The Breakup

Dear Jess,

Do you love me?
Do you want to see me sometime soon?
Do you still consider me your girlfriend?

To you they were my issues and my neediness, what you never had time for and as you say, always pissed you off. To me they were questions you didn't have the balls to answer. I could feel you slipping away a long time ago, and I even knew there was someone else. I'm not an idiot.

My friends have been listening to my trauma since "the beginning of the end", and I finally know what they meant in telling me over and over that when the time came, I would know what to do. So when I sarcastically asked you if you'd gotten me anything for Valentine's day and your answer was, in all seriousness, "What the hell for?", I knew I'd had enough.

I suggested we be friends.You said we might as well be penpals now since WE have been drifting apart for a long time. Don't you dare pin that on me. I was always willing to try, and should never have to convince someone they love me. I'm better than that.

And then the insults began. You never needed me. You put up with so much of my shit. I was lousy in bed. I was so unattractive that jerking off gave you more pleasure. I'm so fat I cut off the blood circulation in your legs while you slept. I'll lose weight and then blow up again when I get a new boyfriend. After all, that's my "way."

I'm really sure you never needed me, especially when I was paying the rent. Funny, I never saw you over exert yourself to get a job. Yeah I fell apart and cried a lot, I'll admit that. Mostly after you started yelling your head off for no good reason.

Lousy in bed, tsk tsk. Not once did you lack for climax, while I cap off my orgasms, after five years of sleeping with you, at a baker's dozen. And that's being generous. I always found you sexy, especially those many times you were sitting at your computer, shirt off, plumber's butt, knotty hair greasy and stinking from not showering in three days, all four spare tires spilling out over your waistline while you sucked on your bong.
What a turn on.

I'm so fat I cut off the circulation in your legs? News flash bastard, a slice of bread resting on your shin could cut off circulation. That's what you get for having calves thinner than my wrists. I'd look into implants.

As for blowing up again when I get a new man, I don't think so, darling. See, he won't be you.

The prize of it all though, the crowning glory and icing on the cake was when you hinted you'd be "willing" to fuck me when I lost weight. Here's a movie quote pretty much summarizing my feelings on that: I don't fuck losers.

If I was younger, if this had happened at any other time, what you said would have just about killed me. But the more crap that came out of your mouth, the better I felt. Over and over in my head I kept hearing, this is why you're breaking up with him, this is why you don't need him, this is why you're better off.

I will miss some things, I won't lie. When you weren't being a dick you were great to pal around with. And I'll really miss your family. It was wonderful to have grandparents again, and teenage girl cousins to talk clothes and nailpolish.

But this is the way it is, and this is the way it has to be. Unfortunately we have some business agreements together and you'll have to be in my life a little longer, but I highly doubt that will go beyond some brief chats. And when all is said and done, when accounts have been settled and laid to rest, I will disappear from your life forever.

Part of me wants to think that you'll miss me, you'll never find a girl as good as me, you'll realize what you had and lost. Maybe you will, maybe you won't. I'm not going to dwell on that anymore. There are more important things for me to think about now, and you're just not on that list.

Goodbye, Jess. And after everything you said to me yesterday, good fucking riddance.

PS: For all three years we lived together, you were such an asshole when you smoked up I got into the habit of flushing your weed down the toilet a bit at a time. When we lived in Europe and you were trying to "grow your own," the plants didn't die from bad lighting, they died because I was watering them with sink cleaner. The seeds you've been saving went down the sewer, and remember that pipe you thought was lost? I threw it off the balcony. Happy Valentine's Day.

Well, it's official. I'm single.

This has been a long time coming, and in the end will be for the best.

Still, I don't feel like talking right now.

I need to drink more Green Tea. While I still need black to mule kick me awake in the morning, the "dietary benefits of green tea for responsible, healthy individuals" are hard to ignore.

Green Tea is full of antioxidants. It's good for cancer, rheumatoid arthritis, high cholesterol, impaired immune function and cardiovascular disease. And studies have also shown that "green tea extracts are capable of reducing fat digestion by inhibiting digestive enzymes. Others have shown thermogenic properties of green tea (probably brought on by the interaction between its caffeine content, and catechin polyphenols). Thermogenesis is the process of the body burning fuel (fat) without making chemical energy (the calories are released as heat)."

Scientific diarrhea. Point made though, there's just so much great stuff in a little cup of green that not drinking it will make my life suck. If only it didn't taste like liquid hay. It makes me a lot more active in all the wrong ways too, or to paraphrase Robin Williams as the immortal Mrs. Doubtfire after s/he downed a few too many scotches: "I had to piss like a racehorse."

Alrighty then. Black tea every morning to wake up, green tea every night to purify, cleanse, and not panic because there's always a bathroom nearby. Ohm. I feel better already.

How do you follow up being bad? Being worse.

I was bad two days in a row and darlings, I loved it. First the coffee and yesterday, a Russian diner in the middle of nowhere with my Queens.

Coles Notes version: Raj & James bought a house, needs work, contractors acquired, James chef, professional kitchen equipment necessary, dealers/stores not in the city, rented a car, picked me up and out we went into the wild blue yonder.

Raj doesn't let James drive. He says it's because James is a bad driver. I took his word for it until Raj ignored our directions ten thousand times and we ended up taking the long way. The really really long way. As in what should have been a 15 minute drive took three hours. And then we got lost. Really really lost. It was a bad film made worse when we started getting hungry.

OPENING SCENE: ROAD TO NOWHERE. WHITE PT CRUISER HUMS ALONG, OCCUPANTS CRANKY

James: "So where do you want to eat?"

Raj: "I don't care, wherever you want."

James: "Let's have shawarma"

Raj: "Ick honey no, I had shawarma yesterday."

Me: "But we didn't have shawarma yesterday."

James: "Yeah, we didn't have shawarma yesterday."

Raj: (dramatic fluttering of hands) "Oh for fuck's sakes we'll have whatever you want, I just don't want shawarma!"

10 MINUTES GO BY

James: "Hey look, there's Wimpy's Burgers. I could really use a burger right now."

Raj: "Ick honey no, I dont want to go to Wimpy's."

James: "What's wrong with Wimpy's?"

Raj: I had a birthday party there when I was a kid. It was terrible and I get nightmares from it."

Me: "They have Wimpy's in the Middle East?"

James: "Get over it, let's have a burger."

Raj: "I don't fucking want Wimpy's!"

Me: "You're such a liar, they don't have Wimpy's in the Middle East."

Raj: (squealing) "They do they do and I am NOT going to Wimpy's or I'll just DIE."

Me: "You're lying and you are so not going to die!"

James: "Sure he will, he's already threatened to die 12 times today."

20 MORE MINUTES GO BY

Me: "Hey! A tacky Russian Diner! And it's called Russian Diner! Let's go!"

Raj: "Ick honey no, I'm not going to the Russian Diner. It looks dirty."

James: "But we want to go to the Russian Diner!"

Raj: "NO!"

Me: (wrapping my hands around Raj's neck from the backseat) "Alright look bitch, you have a choice. Taste of Israel is up ahead..."

James: "...or you can U-turn back to the Russian Diner..."

Me: "...or we strangle you."

Russian Diner it was. Sure Raj sulked and shitpicked, but he got over it. And you know, I didn't feel guilty. I've been good, and I've never been to a Russian Diner, much less one in the middle of nowehere amidst trauma and threats of strangulation. It was every bit as cheesy as I thought it would be, too: gold walls, a disco ball, fat women with blue hair, head cheese, perogies, borscht, potato salad and lox decorated with black olives from the jar.

Sure my glass had lipstick marks on it from the last person that'd used it, and it took the waitress a half-hour to explain everything to us in broken English, but we still had a fabulous time.

It is early in the morning, and I am at work without my cup of drugs. Go figure there's some kind of major gas leak in the subway pipes which slowed down service to a snail's pace, making me so late I had to bypass tea altogether.

As a direct result I am pale, grumpy and fighting with the last inch of my soul to keep my eyes open. No matter how badly I want to nap, and let me tell you the urge is *really bad*, I don't think it would reflect well on my job performance if I was caught resting my head on the desk. Even for just a sec.

