thanks, doug

Having escaped the real world for a while, my friend, Doug, is living la vida loca in Mexico. He set up camp with his girlfriend, participates in local celebrations, and dares to start the process of writing a book. Luckily, he has a good internet connection so he can send regular updates and weekly song selections. His most recent is one of my favorite "Three Stooges" skits. My brothers (yes, three of them) taught me this song well, and I have been randomly torturing friends and loved ones with my rendition of it ever since.

With no further ado, Ladies and Gentlemen, "Swingin' the Alphabet."

astonished

This morning, after Ted opened the store and I set up my Twitter account, we ran a couple errands and went to IHOP for breakfast. We hadn't been there in a while, and I woke up craving cheese blintzes.

Now, I have to go backwards.

I am fat; have been most of my life. I fought it for many years, but repeatedly dieting only ever made me temporarily smaller before making me permanently bigger. I made a conscious decision to stop all attempts at weight loss when I was 22 years old, and with the exception of one moment of weakness in 1991 (old habits die hard, especially in the face of constant bombardment), I haven't dieted since.

I believe that dieting is worse for my health than fatness ever was or will be. I eat intuitively. Such a concept flies in the face of an industry that creates unfathomable methods and imposes insane rules. Luckily, I love nutritious food, so it makes up the bulk of what I eat every day. The net result is that I am simultaneously fat and healthy. It has confused every marginal health care provider I've ever had, and pleased the good ones.

Don't get me wrong. I totally love sweets, too. I have them when I want them. As my mother (and her mother, and her mother's mother) said, "all things in moderation." Smart women (of which, I count myself). My old job had a company-subsidized cafeteria, which was extremely convenient. This resulted in a nearly daily routine of a fresh salad, a can of Fresca, and a chocolate chip cookie for lunch. The diet industry and all those who have been brainwashed by it would look at that lunch and say, "Oh, you were doing so well until you added the cookie!" My intuition (and previous experience) tells me that the one cookie after my salad was perfectly acceptable (not to mention enjoyable), and probably prevented me from stopping at the store and picking up a box of Hostess cupcakes to eat in its entirety within the next 24 hours (an old trick from before I was so smart).

It was not easy getting to this point. In addition to the food aspect of this change, I also had to learn to accept myself without reservation. Although this is a lifelong process that every intelligent human must endure, I have found it to be tricky at times because world is constantly telling me that my size makes me unacceptable. It forces me to be defensive, a posture I've never embraced (hence my claim of being a "passive size activist"). That said, I had a good foundation of parental esteem-building, and once I had my own personal epiphany in 1994, most of the external barbs went away. Once in a while, a complete stranger is compelled to say something brilliant to me, but it usually the exception now, not the rule.

So back to this morning. Ted and I are two of a hundred people at the very popular pancake restaurant. The place is bustling. There's a crowd waiting in the foyer, and people standing outside. We are seated, enjoy our breakfast, and head out. Ted opens the door for me (how chivalrous!), and I keep walking toward the car while he stands in place for an elderly woman who had just been dropped off at the front door.

She said something to him, I didn't hear what. When I turned around, he was just standing there confounded, with a look of utter disbelief on his face. This stance lasted a couple of long seconds, while the old lady stood in front of him and looked at him with what appeared to be eager, nay gleeful, anticipation of an answer. I headed back toward him, and he said "I left the table" while shaking his head. She turned and walked into the restaurant.

He turned to me and said something to the effect of, "What the hell was that?" I asked him what she'd said. She said to the kind man who was holding open the door for her...

wait for it...

"Did you leave anything for me?"

Not "Good morning."

Not "Nice day, isn't it?"

Not "Thank you for holding the door for me, young man."

No. Instead, she cracked herself up with a joke that the fat man must have eaten all the food in the restaurant before she got there. I might have been able to shake that off as the type of politically incorrect thing that the elderly sometimes say because their ability to filter such things has diminished with old age. But hers was not just a rhetorical question asked for the sake of comedy. She stood there and waited for him to answer her. Usually sharp-tongued, Ted stumbled because he didn't want to be rude to her -- leading to the long pause and his "I left the table" response.

