could always draw the curtains. But you don't see them doing that now, do you?"

And indeed, there is something inherently theatrical about the Balboa boardwalk scene; designer set pieces framed by those huge picture windows, strategically illuminated from within. Recessed lights softly reflect the polished surface of grand pianos and decorative wine openers; enormous overstuffed sofas are tossed casually, invitingly, with billowy pillows of tapestry and silk. Twinkling lamps highlight gleaming telescopes on tripods, acres of hardwood flooring and etched glass. Lovely, stately, pristine. And at 6:30 pm on a Saturday evening, suspiciously unoccupied.

"You would think that at this point they'd be more afraid of a class uprising. Of the unwashed masses coming at them with pitchforks and shovels, like Marie Antoinette," she mused, snapping discreetly.

You would think. Looking around, there did seem to be a curious lack of long-handled tools topped with metal or spiky prongs laying about for a fully functioning harbor. Not even an anchor. The area had been prole-proofed. The least they could have done was provided us with nerf bats. Off with their hedgefund-happy heads!

Except these guys. They look kinda fun.

We were both celebrating and lamenting our earlier whale watching excursion out of Davy Jones' Locker, an annual event since 2004 or 05. Davy Jones guarantees their trips with free rain checks, so that if no whales or dolphins are spotted you get to sail again at any time for free. When we first started coming out, tickets were $14; today they would have set us back a whopping $30 bucks apiece. But we've been sailing free for years, and in time have forgotten about the whales altogether and just come to think of it as a pleasant day at sea. All we've ever spotted were seagulls and sea lions.


Until today.



"Whale! At 1:00!" hollered the captain. About 30 people flew to starboard at once. That means to the right, ye scurvy landlubbers. And I know right is starboard because I just looked it up.

"No! Sorry! 2:00!" shouted our I'm-pretty-sure-sea-worthy captain. We all turned our heads ever so slightly in unison.

And thar she blew.

At least we think so. Turns out, thar was pretty far. The truth is, although Captain Don't-call-me-Ahab Rick chased her for the better part of an hour, we never got close enough to truly appreciate much of her. We did see her spray far in the distance, but then again, this is Southern California, birthplace of Hollywood and special effects; for all we know, that could have been the old shark effect from Universal's 'Jaws' theme ride, reworked into a harbor leviathan. I was once on an excursion (and much smaller boat) out of Dana Point when a California grey whale swam right up next to us, close enough to reach out and stroke, to see every barnacle on her sleek broad back. I swear, you could smell the deep sea depth of her. It was a surreal and magnificent experience. This, well, this could have been a floating log. A very large, fast-moving log.

Disembarking, we felt a little deflated.

"It's the end of an era," said Robbie sadly.

I sighed. "No more free trips. I'm going to miss Balboa."

One hour and a refreshing cocktail later, we were feeling much brighter.

"To next year, in Dana point," toasted Robbie.

And thar we goes.

dissed by the stars

Horoscope: Cancer

In Horoscopes

After years of painstaking research and rigorous clinical trials, medical science still doesn't have an answer for why you're such a jerk.

I feel like a number

Diets tend to make one obsessively numbers oriented, and for the past couple of weeks they've been much on my mind. It occurs to me that my entire life has been recorded, at least at one level, as little more than a series of weights and measures which I have allowed to create my identity as a woman and which continue to influence how I feel about myself today. I thought I was smarter than that.

I am not. I can still recall how much I weighed at varying points in my personal history with a precision lacking in any other aspect of my life. I can't remember my cell number or the name of my last dentist, but I can tell you that I was 15 years old and 130 lbs when Seventeen magazine and the family doctor informed me that 130 was too fat for a teenager of my (disappointing) 5' 4" height. I had thought I was taller than that.

The doctor went on to tell me that if I kept it up at this rate I would be extremely overweight by the time I was 30. I wasn't exactly sure what he meant by 'extremely', but I knew that the idea of being 30 at all sounded terrifying enough. I can tell you that I went on a diet that summer and lost 16 lbs, thrilled that I weighed 114 lbs on my 16th birthday and vowing that I would weigh the same on every birthday for the rest of my life.

I did not keep that vow. And I never shall.