Kinsmen, I caved, and spent the better part of my break standing in line for a Tim Horton's double double. For those of you without that knowledge, that's a big ole COFFEE full of SUGAR and CREAM, the wickedly wicked evils of life I have set out to avoid!

Lecture me, scold me, laugh at me and beat me. I'm so tired I don't fucking care. I have all day tomorrow to ponder the errors of my ways, but for now I just want to sit back and wait for The Power that is caffeine to tingle my fingers and rejuvenate the pathetic, fatigued mess that is my body. Booyah.

Dear Jess,

I love you more than anything.

Dear Jess,

You're taps, baby. Hot and cold. When you're good, you're so so good. But when you're bad, you're awful.

Why can't it just be warm?

Dear Jess,

I can't stand you. Every time you yell, every time you overreact, insult me, degrade me and push me away, I want to scream and shake you. What are you doing? Can't you see all we've been through, and can't you see what you mean to me?

I have stood by you and I have stood by you and I was there every single time you needed me. No matter how hard it was and the sacrificing that needed to be done, I did it. And I'm proud of that.

Whenever I need you, I'm in the way. Not now. You don't have time for this. You're not sure if you want a girlfriend at all.

It's hard to love someone when the only person you love is yourself. I guess the bottom line is that

YOU
JUST
DON'T
CARE.

Comfort food's a kicker. You eat it for those fuzzy & warm familiar feelings, but most of the time comfort foods of choice aren't all that good for you.

My comfort foods have changed over the years. When I was a kid it was junk food. Chips, chocolate, a trick-or-treat bagful of halloween bliss. We weren't allowed junk food for years, so whenever I got some, you'd better believe I enjoyed it.

Towards the end of grade school, that morphed into smoothies. Mostly bananas with milk all blended up, and some strawberries if they were in season. In the early days of high school came the revolution that was microwave popcorn, so that was my better. University, cereal, especially Corn Pops. I'd get the econo pack from Price Club and it would last me a week at three meals per day.

After graduation and during my internship in Europe, cheese. The French grocery giant Carrefour had a deli counter bordering on the galactic, importing all the best stuff that in North America would either be illegal, or cost an arm and a leg. Heaven.

Last year, yogurt. Thick, plain Balkan-style yogurt with some crushed walnuts and Egyptian honey on top. For further comfort I kept telling myself those are "good" fats, and it made my skin look fantastic.

Nowadays it's caramelized onions. And no, that's not onions and caramel together. I first made them a couple of years ago and was amazed at how easy it was. After all, there are only five ingredients: onions, oil, salt, heat and a pan. I was even more amazed when a couple of weeks ago I was coming home from work, listening to my stomach growl and thinking, I really want caramelized onions.

We've been in love ever since. I've been going through onions like mad, thankful for their healthy properties, and that I don't have to kiss anyone. And overall, feeling pretty damn cocky. I mean, my first comfort foods came from Hostess and Pez. This one comes from the earth.

So in honour of my bulb-based happiness and wanting to do better, I whipped up a little somethin' somethin' with caramelized onion, from scratch, and will be including it in my Cookbook.

But first, it's going out to all of you. As soon as I figure out how to put pictures up here.

I told Oli about my dream, and she reminded me that just a few hours before I'd gone to sleep that night I'd been madly plunging a toilet at Starbucks. It's not in my nature to clean up toilet mess in public but I was absolutely dying to pee, and go figure the yuppy bastard in front of me had used the entire roll and naturally, tried to flush away the evidence. When there is a line of people waiting to use the bathroom why would you not clean up after yourself?? In fact, why would you not clean up after yourself at all?? And the worst of it was that he'd used *so much* toilet paper the damn thing wouldn't unclog after a couple of tries. Fantastic way to spend an afternoon, hands on a plunger and one foot on the bowl, pelting out fuckers, motherfuckers, assholes and stupid dicks one after the other. I think stupid dick got the jist, and the earful, because by the time I'd gotten out, mad as hell, he was gone.

Signs be damned. I must learn to panic less. And Starbucks redeemed itself too, when I noticed that my grande paper tea cup had a different number, and a different saying:

The Way I See It #63

Our lives are inspired by the dreams we have from the earliest stages of our youth. When you combine passion and hard work, then success is always possible. While no road is ever straight, dedication and persistence will always lead you to your dreams.

That makes me feel a little less pressure about having #53 for two weeks running, and still being fuzzy on my unique donation to humankind. After all, the road will go where it goes.

It made me feel good about this whole thing, too. The road is never straight, but all the right elements are there and I'm positive I'll get to where I have to go.

That made me feel better.

I had the craziest dream last night. I was living with Raj and James, and they broke the john. Yeah, you got that right. In my dream I went to the bathroom only to find that James had seriously clogged the toilet and Raj, not knowing how to plunge, had stuffed a trunkload's worth of towels into the bowl.

My sister always tells me I have the most whacked out dreams, but I have this insane little notion it's a sign of things to come. In Jordan, I will be sharing an apartment with James. I adore the guy, but he's not exactly the neatest person on earth. And Raj, my powdery little princess, ain't all that adept at... repairs. I don't expect to have massive plumbing problems in the Middle East (hope it stays that way), but then what if something out of the ordinary happens and Raj, trying to fix it, just makes things worse?

Okay, plain English. Raj's parents don't know he's gay and he doesn't want them to know, but he does want his family to meet his fiancee. Even under disguises, which is the whole purpose of this trip. I am the token female that in their eyes, one of the boys is bound to end up with.

SURPRISE! I'm fucked! And being a total travel bug I am actually willing to put myself in line of fire to go where no one has gone before! Okay, where I've never gone before, that "no one" thing just sounded good.

Two tension filled vacation weeks in a desert city trying to convince a muslim family that they are not looking at a pair of queens, and that I find them sexually appealing. I smell a challenge.

Jess and I have agreed to have an "Open Relationship." That means we're still together but since we live long distance, will now be sleeping with other people. To tide over our sexual needs, see. After all, sex and love can be two very different things.

This all came about last night after yet another disastrous talk. I told him I missed him, and he lost it cause "he can't do anything about it." He's confused and he needs to think about a lot of things, translation, "I'm not so sure I want to be with you."

I'd really love to smack him upside the head sometimes, just for being a jerk. Then I'd like to get my head checked, since I obviously do not speak Male. Our Christmas time together went relatively well and we got a lot of issues out on the table and when he left, I truly thought we'd reached some kind of new place. Honesty, appreciation, realization, and a little more growing up on both our parts. But then like always, he goes home, lives his life and gets mad at me for not being, looking or acting in the way that he wants. So I brought up the Open Relationship idea.

Surprised it was me? I am too. It's usually such a testosterone loaded option. I just started thinking, maybe it's unfair of me to expect total faithfulness when we're not going to be in the same time zone for awhile. We're young, and we have needs. It's just sex, not love. I am still his heart.

Part of me thinks I'm being totally modern and understanding, and is open to a new experience or two. The other part just wants to crawl under the bed and rot.

Why do I have no spine when it comes to this man? I am well educated, well spoken, and I travel the world. In my everyday life I'm known as the girl that doesn't take crap. I was nicknamed "Shooter" at a paper I used to be at, for constantly shooting off my mouth and my pen. I almost got arrested for telling off the manager of a movie theater. I have made a superintendent cry. I was a News Editor when I was twenty and believe me, I fired at will. I've eaten alligator, ostrich and sea urchin for the hell of it, and I emceed a wedding with a whip.

But he says or does just one small thing without the best of intentions, and I become an emotional wreck without even a penny's worth of common sense.

I keep thinking about this open relationship deal and telling myself over and over that if you love something set it free, bla bla. I know if we're meant to be together we'll see this through, but in the meantime, why does it have to hurt so much?

So, a little while has gone by and I have yet to talk about my weight. Could it be that I've been in denial, once again, started gorging myself stupid, once again, and reverted to depressing ways... once again?

No actually, not at all. It's been good. It's at a tortoise pace, but good nevertheless. I have not weighed myself recently or fully reverted to the Herbal Magic diet plan - hey, old habits die hard - but I have been eating mega healthy, cutting down on portion size, and exercising every night.