Upon telling me this story, my first response to his query ("What the hell...?") was that she was rude, plain and simple. Then I said he totally should have looked her in the eye and as seriously as possible said, "No. I ate everything. Go somewhere else." No, I wouldn't have been able to do it, either.

The whole thing left me hacked off for a while afterwards. It's interesting timing for me (which is silly because it didn't happen to me, it happened to Ted) because I have been entangling myself in the Fat Rights movement more and more these days. I have dramatically expanded the "Blogs I Read" and "Size" lists on the right side of my blog, after having spent countless hours reading them. I joined the COFRA website, and have even committed to attending the next BFB Think Tank in Chicago (circumstances allowing). I've been building myself up to see if I can shake the "passive" off my size activist descriptor, and then something stupid like this happens.

I have no neat and tidy end to this anecdote. So with that, nearly four hours of writing, editing, and otherwise formatting this silly entry, I need to go to bed. I must be up at 5:30am.

nooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

If only I'd been paying attention. If only I read the town paper more often. If only I looked more closely at the "coming soon" board on the Music Hall when I walked past it. If only... . Then I would have known that Lyle Lovett was playing there. TONIGHT.

But now it's too late. Sold out. And just to torture me, not only did I just drive past his tour bus (noting the Tennessee license plate) and chuckle as it tried to take the corner, I can now literally see the bus from my front window. Parked for the evening. Maybe I could go knock on the bus door.

"Hello... Here I am. Yes it's me."

Woe is me! I was just a few weeks ago effusing about him. Wah! Boo-hoo! Cry!

get that mushroom

Anyone who spent as much time as I once did playing Super Mario Brothers (or even a fraction as much time as I did) will appreciate this. What a riot!

he won. yay!

My recent obsession with a certain Canadian singer is well documented here (and here). Because I often find myself out of touch with television programming, I somehow missed the fact that the Grammy awards show was Sunday night.

I knew that Mr. Buble had been nominated for Best Male Pop Vocal Performance (for "Everything") and Best Traditional Pop Vocal Album (for "Call Me Irresponsible"), and just stumbled upon the fact that he won the latter. Yay, Michael!

I know that loving this album the way I do lumps me in with a bunch of middle-aged soccer moms. Well, I am middle-aged -- without the minivan and play dates. So I guess I accept that for what it is. I just don't feel like the MASMs of the 70s who cooed over Barry Manilow or the MASMs of the 80s who cooed over Julio Iglesias. Maybe it's because I'm equally enthralled by Trent Reznor, Dave Grohl, and Chris Cornell, among others. I'm not so sure that the above-mentioned MASMs were simultaneously digging on Robert Plant, Ian Gillan, or Ozzy Osbourne.

So, I bought tickets to see him in concert. Yes, indeedy-do, I did. Mmmhmm. Since leaving Seattle (where I regularly went to shows at Jazz Alley, along with the occasional arena-size concert), I haven't gone to all that many shows since returning to New England. *NSYNC, Diana Krall, John Mayer, the New Haven Jazz Festival with Dianne Reeves, the Spike Lee show last summer with Kurt Elling, Raul Midon, Terrance Blanchard, and Dee Dee Bridgewater, and then the Police reunion tour. I toyed with going to see Vienna Teng last year, but ended up sick.

In any event, I'll elbow my way through the slightly silver crowd to bask in the wonderfulness that is Michael Buble. By the way, to the unidentified photographer of the picture at top*... genius. Pure genius. Gentle readers, I suggest you listen to "It Had Better Be Tonight" or "I'm Your Man" and just stare at this picture the whole time. Ouch.

Not that this other photo* isn't marvelous. Ooo... marvelous. Oh dear, I'm drooling, aren't I? How indelicate of me. I'm certain both my husband and Emily will forgive me. I must wrap it up for the night. Sweet dreams.

* I found both of these pictures uncredited on the internet.

swinging shingles

It's not snowing at the moment, though it has snowed a couple times earlier today. In fact, it's snowed (to some extent) pretty much every day in the past week. There was some "wintry mix" too, and one whole day of rain. We haven't had the monster storms like the ones in December. So no giant new snow banks or parking bans. Just perpetual, daily precipitation.