When my first boyfriend broke up with me at age 18 I starved myself down to 107; when my second broke up with me 2 years later I only managed a to whittle my frame down to a paltry 108. I took this to mean that my love for him was not as great as it had been for the first, a realization that added just enough regret to help me achieve a dangerously waifish 105. The self-induced pain of hunger masked the inflicted anguish of rejection. It felt good, regaining physical control as I imagined myself being devoured from the inside out, literally and emotionally. In the meantime, I assuaged my misery with an endless supply of whiskey sours, Virginia Slims, and Gloria Gaynor belting out I Will Survive on the jukebox at 25 cents a play. Disco Saves.

Sadly, over the years I grew accustomed to breakups and they could no longer be used as a reliable means of weight control. I learned to exercise. After I got married and the threat of a breakup became, although not impossible certainly, at least less frequent, I found that happiness was just another way of saying that I had to work out more. I thought I was more sensible than that.

5.77 miles in 45 minutes on the Precor burns about 400.02 calories, which means I'll have to do at least 2.15 miles on the tread at a rate of 4.0 mph to burn a total of 600 calories. But 45 minutes on the elliptical can vary between 5.75 and 6.35 miles depending on the pace and hits about 500 calories, meaning I can cut the tread to about 1 to 1.25 miles to burn the 600 and create a nice even mileage total as well, only if I do 6.35 miles precor I'll probably have to do 1.75 tread because I feel guilty if I do less than 1 and hate to stop at a number like 1.65 because it's so close to the end of the lap at 1.75. 1.67 is sometimes OK because it's 1 1/3, which seems more of an accomplishment and less of a wimp-out than 1 1/2, and represents approximately 7-10 additional calories; again, depending on the pace and ratio to vertical incline.

There are 104 calories in one baked potato and 200 in 2 tablespoons of butter; 30 in a cup of broccoli; 300 in a can of tuna packed in oil; 110 in a glass of Chardonnay but I like a large glass, more like 140 or so and after 2 who's counting anyway? Not I, surely. But the cardiac/sculpt instructor says it takes a deficit of 3600 calories to lose 1 pound; by cutting out 100 calories a day it will take 36 days to lose 1 pound. 36 days x 26 pounds = 936 days to achieve this particular Fitness Fetish goal, or 468 days if cutting 200 and there goes my glass of wine.

Bored? Yeah, me too. I thought I was more interesting than that.

And of course, it all adds up to little in the end. I will be no more or less loved, less engaged in the world, no more or less likely to have left a lasting impression on the lives of the people I care about. It is a tale told by a chubby idiot, full of math and fury, signifying nothing.

What Number Are You?

You Are 5: The Investigator

You're independent - and a logical analytical thinker. You love learning and ideas... and know things no one else does. Bored by small talk, you refuse to participate in boring conversations. You are open minded. A visionary. You understand the world and may change it. At Your Best: You are sharp, inventive, and creative. You have the skills to lead the world. At Your Worst: You are reclusive, weird, and a bit paranoid. Your Fixation: Greed Your Primary Fear: Being useless or incompetent Your Primary Desire: Being competent and needed Other Number 5's: Bill Gates, John Lennon, Kurt Cobain, Bjork, and Stephen Hawking.

What Number Are You?

For the record, I am not paranoid.
Why are you looking at me like that?

can't post now ~ gotta finish this

So I was toodlin' around yesterday when I should have been working/cleaning/rolling quarters/kiting checks/staring off into space. But it was actually in the course of doing some legitimate research (I swear) when I stumbled across this little divertissement and...well, a girl just cannot have too many avatars, as far as I'm concerned. They're like Barbies for grown-up geeky girls. Everyone needs a Barbie, right? No? Just me? Okay.

Sure, I know you're busy ~ like me, you're struggling hard to make up believable resumes (what year would I have graduated college if I were the 38 year-old systems engineer I am claiming to be? Where would I have gone? Is a $150k starting salary too high? Too low? Should I also be fluent in Chinese? What will I wear to my new office?) all the while upending your couch in search of loose change to pay for that last latte before the corner Starbucks closes and Armageddon commences.

Or maybe you're just energetically combing YouTube for video mix-ups of Christian Bale's rant, poo-flinging chimps and another one of those whack-job preachers calling Obama the Antichrist. All great fun, I agree. But even that kind of effort gets exhausting after a while.

It'll waste of a good hour or so of your life, I promise.

You're welcome.

I love my little avi. I think she'll get a tattoo.

tabula rasa

Lately I've been playing around with trying to turn a few poorly written personal journal pages into a few poorly illustrated personal journal pages with predictably muddled results. In the process, I have learned two things about myself which I will proceed to put down here, as god knows I am currently unable to put them down there, for reasons which will be soon become clear.