I fucking hate exercising, but then I fucking love the results. Good definitely takes precedence here, and while it super sucks that I don't have a gym nearby to go to, it's pretty cool that I now pass any and all extra and TV time doing situps, squats and pushups. Sure enough, something is happening, and my tire is no longer spare. Isn't that fantastic? You can definitely pinch an inch on me, but even better, you can pinch several inches that is the baggy rear end of my pants. I'm very happy, I mean it's been years since I've felt like this. I'm not thin yet, but getting there and that's important too, right?

But more changes are needed and for the first time in a long time, I'm raring to go. At some point this week, I'll be stepping up my Life Program into high gear. Exercise regimens, better eating, bi-weekly weighings and vitamins out my yahoo.

Why the sudden mania? Because my darlings, In a little over two months, I will be in Jordan, home to Travel Goal #17 on a list I made three years ago otherwise known as, DA DA DUM: The Dead Sea.

Being a sea, it has shores. Shores have sand, and sandy shores are usually beaches. Beaches have people, lots of people, wearing next to nothing or nothing at all. While I'm not too keen on the Nothing at All part just yet, I don't want to miss the experience of floating in the Dead Sea because I'm too shy to put on a bathing suit. Yes I know, I won't be able to lose 60 pounds in nine weeks, but extra curvy always looks better than, ick, extra flabby.

I really, really have to try. And for once, I really want to.

Raj's marriage is over. I know this because he called me and said, "Bunny, my marriage is over."

Being totally gay and totally fabulous, he is also totally exaggerating. It's not that the *relationship* has ended it's that the *wedding* has, which in Gay & Fabulous land mean the same thing. Take the glitter off the fairy princess, and she sort of dies inside.

Raj really really really wants to have a wedding. He wants to get pimped out, dance to his jazz band, and proclaim his love amidst candles and a hell of ranunculus. Raj also really really really wants the quintessential house with the white picket fence but alas, both cost money. It took him awhile to accept the "one at a time" part, but I think he's finally got it. His domestic and decorative needs outweigh his romantic needs, so house this year, wedding next year.

Raj knows it's all for the best, but that doesn't mean he has to like it. And so with a dramatic sigh, the Martha Stewart Keepsake Wedding Planner has lovingly been wrapped in acid-free tissue and a breath of grosgrain. It's in a box underneath the bed now, but I think he takes it out sometimes to caress the pages.

James, Raj's significant other and groom-to-be-not, just smiles. He takes it all in stride and will be there for the wedding and the house, in whatever order they decide to come. He's great that way. But for Raj this is serious stuff, and his womanhood is feeling the blow.

James and I have brought Raj chocolate to soothe his shattered soul. And in turn, Raj has invited us for a two-week trip to Jordan.

I had to do it. Curiosity killed the cat, or in this case, fed my maniacal delusions. I went back to Starbucks and scoped out everyone's cups. I saw 47, 63, 12, 42, and the man beside me reading his paper had "The Way I See It" #50.

I went for another cup of tea this morning, and guess what I got? Good old #53. "Be exceptional. Make tremendous efforts to be extraordinary. What a privilege to be here on the planet to contribute your unique donation to humankind. Just make sure you do so..."

How on earth does it happen that there are so many numbered cups in there, but I get the same one running for three weeks?

It's official. We have a sign. Any and all ideas, spiritual messages & cuffs to the head welcome pertaining to the subject, What exactly is my unique donation to humankind?

Maybe I'll set up a 1-800 number for input.

Meet Catherine, all 45 pounds of her glittering silk, crinoline and crystal beadwork on a five figure price tag. Any dress with that much presence deserves a name.

Catherine was your standard cut princess gown. Sweetheart neckline, spaghetti straps, tight cleavage-flattering bodice and poof to spare. So if you're thinking, what the hell is a non-girly girl doing in a getup like that, I'll just have to admit Catherine's magnificence was so blinding, we decided Oli should try on every style of dress. Was it possible we'd been wrong all this time and could be... pleasantly surprised?

Absolutely not. Women, know thyselves and never doubt. If as a child you collected caterpillars and picked fights with Girl Scouts, chances are you do not belong in a princess gown.

My sister did not belong in a princess gown. We knew this the minute she zipped up and looked at herself in the mirror. None of The Dream, twirling or giddy happiness with hearts aflutter here, just one glaring image: Cake Topper. "Man, I look stupid."

"Yeah you do. Oli, where are your feet?

Oli kicked out her leg and disaster struck. Catherine was so heavy that standing on one foot totally displaced Oli and she went down, semi-pirouette, her head just missing a nearby armoire. More panic. More ruckus. And once we'd determined her skull was in one piece, lots more laughing. I mean, there was my sister, spread eagle on the floor, trying to crawl out of a twelve thousand dollar dress that just seemed to keep sucking her back in. Wouldn't you laugh?

All the noise of course brought Kim back through the curtain to see a red-faced Oli on the floor and me beside her, fetal position, howling away. Peggy Post, eat your heart out.

We got her safely out of the dress, and Catherine safely back on the hanger, away from our idiotic clutches. And by this point, Oli had had enough. She flipped through her issue of Modern Bride to a dogeared page showing an understated, yet gorgeous wedding dress. Totally unique. Totally Oli. She tore the page out, thrust it at Kim and said, "Make me this."

Measurements were taken, done deal, and we said goodbye to Catherine on the way out. We're sure she'll make some bride feel very beautiful, and very gravity bound.

As for me, Ms. Maid of Honour, maid to the bride, I have absolutely nothing to wear. But we talked about it over coffee and agreed on two things. First, since the "polished" look has been taken off the wedding dress, it has also been taken off the bridal party. Second, funky overrides classic, and my outfit will strive for something on the lines of "Cowgirl Gypsy."

I may hate dresses, but I'm definitely okay with that.

Mission Impossible: Five Dresses, Two Veils

I went wedding dress shopping with my sister last week. I was expecting to well up and have a moment after seeing my big sister in a wedding gown for the first time since it's all so *emotional* you know, and I did cry. With laughter.

Olivia and I are graceful girls. Within limits. Our grace extends more to, oh, downing shots hands-free, or bargaining discounts at a Turkish bazaar. And we are definitely not girly girls. I mentioned before that I had been a tomboy growing up, well, this plan was set in motion by my sister before me. Maybe if she had liked nailpolish and Barbie I would have too, but it was not in the divine plan.

As kids we liked sneakers, overalls and climbing trees. Not dresses. Our mother loved dresses, pretty MATCHING dresses with ruffles and boleros for her two little angels that in secret, we plotted to destroy. Oli just kept hiding hers in various places and shifted the blame back to Mom whenever she asked where it was. "What do you mean you don't know where it is? That's my favourite dress!" Of course, mentioning that it was her *favourite* dress just made mom feel guilty that she had slacked off on wardrobe management. Mine met its maker an hour before my sixth birthday party when I challenged the block Big Wheel champion for his title. It had rained that morning, and the ruffled skirt caught underneath the wheels, ripping and spraying muddy water everywhere. I came home, new champion, covered in dirt and torn ruffles hanging around my ankles. Happy-appy Birthday.

As we grew up we slightly eased our loathing of dresses, provided they did not have ruffles, and could be used effectively in attracting fairer members of the opposite sex. Largely in moderation though, because in short, we still hate dresses. You get the picture.

So what happens when you take a bride and maid of honour, blue jeans beclad and sworn off marriage until this point, and put them in a pink bridal salon surrounded by taffeta, lace and tulle? A recipe for disaster, that's what. See, we can't understand how one becomes Bridezilla. We can't understand The Dream of a perfect wedding that apparently every other woman in the world has been having since birth. We've never gunned for huge engagement rings or played the Bouquet Toss game. And frankly, the idea of sauntering down an aisle in front of hundreds of people makes us really, really nervous.

On the flipside, those "serious" brides can't understand us, either. Imagine the evil eye one mother gave us when we started giggling at her daughter’s dilemma over the several choices of white. "I want this white! THIS white, not THAT white! This is my dream white!” Or the other bride who needed her gown a week earlier, so she could perfect her wedding walk in full dress rehearsal. That last one was a real howler, making us duck behind a row of Cinderella reject gowns so no one would see us.

So back to the dresses. The first was very Joan Crawford, simple and straight, but just didn't suit her. The second was a little more flowery, which made it all the funnier. My sister is one gorgeous woman, but she's not flowery. Third was this satin white beaded bustle thing that she seemed to like, but I thought it made her look like a black-haired Melanie Griffith at the Oscars. In 1996.