The Weather Channel advises us that, although there will be a little more snow overnight, the real story now is high winds and bitter cold. I hadn't really perceived it before peeking out the curtains about 20 minutes ago, when I discovered that the lawyer's sign across the street was nearly horizontal for the wind. It's really the only swayable item in view from our front window (no flags, no trees), but it does a fine job of indicating just how much the air is moving out there.

When the wind blows, our apartment gets very cold, very fast -- especially when we set the thermostat to 60°F at night (neither of us sleeps well if it's too warm). The building is old, and the brand new, double-paned, winterized windows only partially make up for what seems to be a complete lack of insulation in the walls. Bonus, the whole building shakes in the wind. Sometimes, it shakes even if it's not windy.

The forecast says that it will be below zero in the morning when Ted leaves for work. Not below freezing: that would be a balmy 31°F in comparison. Below 0°F. I'm tiring of winter tremendously. Oh, Phil, why do you curse us so?

crushed

I once liked Peter Walsh. I watched TLC's Clean Sweep regularly and fantasized about Peter bringing in a massive team of helpers who would spend two days throwing away stuff, having yard sales, and redecorating my newly clutter-free home. I loved his no-nonsense approach to the things a person really needs and wants and loves versus the things that the person somehow accumulates.

In the last season that I watched (I stopped watching about a year ago), it got super-schmaltzy, though. They reconfigured the show's focus. Suddenly, Peter was spending an extraordinary amount of time prodding the homeowners to tears and then philosophizing about their emotional clutter while cheesy music played softly in the background. Whatever. I still thought the whole clean-up process would be cool.

So Mr. Walsh had dropped off my radar for a little while because I stopped watching Clean Sweep. But then, he somehow finagled himself into becoming one of Oprah's gurus. And despite my ongoing love/hate relationship with Oprah, I do still TiVo/watch her show (though I will occasionally delete an episode immediately if it leans toward the 'hate' side of the scale). I've seen a couple Oprah shows with Peter that were fun and fine. But the most recent one took home organization into a whole new direction -- weight loss!

Seriously, he's written a book proclaiming that cleaning your house will lead to weight loss (because the clutter prevents you from having healthy eating and exercising habits, doncha' know). As if that whole concept weren't enough to choke on, in this particular episode, he literally put a family on a line of scales and weighed them on national TV.

Now, I don't have a problem with adults who wants to flog themselves in public. But I take particular issue -- for any of about a thousand reasons -- with the fact that two of the family members were children.

First, those children did not ask to be a part of such an outrageous stunt.

Second, until about the age of 20, children grow. It's that simple. They're supposed to grow. They morph through all sorts of shapes and sizes in that time. It's important to note few things about all that growing. [A] A fat child can be healthy and active in exactly the same way as any child. [B] A fat child does not necessarily become a fat adult. [C] Even if a fat child becomes a fat adult, he or she can be healthy and active in exactly the same way as any adult, because... [D] Some people are just genetically designed to be larger than others. Period. No matter what the diet industry tries to tell you.

Third, these children are already taunted by their peers (and the media, and the general public, and sometimes even their own families) because of their size. Standing in front of a group of 30 classmates getting weighed in the school gym is enough to pulverize self-esteem and cause life-long emotional scars. But on this day, Peter Walsh increased the audience a million-fold for that torture.

Clearly, this is a man who doesn't understand some very basic tenets.

[A] It is possible to be simultaneously fit and fat.

[B] Dieting doesn't work.

[C] Humiliation is not motivation.

[D] ...

[E] ...

[F] ...

[G] ...
[H] ...
[I] ...
[J] ...
[K] ...
[L] ...
[M] ...
[N] ...
[O] ...
[P] ...
[Q,R,S,T,U,V,W,X,Y,Z]...

You get the idea. I'm not articulating well tonight. Please, please, please read Junkfood Science. Read this post in particular. Visit the sites listed in the "size" section on the right side of this blog. Plus "Fat Girl on a Bike," "Fat Rant," and "She Dances on the Sand."