A) I have the aesthetic and attention span of a six year old girl.

Despite having recently purchased and perused not one but three gorgeous new books on how to create successful mixed-media collages, I do not not understand these new materials at all. Acrylic paints remain an unfathomable mystery to me, and I cannot seem to grasp how to handle them without brushes drying up and the paper buckling and splotching willy-nilly while I am busily distracted elsewhere, cutting up magazine photos and gluing down pretty plastic pearls. It appears to require more organization and forethought than I am accustomed to. When it comes to the art of collage, I am still a child eating molding paste and dreaming about unicorns, gaily coating everything in sight with glitter and faerie dust, and thinking it magic.

B) I am not that bright.

Actually, this is probably a subset of A, but as I have predetermined that this should be part of an epic 2 Random Things You Don't Know About Me post, it gets its own heading. Although, come to think of it, you may already know this about me, or at least suspect as much. Consider yourself validated.

Inspired by the likes of Judy Wise, Teesha Moore and Amber Gibbs I attempted to
decorate a few journal pages of my own. This seemed to be going remarkably well, and so pleased was I with my cleverness that I even wrote a haiku to grace one of the freshly renovated pages. It was beautiful, that little poem; elegant, self-contained ~ a delicately framed image of the mountains being seduced by enveloping storm clouds. I like writing haiku because it combines two of my favorite things; precise imagery and counting to 7. Plus, they are easy to remember until I can write them down. And because I also like smooth, shiny things, I added to all my pretty pages what I thought was a light coat of glossy gel medium.

You may guess the rest.

I now have a journal full of pretty pages on which nothing may be written. They are sealed; no gel pen, no graphite, no watercolor pencil; no ballpoint, nor Sharpie, nor quill dipped in blood will adhere to the now impermeable surface of my mini masterpieces. Diaries without drama, journals without joy. It is the Never-starting Story.

Of course, I could still paste prose into them, or use acrylics and a very narrow brush to paint entries, calligraphy style, but frankly this is demanding far too much of my limited literary abilities; already there had been a question of what I could write that would be deemed pretty page-worthy. Hauntingly beautiful and long forgotten haiku aside (verily, I swear; a brilliant addition to the art of counted syllables, it was) what was I going to set down in my Japanese garden; the daily calorie count? Miles on the treadmill? My thoughts on the president's stimulus package? Surely, painting one's daily weigh-in is going a step too far.


The moving finger writes, and having writ moves on...

I wish you would step back from that ledge my friend

Pay no attention to the dazzling creature you see before you, light dancing off the mirrors of her magnificently mosaic frame. The Fitness Blog is clinically depressed, and feels not her power.

Three weeks into the Most Pointless Diet in the History of Womankind, I have gained back 2 pounds, leaving me just 6 pounds less than I was when I started. Not to mention infinitely more sober, which has done nothing to improve my mood. If I get any more clear-headed I'm going to have to start going to meetings. Preferably meetings sponsored by Celebrity Rehab's Dr. Drew, whose freshly detoxed people all seem to turn up weeks later on TMZ partying at Teddy's or Chez Deux, none the worse for wear. And lookin' mighty trim, I'd like to point out.

In any case, I am frustrated and unhappy with my sudden inability to control my own body. I know how to do this thing, dammit. I have been a dedicated dieter since the age of 15 when, much to my mother's dismay, I dropped 15 pounds on a balanced diet of black coffee, TAB and teenage angst. Since then, whenever I put on a couple of pounds I simply throw myself into the latest diet craze, be it Grapefruit, Atkins, the Zone or Cabbage Soup. I vaguely recall one which started with rice cakes and peanut butter in the morning and ended with canned red beets and tuna at night. Oddly, it was not all that bad, and not the worst regimen by far. Certainly not as bad as eating several grapefruit a day. Those vodka and grapefruits can really get to you over the course of an evening.

Inevitably, I would get back down to where I wanted to be and resume normal eating habits, which are generally not all that different from what I've been putting down here for the past 3 weeks: primarily fruits and vegetables 3 or 4 days a week; steak, chicken, fish or pasta on weekends. The only difference is that when I'm not dieting, I really let go when I play. When I'm dieting I don't, and aside from the one blowout weekend, I haven't this time either. I've behaved myself. I've counted calories. I haven't seen a potato chip or M&M in weeks. I've run and stepped and downward-dogged myself from here to Texas, and still I can't fit into my jeans. Frankly, I'm flummoxed. And it goes without saying, poorly dressed.