The fourth was much nicer, creamy and simple, strapless with a little more skirt that swished when she walked. Not her style at all, but nice and simple enough to start veil testing.

Veil Uno was short, ending just below her chin. Perfect! If she wanted her head to look like a big white poof of cotton candy, that is. Veil Dos was long, almost down to her ankles and actually looked really nice until she turned too fast and got some of the fabric in her mouth. Coughing and spitting, choked and blinded by chiffon, everything was everywhere so I ran in to help. In tears from laughing and being hopeless with this stuff in general, my adjustments made my sister look more like the heroin bride in the "White Wedding" video, than a vision of maiden loveliness.

Our ruckus caught the attention of the store owner, Kim, whom we'd quickly bonded with after she confided that she'd never had The Dream herself, and intended on eloping in Vegas one day. Kim raised one eyebrow, cleared the dressing room of veils, and came back with some very chic hairclips. Gorgeous, idiot proof, and suit Oli to the tee.

Onto the last dress. And what a dress it was.

So here's what's been on my paper Starbucks tea cup for the past couple of weeks:

The Way I See It #53

Be exceptional. Make tremendous efforts to be extraordinary. What a privilege to be here on the planet to contribute your unique donation to humankind. Just make sure you do so...

So here's what I think. Either the Starbucks inspiration employees really aren't that inspirational and get bored of changing the cup messages so the same one is churned out by the gajillion, or I've been consistently getting cups with this mantra because it's a sign. From above. As in fate, chance, destino.

If it is a sign, I have a greater problem. What exactly is my unique donation to humankind? And if I can't recognize my unique donation to humankind, how will I be able to donate it? What if it just passes me by when I'm not looking or even worse, what if I do recognize it but it's too late? How exactly does one make tremendous efforts to be extraordinary, anyway?

Do I ask too many questions, and will these questions lead to any and all of the above? Why are things always so STRESSFUL?!

Before I post anything sufficient today, thanks for the warm comments and linkage from all, especially Bella and my favourite colourist fairy!! I visited both your blogs and they were absolutely, deliciously fabulous. Now, give me a quick lesson so I can link you all up on my page too?

I'll have more excuse to be stupid after the caffeine withdrawals wear off and I can stop yawning long enough to look at my screen properly, but for now I'm staring at it with crossed eyes and can't decipher a bloody thing. SOS.

The Calorie Chronicles: The Scarsdale Diet

The 1980's left us with a lot of really horrifying memories, ie. leg warmers, Voodoo Economics and "Thriller." It also left us with a really screwed up sense of eating and body care, but of course we didn't know it. Scores of women sunning their oiled butts on the beach, smoking cigarettes and sucking down Tab sodas for breakfast, lunch and dinner. No SPF, no corporate tobacco conspiracy theories, and Nutrasweet deserved the Nobel Prize. Fashionably anorexic, we counting calories with German efficiency, yet turned our noses at the protein, sugar and carbs that followed on the label. As for fat, it only came into the equation if one was to comment, "that's fattening."

The salad days, my friends.

It was in this world that I became a model. Calm yourselves, kittens, I was only 12. Some nimrods spotted tall me in the short world and decided that I photographed well. Five minutes later I had an agent and was strutting down a catwalk in four-inch heels with a dictionary on my head.

Modelling and me were a bad mix. Think "The Princess Diaries" without Julie Andrews, and a huge lack of patience on my behalf. I didn't want a makeup bag, I wanted Converse All Stars. I wanted to ride my bike and play baseball, not learn how to give myself an express manicure in ten easy steps. I didn't want to sit in front of hot lights posing like a trained monkey, or stare at the mirror with the other primadonnas chanting, over and over, that I AM a model, I AM the best, and I AM the fairest of them all.

Presiding over this magma of feathered bangs and misdirected esteem was our Fuhrer, an ex-model in her golden years whose first name, I kid you not, was a mispelled version of a well known fish. I'll call her Salmon.

Salmon was the undisputed dictator of our agency, presiding over hordes of girls with an iron fist. She had overbleached hair, swizzle stick legs, and a seriously high-pitched voice that would make your eardrums buzz. She pronounced it "Maw-dell" instead of "Model", and just adored using those perfect, blood red nails to pinch many a non-existent love handle. Pre, post and in between shows and shoots you were subject to the screeching of Salmon, and lord help you if you were unlucky enough to be at the agency on a Saturday morning, a.k.a. Weigh Day. Salmon would militantly march us to the scale in groups where we were amply weighed, berated and threatened. If it wasn't your life's ambition to be a waify crack whore by then, believe me, it would be after experiencing this. I've seen plenty of girls run out of the room in tears or hysterics after a weigh-in with Salmon.

Me and Salmon did not get along one bit. I thought she was an overstuffed, pretentious drama queen; she thought I was a tomboy and didn't give a shit. She was right. As you can imagine, this didn't make my life any easier, as she never lost an opportunity to showcase me as the Bad Example. Once Salmon made me show over 40 girls my bitten fingernails, tsk-tsking all the while and saying things like, "A maw-dell never has hands like these. Only maids have hands like these," or, "As every good maw-dell knows, the body is a temple, and your hands are the welcome to the door."

Miserable witch. I made faces behind her head when she wasn't looking. I'm sure good maw-dells never did that either, but I had plenty of fun doing it.

Soon after my christening as a reluctant glamazon, I experienced the glory of Weigh Day. I was now 5'9, 131lbs and therefore, completely satisfied. Until I looked over at Salmon. Her eyes were popped out, Pug style,
and she was white to the roots of her albino blond hair. Worst of all, she was SPEECHLESS. Il Duce had nothing to say. This was bad.

Salmon fanned her face and cleared her throat several times. Then she asked for some water, while I snorted and rolled my eyes. I knew what was coming, but oh please. She was acting like I couldn't fit through the door. The episode finally over, Salmon pointed one long, bony finger at me and exclaimed, "If you want to be a good maw-dell, you cannot be FAT."

Well la-dee-fucking-da. I was a lousy model. And I did not think I was fat. I played plenty of sports at school and was even on a swim team. I was a size five, for crying out loud. Despite my protests, stupid Salmon would not be appeased until I made plenty of effort to shed plenty of weight. She even had it out with my agent, who did two things: she booked me in for every future Weigh Day, and dipped into a file folder labeled DIET with a quickety quickness.

Hello, Scarsdale. Primo 80's regurgitation, still alive and kicking in the kitchens and minds of those who want a quick fix. The Scarsdale Diet is a two-week low carb, low calorie, low taste and low energy plan that promises the loss of one pound per day. Uh huh. Three square meals with the usual meat, vegetables, fruit and water water water. Here's what I can remember from my time with Scarsdale: Lots and lots of cold cuts, corned beef mainly, the whole millimetre of fat trimmed off with the utmost precision. There was a day where you got two eggs for breakfast, oh glory hallelujah, but the rest of the time I was pretty grumpy with all that water and protein in the almost solitary form of cold cuts.

Here's the other thing that stuck out with the Scarsdale Diet, at least according to my agent. Treat yourself, she said. If you're going to be eating next to nothing like a good little model, treat yourself with something sweet at the end of the week.

Of course, under her breath she also suggested extra exercise to work that sweetness off.

And that's just what I did. I ate my fat-trimmed cold cuts, drank my water, and walked to the plaza every Sunday afternoon for a Skor. In total, a two-mile walk for a fucking chocolate bar, what kids my age were devouring everywhere, guilt-free, and I didn't even have a weight problem to begin with.

I lost a few pounds, but Salmon didn't let up. I didn't expect her to, I mean I wasn't exactly her favourite person to begin with, and she didn't cut slack for anyone else anyway. But I didn't really care. By this time I was bored of her ranting, bored of the other girls, bored of flashbulbs and clothes hunting in mouse-hole changerooms, walking up and down, up and down, turn left, turn right, up and down the runway again and again.

Little by little, I phased maw-delling out of my life until it was dead and forgotten. There was no fuss. I was starting high school and getting busier with academics, to which my parents had no complaint. I was more of a loner in grade school and very few people knew what my free time had been dedicated to; I liked it that way, and kept the silence when I started ninth grade. Word somehow got out though, and I was taken aside a few times by students wanting to know, "Is it true that you used to model?"