Heck, sign up for the content feed from "Notes from the Fatosphere." Read up, my friends. I know the world tries to convince us that fat=bad. I'm here to tell you (badly) that it's not always the case.

That was my painfully ineloquent way of saying my flame for Peter Walsh is officially extinguished. And my disappointment in Oprah continues to grow.

three words

Pup Pee Bowl!

Pup Pee Bowl!

Pup Pee Bowl!



OK, eight words.

... And Kitty Cat Half Time!

a new feature

At the risk of sounding immodest, I'm a pretty good cook. I can really only remember one dish I attempted that was so unpleasant we threw it away after a couple bites and went out to eat. Otherwise, I do fairly well. Last year, I made a concerted effort to start creating some of my own new recipes, with three specific goals in mind:

1. Fresh/whole ingredients
2. Low sodium
3. Great flavor

Those last two things might seem contradictory, but creative use of non-salt spices goes a very long way to that end. I went great guns with my inventions for a while, but slowed down when we bought the store, changed states, started new jobs, spent more time with the family, etc. Now, I'm getting back into it. Until I hone the next few recipes, I'm going to regale you with my favorites to this point. This one will be early dinner for Ted and me before Super Bowl tonight.

Chicken Pasta Primavera
(makes two large servings)

o 4 oz. uncooked pasta
o ½ cup carrots, cubed
o 1 cup broccoli florets
o ½ cup zucchini, cubed
o 3 large grape tomatoes, sliced
o 1 teaspoon olive oil
o ½ lb. boneless skinless chicken breasts, cut into ½ inch strips
o ½ cup sliced mushrooms
o ¼ cup chopped red pepper
o ¼ cup chopped orange pepper
o ¼ cup chopped yellow pepper
o 1 garlic clove, finely chopped
o 1/3 cup light ranch dressing
o ¼ cup shredded parmesan cheese
o ¼ teaspoon basil leaves (dried, or 1 teaspoon shredded if fresh)
o Coarsely ground black pepper to taste

Step 1: Cook and drain pasta as directed on package – except add carrots 2 minutes before pasta is done, and broccoli, zucchini, and tomato 1 minute before pasta is done.

Step 2: While pasta is cooking, heat olive oil in deep, nonstick skillet over medium-high heat. Add garlic and stir until brown. Cook chicken, mushrooms, and peppers for 2-3 minutes, stirring frequently, until chicken is no longer pink in center; remove from heat.

Step 3: Stir dressing, cheese, and basil into chicken. Toss with pasta and vegetables.

Step 4: Sprinkle plates with coarsely ground black pepper, then add primavera on top.

Note 1: Wheat pasta is a good substitute, as long as you find one that you like the flavor and texture of. If you don't like the pasta, you're not going to like the whole dish.

Note 2: Personally, I don't think it's possible to have too much basil in this dish (or anywhere in life). If you like basil, amp it up!

Note 3: Be creative with your personal choice of veggies. Fresh or frozen green peas are a great addition. I don't include them because Ted hates them with the fire of a thousand suns. Whichever veggies you choose, just bear in mind the density of each to determine whether it should be boiled with the pasta or sauteed with the chicken.

Note 4: This dish is not low-sodium, per se, thanks to the ranch dressing and parmesan. Although I would normally recommend substituting high-sodium ingredients for lower-sodium alternatives, this particular dish is NOT the same without these two key ingredients. That said, Chicken Pasta Primavera fits easily into the recommended guideline of less than 2400 mg. of sodium per day -- as long as the remaining meals and snacks of the day are equally sodium-conscious.

There's my cooking lesson of the day. I'm off to chop some veggies.

ya' hafta' try

I've been to many concerts where the "Superstar" phenomenon takes hold of me and won't let go. Do you know of this phenomenon? It was explained by the Carpenters in the song of the same name. The sheer talent of a person wholly compensates for any lack of physical attraction one might have for the artist.