An article in this week's Times on the merits of fasting states that women of my age should be eating between 1600 and 1800 calories a day. I would like to be on that diet. And everyone seems to be losing weight; the folks over at The Biggest Loser are losing 10-15 pounds a week; anyone gaining weight, as I have, would have been laughed clear off the farm. Or beaten to death by that mean-girl trainer, Jillian. Now there's a woman with issues.

But the reality is that years of extreme dieting, coupled with decades of regular, strenuous workouts have slowed my metabolic rate down to that of a tree sloth. In fact, I have developed a metabolism so ruthlessly efficient that I no longer burn calories, I create them. And the vast storage areas required to house them. Thus, I am a victim of evolution. I should be studied by scientists. And possibly theologians. I'd love to be able to settle that dispute.

The good news is that if my plane ever crashes into the Andes or a deserted island somewhere I will be able to exist for months without food, and therefore not forced to eat my fellow survivors for energy.

The bad news is that I will be so insufferable in my smug plumptitude that my fellow survivors will choose me to be eaten first. It's a win/lose situation.

So, I win. I am the Biggest Loser!

good news/bad news

It was a good news/bad news kind of weekend.

The good news is that it was great, full of food, friends and frivolity; exactly the kind of thing Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays were invented for. Possibly Thursdays. Wednesdays would be too much, we must all have our limits, what is wrong with you?!! Therefore I do hereby declare Thursdays to be the Weekend Wild Card. All weekends shall begin with an optional Thursday. Forthwith.

After a Friday night pasta-making party for which I made some high-calorie appetizers (bacon, salami and cheese, oh my!) I hit the highway early Saturday for the LA Art Show at the massive Staple Center with a fellow art and fun-loving pal. We sailed across town on the wings of angels and arrived just in time to spend the next 55 minutes sitting around trying to get into the parking garage. C'est LA.

But the day was beautiful and the exhibit, featuring top notch galleries from around the nation, was comprehensive. We wandered among paintings and sculpture for hours, seeking inspiration in everything ranging from early French Impressionist oils to the latest in contemporary mixed-media objects, including some oddly executed, dubiously conceived student work (I'm looking at you, giant pink papier mache' penis in a guillotine!) So comprehensive was the show that it even furnished its own occasional celeb sightings; I am quite certain I nearly made eye contact with Ted Danson, who is lookin' mighty fine if indeed it was him. And if it wasn't, well, someone is keeping themselves up very nicely. Kudos to you, Tall, Tanned and Silver, whoever you may be.

After the show we hit the deliciously old-school Palm restaurant for dinner and drinks and one last hoorah before settling in for the long bleak breadlines to come. I had the Mahi Mahi, half the Gigi Salad (truly ~ how could we not?) and several loaves of bread (little known fact; art appreciation is an inexplicably carby-hardy endeavor. No really, it is...beauty burns bicarbo...oh, stop judging me!)

So what I'm saying is, it was all pretty terrific, which is good.

But I'm also saying it was seriously terrific, and my diet is trashed. Which is bad.

I'm screwed.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Talkin' trash: Monday
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Breakfast: black coffee

bunch of grapes 110

Lunch: I swear I just forgot

Dinner: 1 bowl Campbell's chicken vegetable soup: 100
leftover salami and cheese: 400 calories? 500? 6? who knows? who cares? it's over. I'm sad.

And yet, to quote Lenny from 'The Simpsons' as he plunged to a likely death over the cliff, "I regret nothing......!"


Daily total: 700 ~ 800 ~ 1006 calories

~~~~~~~~~~

yoga 1 hour

treadmill: 2.05 miles 24 minutes

~~~~~~~~~~

net weight gain/loss since last Monday: +3 lbs.

OK. I regret that. I regret that a lot.

pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off

The country has new leadership, renewed purpose and yes, fresh hope. I am happy, simply moved beyond words and will suffer no cynics on this most joyful day. I can only imagine the thrill of all those who chose to journey to Washington for this historic occasion. Today, as I listened to the somber, measured speech of our President and watched an exuberant crowd of millions cheer in a new dawn I thought, it's true ~ we really did do it. I have never been as proud to be an American as I was this morning.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
the fitness blog cares naught for parades;
it is Killjoy, the Dick Cheneyiest of blogs
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Precor: 3.57 miles (45 minutes)

treadmill: 3.25 miles (42 minutes)

6.82 miles total

(leg machines - 15 minutes)

~~~~~~~~~~

Breakfast: black coffee

Lunch: 1 bowl Campbells soup 100

Dinner: spinach 50
baked potato 105
w/ lots of butter 200


daily total: 455 calories

~~~~~~~~~~

net weight gain/loss (from last weigh-in): +.5

that's plus 1/2 lb since yesterday, after eating just 600 calories.