I could have had my five minutes of high school fame, but I was not that girl. So I told them No.

What have I learned from this? First, to always reward myself, and you should too. If you have been a shining example of physical excellence for a week, it's okay to have a chocolate bar, no matter what the meal plan says. It's what keeps you human.

Second, enviable though they may seem, every beauty queen has a Salmon to answer to. And perfect though she may look, that beauty queen usually sees herself as fat. Don't you ever forget that.

I'll tell you. Let's start knocking these little suckers off.

1) I have not gotten a new job. What I have done is buy the complete directory of job recruiters for my city. I don't believe in e-mailing for employment anymore, since I've done it all of ten million times and gotten nil responses. What I do believe in is "It's not What you know, it's Who you know," but since I know absolutely no one in my desired fields of work, I was suckered into buying the recruitment book in the first place.

2) I have not lost 60 (odd) pounds. If I had managed to lose that much weight in less than two months it means I would have more than enough money for liposuction, stylists, personal trainers and a nutrionist. Instead I have this blog and all of you (weep) to suffer with me through this life-changing, albeit sometimes cold and miserable vehicle. Thanks for the shoulders, y'all.

I did manage to loosen up a bit over the holidays though, and considering what a sugar fest it was, that's a tidy little accomplishment I think.

3) Ding ding ding, we have improvement on this one! Debbie Travis has not come to her senses and made her way to my loft, so I have brought her to me, or more specifically, I got the "Debbie Travis' Facelift: Solutions to Revitalize your Home" book. What can I say, she offers some very helpful hints for wall patterns that I think will look marvelous, in very limited moderation, and I put my vintage laundry signs on the bathroom door.

AND I got furniture which I think is a huge step forward. I am now the proud owner of a 1920's vintage French black... cabinet, I think. It's got four legs, two doors, and looks like a piece Louis XVI would own if back issues of Vogue were next to his chamber pot in Le Commode Royale at Versailles. In short, it's marvelous, and there will be no peasant revolt.

4) Still not official, though I have been assured that the ring has been ordered, and we did go wedding dress shopping. More on that later.

5) CANCELLED! Or to be more specific, postponed in favour of buying a house. Raj and his teddy are still together and still engaged, but have delayed matrimony and shifted said wedding reception cash towards the real estate market.

Don't be fooled into thinking that something has been knocked off my list, darlings. I now have a house purchase, decoration/possible remodeling and housewarming party to experience, and - are you ready for this? - a possible trip to the Middle East with my two chachkas. Also more on that later.

6) I have not written one damn thing for my cookbook. However, among my Christmas presents was the "Joy of Cooking" daily desk calendar, for my better motivation and inspiration. Maybe tonight I'll open the box.

7) Emotional and romantic peace. Is there such a thing? I'm not sure, meaning that I certainly haven't achieved any. We had a great visit though, which I will expand upon - you got it! - later.

8) Okay, let's see. My foot hasn't hit a gas pedal in three years, and you expect me to get back behind the wheel in the dead of winter and slide into who knows how many trees? If we lived in Need for Speed land where car & driver self repair after flying off bridges I'd say Sure!. But since we are in reality, I don't fucking think so.

I will never forget that, not for the rest of my life. But it did get easier, and continues to do so. And I managed to have a great rest of the holidays too.

I normally hate New Year's, but this one was a blast. I mean, it's just another DAY, people, do you really think it's a whole new chance to forget the past and start fresh? The crowds drive me nuts too. Every soccer mom and yuppy dad from the burbs just HAVE to spend New Year's Eve in the city and watch that stupid apple come down. Puh-lease.

Our crowd decided to go a little different, so we went to... drumroll... Benihana! Yes I know it's a franchise and exists just about everywhere, but none of us had ever been and decided to take the plunge. Once you got past the 80's floral mauve & teale wallpaper and the shamisen soundtrack on perpetual loop, it was really very nice. The food was excellent, even if dessert was pre-frozen and the chef was kinda tired and lacking. Isn't dinner supposed to BE the show at Benihana? I mean the onion ring steam volcano was cool and all, but that "let's bang my wooden salt grinder and pepper mill together lackadaisically for 20 minutes" deal didn't exactly thrill us to no end.

After getting thoroughly loaded off red wine and learning that the restaurant closed way before midnight, we convinced a limo to take us back to my sister's house for five bucks a head, and made it just in time for midnight. Jess and I, Raj, my sister and her (still not official) commie fiance brought in New Year's with love, good wishes and store bought shots, which they all handled just fine, but I managed to spill down my top. Happy New Year! So while everyone was kissing and singing that stupid Auld Lang Syne song, I was lamenting my $80 lace and velvet bra that was now covered in cream and strawberry liquor.

The next morning my sister called. My hairpins, necklace, socks and blouse were thrown all over her living room, so I'm positive I had a fabulous time.

And now for the real business of New Year's: the resolution(s). Aha, I made mine way before this, remember? Just to refresh your memory

1) get a new job

2) lose sixty (odd) pounds

3) decorate my loft without Debbie Travis

4) survive my sister’s wedding

5) plan & survive my best friend’s wedding

6) finish the cookbook that has been idling for 1148 days (and counting)

7) achieve emotional and romantic peace, if there is such a thing

And the informal 8) that I added later on was, get back behind the wheel, get used to the road and get a car, dammit.

So, to this point, how much have I achieved, and how far have I gone?

You could argue with me that I hadn't technically seen him die. I did not see him take his last breath as he left this world. But let me assure you that watching what takes someone's life unfold in front of you, in the most unexpected and tragic of ways, feels pretty damn real.

When I look back on it now, I can only remember snapshots.

That's the way it is with all the truly frightening moments of my life. I'm scared into forgetting any joining parts so they can't be sequential, flowing memories. The car beside Jess' window. Head on into the tree. Car in the air. Upside down on the road. Call 911. The construction workers. He's dead.

Everything after that is clear. Calling my sister, waiting for the police, giving my statement, license and phone numbers. Watching the yellow tape go up, going through the what ifs and alternate scenarios. Thank God there were no oncoming cars. Thank God for the tree or he would've ended up through a living room window. Thank God we weren't going faster, or we could have been part of it.

I noticed that Bluetooth, who is usually antsy & whines when left alone in the car, is lying down in the backseat not making a sound. I saw that my cup of tea, still in the holder and now cold, had spilled all over the car from when Jess hit the breaks. I hadn't even felt anything.

We left over an hour later, when the police gave us the okay. I held my boyfriend's hand and told him that life was too fucking short, and we weren't going to fight anymore.

The next few days were obsession. I didn't want to write. I didn't really want to do anything but watch the news and surf the internet when it was up, looking for something, anything that would tell us about who it was, and why he had been driving so maniacally.

Unfortunately, single car accidents don't lend enough drama to become front page anything. What we had seen got lost in the shuffle, with a couple of exceptions. In sympathy with my madness, a friend of mine managed to find a police report stating that auto fatality #59 of the year had claimed the life of a 19-year old male, further information withheld at the request of his family.

Nineteen. Practically a baby.

And a few days later, in total silence, when forcing ourselves to drive back that way we saw that someone had placed a white wooden cross with blue flowers in front of the tree. I didn't want to, but I made myself get out of the car and stand in front of it.

A name had been written down the side of the cross. Nicholas.

Jess, myself and our dog were driving through a residential area in a rental car, on our way to have lunch with my parents. It was a few days after Christmas, and it was wet and slushy outside.

My family has been using this shortcut for years. You could just jump off the highway and into Mom's and Dad's neighbourhood, but getting off one exit earlier and driving through one of the finest areas in the city saves a few minutes, and is very pictureseque. The massive Tudor and Victorian houses are nearing the one-century mark; the trees tower above you, dads make homemade skating rinks on the lawns for their kids. If you were to ask me of a place where nothing ever went wrong, if such a place existed, I would think of this.

It is postcard perfect, with limits. The speed limit is 40 kilometres per hour. There's a Stop sign every 100 metres or so.