The most striking example of this for me was seeing Stevie Ray Vaughan from the third row at the Portland City Hall Auditorium in November 1989. Having been a fan of his music for a few years at that point, and not finding him particularly easy on the eyes (although he always seemed to be sharply dressed), I was a little stunned at the level of enchantment that blossomed in two short hours. I fell trulymadlydeeply in love with SRV that night. Talent oozed from every fiber of his being, and I was rapt. It's happened many times with other musicians since then -- almost always in small venues where I'm breathing their air, looking them in the eye. But never to the extent it did with Stevie Ray. I still love him. ::sigh::

Given that, it's easy to understand why Julia Roberts fell for Lyle Lovett. Listen to this song.* Seriously. It came on my iPod the other day (which, by the way, is a great way to listen to it), and reminded me of how incredible Mr. Lovett is. In the way that shuffle randomly removes some music from the docket of things I'm currently listening to, it sometimes randomly draws me into (or back into) wonderful territory. Now, I'm listening to nothing but Lyle Lovett for a while.

That's all I wanted to say for now. I'll be back later.

* For some reason, this video has embedding disabled. So you must click the link to view it.

community and family

I have loved Extreme Makeover: Home Edition from the first episode. I admit, it was my obsession with Trading Spaces that brought me to it in the first place. That said, I've been hooked ever since (and not just because Ty Pennington regularly unbuttons or removes his shirt!). Tonight's episode featured the Voisine family in New Hampshire, and so I was vested a bit more for a couple reasons.

First, Granite State pride! Second, a family who lives next door to my brother was nominated and was one of the final few families to be considered. Third, my niece, Caitlin, was one of the blue-shirted volunteers who helped with the project last fall.

In addition to watching the show itself, the local ABC affiliate created a one hour special called "Extreme Makeover: New Hampshire Builds a Dream." It highlighted the community angle, and was very interesting to watch. The actual EM:HE show was two hours long. All in all, it was wonderful to watch and left me needing only one thing (c'mon, click the link!).

On another note, I visited my parents earlier today. A long-time friend of theirs had mailed them some stuff she uncovered while organizing a few decades of recreation-related memorabilia. In addition to three pictures of my parents from 1974 (nice tie, Dad!), there was an editorial from my hometown newspaper. It is dated July 25, 1963. This may bore you to tears, but I am fascinated. So I shall transcribe.

"Man With a Challenge" by Dan A. O'Connell (Editor)

Gerald Cox, 29, earnest and affable, college-trained in the new but necessary skill of Recreation Director, arrived this week to take charge of our town's recreational needs on a full-time basis. It would be the understatement of the year to say merely that the job offers a tremendous challenge. The new Director undoubtedly knows all the basic theories, concepts, and techniques of this pioneer science. He has the advantage of practical experience in the field and has compiled an impressive record of accomplishment in other places. His future here looks good, but unless the people of this community are prepared to pitch in and help, the young man and his program are certain to come a-cropper.

Ours is a progressive town, aware of tremendous change in the making, and conscious of a need to adjust with the times to survive their impact. This awareness and consciousness has been evident for several years. Almost everyone agreed that "something should be done," but nothing ever was, mainly because no one seemed to know exactly what, when, where or how. The problem came to a head this year when people woke up to the fact that so-called juvenile delinquency spawns on adult neglect and community callousness. As a result, the annual Town Meeting in March faced up to the problem, created a Recreation Commission and authorized the employment of a qualified, full-time Recreation Director.

Although the Town Meeting action was unanimous, it should not be assumed that everyone in town has "seen the light" or goes along with the proposition, regardless of the recorded unanimity. Beneath the facade of Twentieth Century trappings and adornment, the town remains an old-fashioned New England community, fiercely and ruggedly individualistic, with inherent distrust of governmental intrusions of its early American way of life. Considerable "selling" of the need to bend with the times, when survival is of the essence, remains to be done. Young Mr. Cox has been given the ball and will be expected to streak down the field to a series of impressive touchdowns. He is on his own and will be required to make the runs without a protective wall of interference. We who wish him well can only shout encouragement from the sidelines and try to set in proper perspective the comment of curbstone quarter-backs.