Conclusion: Hope is fattening. If I get any Hopier, in 3 months I'll be 60 pounds heavier. But chock fulla Hope, baby.

how can we miss him if he won't go away?

As our nation's capitol swells with thousands of cheering, joyful, tearful throngs eager to celebrate a future filled with new hope for our people, restored belief in our leaders and a renewed dedication to the principles of our democracy, there is no place I'd rather be than in Washington DC right now. And there is no place I'd rather be at this very moment than the Huffington Post Inaugural Ball at the Newseum. I hear that place is rockin'.

But, as with all the good parties, I am not there but here, rockin' the PJ's in the dark dungeons of the internets; listening to MSNBC and wishing to the gods that I could at least have a glass of wine, fer cryin' out loud; I mean, what's 110 measley calories when we're making history here people...

So, I'm doing this instead. So far my high score is 9. Remember ~ they break to the left.





We'll miss the laughter, but not the tears. The many, many tears. So long, George.



~~~~~~~~~~~
Torment Today:
~~~~~~~~~~~

the Diet is annoyed that it does not get Martin Luther King Day off
and intends to sue


Breakfast: black coffee

bunch of grapes 110


Lunch: 1 bowl chicken w/ wild rice soup 120 calories


Dinner: 1 whole can Campbell's chicken vegetable soup: 200
frozen peas 100
w/butter 100


Daily total: 630 calories

~~~~~~~~~~

yoga 1 hour

treadmill: 2.05 miles 22 minutes

~~~~~~~~~~

net weight gain/loss since last Monday: -2 lbs.

the fitness blog can hardly keep its eyes open

Last night was date night and yet somehow uneventful ~ no movie, just a couple of Blonde Ales down at the local brew pub, a shared mini pizza and then off to a chain restaurant for a bland tilapia in an overly sweetened pineapple mango salsa. There were a couple of glasses of wine of a distinctly box-like vintage. All in all not a brilliant evening but, as Turk never tires of telling me, we are in the midst of a recession and beggars can't be choosers. Appropriately enough, we were home in time to watch The Office. It all seems hardly worth breaking a diet for. In fact, as dates go this one was pretty unimpressive, from a calorie-countish point of view. Frankly, I don't know if I should even keep seeing this guy. Still, he does make me smile...

Someone sent me this today, and you've probably seen it as well. I don't know who the author is but it's certainly apt and far more clever than I this evening, so in it goes.

Twas the month after Christmas,

and all through the house,

Nothing would fit me,

not even a blouse.

The cookies I'd nibbled,

the chocolate I'd taste

At the holiday parties

had gone to my waist.

When I got on the scales

there arose such a number!

When I walked to the store

(less a walk than a lumber),

I'd remember the marvellous meals I'd prepared;

The gravies and sauces and beef nicely rared,

The wine and the rum balls, the bread and the cheese

And the way I'd never said, "No thank you, please."

As I dressed myself in my husband's old shirt

And prepared once again to do battle with dirt...

I said to myself, as I only can,

"You can't spend a winter, disguised as a man!"

So, away with the last of the sour cream dip.

Get rid of the fruit cake, every cracker and chip.

Every last bit of food that I like must be banished

Till all the additional ounces have vanished.

I won't have a cookie, not even a lick.

I'll want only to chew on a long celery stick.

I won't have hot biscuits, or corn bread, or pie.

I'll munch on a carrot and quietly cry.

I'm hungry, I'm lonesome, and life is a bore...

But isn't that what January is for?

Unable to giggle, no longer a riot.

Happy New Year to all, and to all a good diet.

~~~~
Today
~~~~

gym:

precor: 3.59 miles 45 minutes
treadmill: 1.66 miles 22 minutes

total: 5.25 miles

Breakfast: coffee
grapes 100

Lunch:
grapes 60
apple 60

Happy Hour: oh, the love of...it's Friday! What am I, made of stone?
2 lite beers 180

Dinner: big salad

lettuce 45
onion 40
tuna 300
10 olives 90
1 tbs rice vinegar dressing 20
salad subtotal 505

daily total 905 calories

But, am drinking a glass of wine as we speak...so + 110.

Damn, that adds up.

Diets suck.


net/gain loss since Thursday: -.5