We had just passed a stop on one curved street, and there was a red car behind us. Jess was steering with his left hand, coffee in his right. I'd put my tea in the holder and was singing to a Green Day song on the radio. Bluetooth was in the backseat, looking out the window.

I've never wanted to use the phrase "all of a sudden" in any of my writing, but in this case, I can't avoid it. All of a sudden, from out of nowhere, this beat up old blue car passes on our left and cuts right in front of us. The driver is going at least 150. He's going so fast, he can't get the car to straighten up on the road in time, and loses it on the curve. Before me or Jess could get out a complete "what the hell," the blue car barrels head on into a tree, and flies a good 20 feet up into the air. It crashes down on its roof.

Jess saw the driver's legs as he was catapulted through the windshield, and figures the car landed on top of him. I am thankful to have missed this. I am also thankful for Jess' quick thinking when he saw the wreck start to spark and pulled out of danger's way in case of an explosion. Yet another thing I am thankful for was his yelling, which jolted me out of my shock. I called 911, and tried to ignore a construction worker who'd run to the accident recoil in shock and scream, "He's dead!"

The dispatcher on 911 had asked us to stick around and give a statement, so I called my parents to let them know we would be late.

Then I called my sister, and started to cry.

Alrighty then, shall I go on to explain my absence? I think I should.

Lack of internet connection is pretty obvious. I refuse to subscribe to anything before I fully move into my loft, meaning internet, phone etc., so Jess hooked us up with wireless. My sublet-ee agrees to leave whenever he's here, which is brilliant. You didn't think I'd shack up with my boyfriend in my parents' basement, did you?

As for the signal, it's shamefully bouncy and temperamental at best. It shone through in the bathroom however, but then sitting on the floor and surfing the net beside the toilet bowl, where the most unglamourous moments of my life have taken place, just wasn't appealing. I think you can appreciate that.

I forget which of the seven deadly sins Sloth is, but I'm a champion of it. Does this mean I'm damned? As if I didn't have enough to worry about. Anyway, being that it was the holidays, Jess was here, the weather was gorgeous, I didn't have to go to work, managed to sleep in for the first time in over a year... you get the picture.

Circumstance. Now this is the real fucker of the group. I saw a man die.

Bad, lazy, dirty girl. And bad, bad blogger.

We have been lost to each other for so long. Well not really, but that was the opening of "The Red Tent," and I thought it was the most gripping first line ever.

365 days, one post per day, didn't quite happen, so let's change that to 365 posts within the space of 365 days. So yes my darlings, I'll be double-posting for awhile to... catch up. Such filthy words!

What took me away? Well, a few reasons, mainly

a) lack of internet connection
b) circumstance, and
c) sloth

And what brought me back? I always meant to come back, but something hurried me along. You. I had no idea there were so many of you until I checked my e-mail a few days ago and found it topped with good comments and wishes, including this one:

"Hi SimplyX, i'm one of those silent readers of your blog. Just wanted to say Happy New Year and I hope you blog soon!!"

Happy New Year to You too! Let's start with leaving no business unspoken for, and a little post-holiday cheer:

After the Twelfth day of Christmas my True Love gave to me
WORLD PEACE!
Phenomenal Health
A fully furnished Penthouse
One winning lottery ticket
A Trip around the World
Emotional Stability
Timeshares in Notting Hill
A Black AMEX card
An extra-loving relationship
My dream career
A Victoria's Secret body (with a little extra thigh)
And a Mini Cooper with leather seats!

On the third day of Christmas my true love gave to me
My dream career
A Victoria's Secret body (with a little extra thigh)
And a Mini Cooper with leather seats.

On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me
A Victoria's Secret body (with a little extra thigh)
And a Mini Cooper with leather seats.

Twelve days of Christmas sounds wonderfully exciting and fulfilling, but who on earth could handle all that food? My Victoria's Secret body (with a little extra thigh) is going to have to wait a few days extra thanks to the "Holiday Gorge" that comes but once a year. And that's just why it comes but once a year, no one could handle it twelve days in a row, nevemind all the time.

We did the family thing, the present thing, the stuff yourself stupid thing and the don't go to church thing. My parents are different religions, so I like to think we get double duty on the "God bless us every one" thing, despite the no church thing. So technically I lied when I said that Christmas comes but once a year, since at the end of my Twelve Days song, I will be celebrating Christmas #2. Gluttony and Sloth, anyone?

On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me
A Mini Cooper with leather seats

Or a coronary... Happy Holidays everyone!!

Twas the night before Christmas and all through my room
Only one creature was stirring, my dog named Bluetooth

His eyes were twitching in REM sleep
In hopes Santa Paws would leave tasty treats

I was hoping to soon be snug in my bed
Von Furstenburg dresses dancing in my head

But alas I couldn’t yet do what I wanted
I had lousy bandwidth; it just teased and taunted

When from somewhere outside there came such a noise
I said, “What the hell,” promptly losing all poise

Bluetooth was startled and soon at my side
He’s not a huge dog, but not one to hide

I grabbed my Swiss knife and we crept up one floor
Up through the kitchen and out the back door,

When to our amazement what did we see there
But a gigantic raccoon with children to spare

Tearing at a bag of Ikea meatballs of Sweden
No more room in the fridge, they were outside to stay frozen

Bluetooth growled and pounced out in the snow
No way any coons would threaten his home

What could I do? Though I wore only slippers
I ran out into to the raging white blizzard

To save my dog’s neck from the big raccoon’s wrath
And desperately avoid a backyard bloodbath

So I screamed and I swore and I called him by name
”For fuck’s sakes Bluetooth get your crazy ass away

From that disgusting creature and all of her babies
All we need is for you to come down with rabies!”

Bluetooth paid no heed and snarled at his prey
She snarled in return, not backing away

I threw snowballs, made noises and tried to distract her
When out my mom ran screaming, “What on earth’s the matter?”

We had awoken my parents with our late night fight;
The whole neighborhood too, as they flicked on their lights

Mom took one look at the situation before her
Her daughter and grand-dog in battle royal

She dashed back in the house but came out with a quickness
An orange in hand and ready for business

Mom carefully aimed firing into the sky
That orange came down right between raccoon’s eyes

Raccoon took of running, both her and her pack
Up over the fence and didn’t look back

Bluetooth and I were impressed and in awe
That mom has a better arm than Bob Shaw

”Hey lady, you’re a hero, we could’ve been dead
Mom shot us a look and said, “Get back to bed

You woke up the street and gave us a shock
Do you think we still live in the Eastern Bloc?”

She went back inside, we delayed for a minute
To look in the trees and see our delinquents

Raccoon and her kids were all up there glaring
At us on the ground, at our win and our daring.

When my Bluetooth barked, his eyes shining black
I yelled, “Merry Christmas, and never come back!”

(But in case you’re wondering as you probably should
We left them the meatballs, to do them some good
Just a bit of help in the cold and the snow
And to spread that wonderful warm Christmas glow)

Fat Fashion Tip #4: To veer away from Fat Fashions and fit into slimmer fashions, sex is the best exercise in the world.

Not that I'm condoning sexing your way to a better waistline... hell, I am condoning sexing your way to a better waistline. It's the best possible exercise you can have. Cheers.

Roses are Red
Violets are Blue
He came out of the gate
A bit Meatier too

Roses are Blue
Violets are Red
It was absolutely fabulous
Frolicking in Bed

And now that I'm tired of rhyming... how absolutely wonderful to be together again, even if just for a little while.

The trick is making it stay that way.

Fat Fashion Tip #3: Never try to convince yourself you're a size smaller than you really are before the fact, and right before your boyfriend flies in to see you for the holidays. It will make you feel poopy.

Although I did find a fabulous Christmas outfit with accessories to match, I need more head-between-my-legs-while-inhaling-and-exhaling-deeply time before going off to the airport. Lord have mercy, this is going to be hard.

For just over a year now, Jess and I have been back in the throes of the long-distance relationship. Current status is that we haven't seen each other in three months, and he's flying in tomorrow night.

Can I breathe properly right now? No. Absolutely, most definitely no. Asking me to hyerpventilate and have a fit seems the most logical thing to do right now.

Why I doing this? He's my love, he's my wonderful, he's my Jess. I get that smile, that hair, those arms and the best bear hugs a girl could ask for. Better yet, I can satiate my hormones and screw him rotten.