It would be doing the young man no favor at this stage of the game to promise him clear sailing ahead and no hidden shoals to wreck his programs and shatter his dreams. The plain fact of the matter is that Directed Recreation Programs and Supervised Facilities have long been considered new-fangled hokum by many good citizens who persist in living in the past and refuse to believe that the wide open spaces of youth no longer exist, or are rapidly disappearing under the impact of expanding "metropolitanism." They belong to generations which have accepted and enjoyed the pleasures of modern living without considering the price that youngsters and generations unborn will have to pay. It is only human nature to assume that the whole world revolves about one's own axis. The selfishness is instinctive and unwitting.

There is a great deal of misunderstanding and misconception about the business of Directed Recreation, a terrible inclination to dismiss it as "coddling" or boondoggling" or "time-passing." Nothing could be farther from the truth! A dynamic and intelligent program of directed and supervised recreation for all ages is not a luxury or a convenience, but a civic necessity. There is much more to Gerald Cox's new job than supervising youthful athletics, encouraging arts and crafts, or baby-sitting while children play. He will be responsible for seeing that tragic mistakes do not recur in the future. Our generation is harassed by the spectacle of youngsters playing in the streets because a callous older generation has taken away their pasture playgrounds to turn a fast buck. Civilization is cursed by teen-agers loafing on street-corners because society gives them nowhere else to go and nothing else to do.

Young Mr. Cox has a man-sized job staring him in the face, and a good place to start is at the beginning. He should take immediate steps to prevent a bad situation from coming immeasurably worse by having a heart-to-heart talk with the Planning and Zoning authorities. It is not enough that new real estate sub-divisions be required to provide adequate road, water, and sewerage facilities: there should be sufficient land set aside for playground areas to keep the kids off the street in an age of increasing transport speed. Next, he should try to conserve and improve and expand the playground and park area still extant in our town. They certainly do not inspire civic pride at the present time. He cannot insist, but he should suggest that the uncommitted sector of the Alexander Estate be preserved, as the good Doctor wished, for recreation, not speculation.

But, enough of telling young Mr. Cox what he should do. Even more important than a good idea in a typical New England town is the psychology of convincing people to go along. The people of this town are not Hicks and Yokels, but highly intelligent and surprisingly well read, far more so than their city slicker cousins. They resent being fast-talked, high pressured, or peddled a bill of goods. They are set in their ways, but not obstinate, and like Abraham Lincoln, will do the right as God gives them to see the right. Don't try to talk above them, or at them, but to them, man-to-man. Do this, Mr. Cox, and you'll do okay! Do otherwise, and you're a dead duck!

Many bright young brains, in the course of history, have come to town with the idea of re-making it in their own image, only to fall on their faces, and crawl away into oblivion. Many of them had good ideas, but the wrong approach. We are New Englanders and New Hampshiremen; we don't want to be made over; we relish ourselves the way God made us! All we ask of Mr. Cox or anyone is to help make us better and help us better utilize the facilities and natural wealth with which Divine Providence has endowed us. If Mr. Cox dedicates himself exclusively to doing his job well, he can certainly count on the cooperation and support of the vast majority of our townspeople. Nice to have you aboard, "Gerry"... and Good Luck!

Post-script.

My Dad was the town's Parks and Recreation Director for 28 years until his retirement. In that time, he created, implemented, and oversaw countless recreational and athletic programs, led the conversion of an old school into a community center, built a permanent staff of full-time, part-time, and volunteer recreation staff, and lobbied long and hard (and usually successfully) to save and create parks. It was he who protected the Alexander Estate mentioned in this article. That land is the ski hill I mentioned last week. My Dad rocks.

better

Another try at inventing a band, and creating an album cover and title. I like this one more than the first, though I seem to be stuck at band name upper left hand corner, album name lower right hand corner. So much for my future as a graphic designer.

Hey, Billy! Try this, please! I'd love to see what you create.


Props:
* Le Riopelle de L'isle is a cheese named after an artist
* Quotation by Carl Sagan is, "If you want to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first create the universe."
* Photo by Kristin Sig