Now the one big, bad con: I'm not significantly THINNER yet. I'm all of a half-size smaller in the past three months, but being the paranoiac that I am, it's enough to drive me up the wall. I would have preferred 10, 20, 30 less, but I'll just have to make do.

The thing is, will he make do? Will he notice (I'm being stupid, of course he'll notice), will he make remarks, will he care? But then if any of that happens, why the hell should I even care?

Oi, fuck, damn. Love is a hard place to be. Fingers crossed.

This was my horoscope yesterday:

The stars are shining their prettiest light right on you, and you look fabulous in the glow. What'll you do with all that great energy? Your natural tendency is to shy away from the cosmic limelight and modestly redirect the attention elsewhere, but it's high time you learned to take a compliment gracefully and confidently. Be ready to smile, simply say 'thank you' (to the cosmos, to your sweetie, to a stranger on the street) and feel wonderful.

Thank you Cosmos! And here's what I did with all that great energy: I bought myself a new blue scarf with pom poms on the ends, and I got my hair done. I've always wanted black hair, and paying a small fortune at the trendy salon I go to ensures it looks gorgeous, not brassy and goth. Yes darling I know it sounds snobbish, but you're only given one head of hair per lifetime, and it should be treated right.

As for learning to take the compliment gracefully, I smiled and said "thank you" to the homeless man who whistled (it could have been for spare change, but hey), and I felt wonderful in general. After all, I have black hair!

I am at Starbucks and the man sitting in front of me is picking his nose. And I mean, really going in for the kill. Wait, he's found the treasure. He's pulled it out, taken a good look, and then flicked it across the room. And now he's scratching that hand on his temple.

I would be insanely disgusted, but I've lived in the city, remember? I do feel like lecturing him on the protein value of snot, just to be a smartass, but I think his bald spot and pleather jacket are punishment enough.

I love the city. I love the buildings, the stores, the people (that don't pick), the food, the noise. I love the book stores, the spas and the venues. I love the beaches and I love the dog parks.

I love being able to have coffee at every corner, and I know your burning question. I'm sitting in Starbucks after all, did I get a coffee? The snow is falling outside in perfect winter wonderland for a beautiful coffee atmosphere, but no, love. Just a sparkling water. This is a mood I want to keep.

The Calorie Chronicles: The Four Food Groups

Eating from the Four Food Groups wasn't the first diet I ever went on, but it was suggested to me as one. It was the beginning.

The catalyst was my height. I am a tall girl, standing an even 5'10 if I've never before mentioned. My grandfather was a big man, and even though most of his seven daughters, Mom included, were short to average, his gift was generously bestowed upon their offspring. A good chunk of my cousins are seven footers and in theoretical training for "da NBA."

In my family, if you have inherited the height gene, you have also inherited its quickness. We have growth spurts of mythic proportions. There are pictures of my family on my twelfth birthday, me at least a foot shorter than my parents and sister. My birthday is in June. By Christmas of that year, I'm the tallest of the group. It took ten more years for me to finish growing, the "finishing" being less than two inches.

Have you ever seen a newborn foal? Legs too long for its body, wobbly and unsure of itself? Post growth spurt, that was me. It didn't help that my school was in a predominantly Italian neighbourhood, a people gifted with good food and smoldering looks, but alas, not vertically blessed. There I was in the seventh grade, all of me long parts, bad knees and huge feet, not only the tallest kid in my class but in the whole school. Teachers included.

School dances were disaster, and you HAD to go. Of course the little and cute girls got snatched up and were the belles of the ball, but I was not little and cute. I was a water buffalo, head and shoulders above the cutest boys, above ALL the boys. Our teachers made sure everyone got asked to dance, which made things much worse. That grouped me in the same category as the retarded boy with perpetual bedhead. So I mostly refused, wishing for something good to read while the rest of my class clung to each other during renditions of "Crazy for You."

Seventh grade is not my happy place. It is my hell, and the school nurse is the Bride of Satan. During the Annual Checkups, which is a nicer term than "Stick out your tongue, step on the scale and let's see if you have Lice" interrogation, Broomhilda informed me, in front of everyone, that I was "grossly overweight."

Funny, you'd think that being 5'8 and 120lbs that young would have gotten me a gazunga contract with Ford. What this got me at Catholic school was a reprimand and two charts: the Appropriate Weight for All Ages chart, and the Four Food Groups chart.

If it ever seems that women who grew up in the 80's are more fucked than the general populace, it is because of fried hair, and the Appropriate Weight for All Ages chart. According to this stupidity, my goal weight at 12 was "between 70 and 90lbs," or something like that. Broomhilda, all shocked expression, told me that every other girl in my class was in that weight bracket. I had a "serious problem" and had to give the Four Food Groups chart to my mother, so she could ensure I was getting the "proper dietary intake."

Of course the other girls in my class were properly ensconced in the chart. 80% of them had yet to scratch the five-foot mark, and with the exception of myself and one other girl, none of them had gotten their periods. But as we all knew then, if it was off in the chart, it was off in real life.

Teachers, superiors, all elders in fact have no idea how much they can screw up a kid. It just takes a few words, you know. And this could have potentially damaged me forever if it wasn't for the sensibility of my parents. Parents are always parents, but luckily for me in this case, their practicality paid off. My Mother was and is a firm believer in home-cooked food and the family meal. Dinner was always healthy, nutritious, and fully attended. Mom took Broomhilda's chart as an insult and personal attack on her hard work and kitchen sense with, "Dat voman is fucked in da head," (language at home was very liberal) before tossing the chart and accompanying letter to my Dad.

Dad is a man of few words. He clicked his tongue, crumpled up both sheets and said to me, "You're just fine," as he tossed it all in the garbage.

Their affirmation that I was "just fine" saved me from myself, for a little while at least. And so I went on my merry way, applauding when the Appropriate Weight for all Heights chart finally came out.

Epilogue

The girls in seventh grade went on to eighth grade and then high school with me, eventually dotting themselves among the 5'4 mark. They were always the belles of the ball and probably still are, but I am the most spectacularly intimidating in heels. As for Broomhilda, after dealing with a bad baseball accident and a kindergarten flu strain, she forgot all about me. And what the Four Food Groups? Nothing, or at least, nothing different. They had been with me the entire time.

Dear Readers,

You are very valued, and your comments much appreciated. You have no idea how you make my day.

If I haven't been able to respond to you personally, drop off your e-mail or a link. We can have a chat and cucumber sandwiches. Or just a chat.

The first job I got after graduation was at Burger King. I'd gone to a Employment Fair and did the "put your resume into the General Pile" thing. I got three responses, Burger King being the first.

Some whopper flunky called the house halfway into Jeopardy! and said that Burger King would be pleased to offer me employment. I, the Ivy Leaguer, was more than a little miffed by this, and asked if she was aware that I'd just graduated from a top three school. Totally unphased, her reply was, "Well, you can do team training."

Nuh uh. Every graduate needs to learn humility, but there was no way I was spending a summer at the broiler after stuffy professors and caffeine addiction at six grand a year.

The second response I got was a Dear John letter from Movenpick. Thanks, but no jobs available; here's a coupon for a free coffee and muffin. I thought that was a really nice touch. Fuck off, but we're sufficiently guilty to offer you a $5 breakfast.

The third response was a part-time job at the "funky" new housewares section of a downtown department store on the verge of bankruptcy. I peddled pots, juggled plasticware, and did product care demonstrations for senior citizens. I wore platform shoes, sold ice cream makers, and flirted with the Moroccan tourists. I was fascinating.

I was also fired. After the three-month probation period was done, my manager called me "reluctant, unwilling and slow." Nevermind I made top sales every night, nevermind the company CEO personally congratulated me and introduced me to the board, and most especially nevermind that Ms. Manager's little sister & boyfriend couldn't be bothered to unpry their lips from each other and come out of the stockroom, a.k.a the Love Shack. They both got to keep their jobs.

So what did I learn from this? I learned that the first experience isn't always the best, but it's important to stay true to yourself. That if you are nice, if you are good and if you work your ass of, you will eventually be recognized and promoted to godlike positions of wealth and power. If you keep plug, plug plugging away at the bottom, sometime, someday, someone will see just how important you are to the company and make all your dreams come true.

OH PLEASE. Here's what I really learned: You're cute as hell at 22 so there's more to look forward to when life gives you a black eye. I learned there is injustice in the world, and that sometimes no matter how hard you sweat, some prick in a position of power will make your life miserable. Revenge is very sweet, which I also learned when that entire company went down the toilet less than a year later. Manager, sister and boyfriend all lost their jobs. Bad karma for firing your top employees.

And in those tribulating, challenging times the most important lesson of all that I learned was avoidance. Fuck reality, at least for now. I went to grad school.

I recently heard a piece of this great radio spoof of that Christmas carol, "It's the most Wonderful time of the year," changed into "It's the most Fattening time of the year." I've been stuck on that preset station ever since hoping to hear it again, but no luck. So I improvised.

"It's the most fattening time of the year
With stuffing of faces
And more salivating that
Dessert is near
It's the most fattening time of the year

It's the chunk-chunkiest season of all
With those sugar-filled greetings
And gluttonous meetings
When friends come to call
It's the chunk-chunkiest season of all

There'll be parties for hosting
Indulged liquor toasting
And throwing up out in the snow
Ulcers attacking
From more midnight snacking
'Cause that's the way Christmases go!

Oh, it's the most fattening time of the year
There'll be much waistline blowing
Heartbeats will be slowing
'Cause cardiacs are near

It's the most sickening time
It's the most barbaric time
It's the most fattening time of the year!"

I am borrowing my sister's computer since mine died. Belly up, six feet under, pushing up daisies. I have a week left of work before Christmas vacation, an article on adult acne due on monday, and tons of information on my dead computer that the asshole sony techies will very soon be privy to.

So I would write more than this, but my current state of induced panic is taking over.

Pray for me.

I think I have ADD. Within the past ten minutes I have made photocopies, lit a candle, started cleaning the bathroom, made tea, wrapped a Christmas present, played two songs by the White Stripes, another by PJ Harvey, and started writing today’s entry. I’m going to try and make this quick before something else grabs my attention.

I got this among recent blog comments:

“I feel if you’re not 115[@ 5' 7"], you’re a fat ass. I'm 135 and I can't stand it!”

Why? Because this is the way you truly feel? Because of your friends? Because of those skinny little girls on TV and magazine covers?

Going back to the Victoria’s Secret show, which I just recently wrote about… did you happen to catch a glance of Tyra Banks? She is NOT standard supermodel 120. She is also a major player in the sexiest show on earth, baring almost all in some of the most provocative and alluring lingerie ever created.

Did she look bad to you? Hell no – sultry and gorgeous is more like it. And take it from me, men will appreciate shapely and attractive legs over Popsicle sticks any day. I promise you that.

I’ve been pretty fat, I’ve been pretty thin, and I guarantee you that thin isn’t everything. What’s in your head has to match what’s in your body for the total package, or else nothing works right. You’ll be fighting yourself for the rest of your life.

Alrighty then. I have to walk the dog, make some dinner, clean my room, make the shopping list, make some calls, start an article, check my e-mail....

It is early in the morning, and I am at work with my cup of drugs. My cup of TEA, that is. And even though it isn’t providing quite the same perverse jolt as Juan Valdez, I think I deserve my round of applause, standing ovation and marching band anyway. After all, this is my first official early Thursday of the school year without a latte. Yay me!

I must admit that it’s not totally sin-free. It’s English Breakfast tea, meaning caffeine still intact, christened with some half-and-half cream. I can’t stand milk in my tea, it’s travesty as far as I’m concerned, and a little richness never hurt anyone. I’ve justified the half-and-half as being carbless and therefore, Atkins friendly. What’s the major step here is the sugar free, as not even one evil granule has tainted my cup.

And what a very large cup it is. I was planning to go on and on about how much better I feel physically and mentally for having tea instead of coffee, and what a great new ritual this was going to be for me, until I made a major fuck up at Starbucks.

Understand that today is a really really really early day for me, and I am not a morning person, hence all those previous coffees. I walked into Starbucks, pleased as punch with myself for not even making puppy eyes at the newly arrived Holiday Drinks, and, all smiles, ordered, "One large English Breakfast tea, please."

Notice the slip of tongue? See for a minute there, I’d confused Starbucks with Timothy’s Coffees of the World. At Timothy’s they use plain English for their cup sizes: small, medium, large, XL. Despite “Star” and “Bucks” obviously being very plain and short words of our familiar language, the establishment likes to stupidly mix up its sizes in English, French and Italian. Or as we know them, short, tall, grande and venti. Si signor.

While large is a perfectly respectable drink size at Timothy’s, a large at Starbucks translates into Venti, which in turn translates into gynormous, absurd, and bucket-sized. If you are a regular coffee drinker of the Venti format, you have serious problems. This is what the barista gave me, and I had to stare at it for a minute or two before I realized the error was all mine, and there would be no head-biting today.

What else could I do? I took the damn thing, embarrassed as hell for carrying a hot drink so violently huge that would cause me a multitude of stares, and make me pee within the hour.

So here I sit, my almost empty pail of room temperature tea beside my laptop, cheerful red cup matching the faceplate of my cell phone, crossing and uncrossing my legs in a futile attempt to ignore the mounting pressure on the walls of my bladder. I know I have done a good thing for myself today. I have done a good thing for myself and I have done a good thing for my body, but for the love of chopsticks, this is what happens when you take my coffee away!

The Victoria’s Secret fashion show was on a couple of nights ago. Part of me hates those girls for being so beautiful and unnervingly perfect; the other half is in awe for the same reason.

And then another part of me is just a little sad because I could’ve had that. I’m not saying I’m supermodel material, but the foundations are there. I’m 5’10, proportioned really well, and great hair if I must say so. I even used to model when I was young. The point is, if I hadn’t let everything get in the way, if I hadn’t abused myself in the way that I did… you get the picture.

On the plus side, I learned a couple of things. While I thought Giselle Bundchen looked absolutely stunning in the show, I saw a movie still from Taxi where she’s in a wraparound micro-mini and good LORDY girlfriend, are those some skinny ass legs. No wonder she looks so fantastic in lingerie, there’s nothing there to look decent in other types of clothing. Sweetheart, 15 pounds of meat to your calves & thighs, and you’ll be a lot happier, trust me.

The other thing I learned is that it’s half looks, half sass. As a woman, you are a force of nature. Don’t let anyone tell you different.

I caved and told my friend Pinky about this blog. Pinky is the nickname someone else gave the both of us during our first day of Journalism school together, and it stuck. I can’t imagine calling her anything else, or responding to anything else she calls me.

She really liked the it, but insisted I make sure you all know that I am not obese, and not even fat for that matter. Here, I’ll let her tell you:

“This is great, but honestly, you are NOT fat!!! I think if people didn't know you, they'd get the wrong impression from reading your blog. You make it sound like you're actually obese or something. You are sooooooooooooooooo not fat. And I'm NOT just saying that. We've had long discussions about this...so I will say no more. But aside from that, I think the blog is really great.”

I tried to find this quote I’d read somewhere years ago that said something along the lines of, “A true friend notices when you lose a pound, but not when you gain 10.” That's the basic jist of it, even though I can't quote exactly.

It’s humbling to have such great friends who always manage to see the good side in us, even when we don’t see it in ourselves.

Did I tell them good, Pinks? Thanks for your support and as always, love you madly =)

I slept in this morning and made it to the subway station just in time for the morning crunch, and just in time to see some crazy lady with red hair and gray roots do her sombrero dance on the platform. She was dancing, she was singing, she was a hootin’ and a hollerin’, full of good cheer, until the train actually came and she made her way in. At that point, she changed her mind about everything, pointed her bony finger at us all and screamed, “Fuck you, Communists!”

Uh huh. After living in the city, not much can phase me. But it did remind me that as big a fan as I am of public theatre, it’s really time to get a car.

I’ve avoided that expense in life so far, mostly because I wanted to travel more. When I finally did put together a lump sum and not blow it on plane tickets, it only seemed logical to buy real estate instead. I did get a parking space when I bought my loft but needless to say, it’s got room to spare.

Raj always teases me, says that only twelve year olds take the subway and bus as much as I do. Sure, Raj. I would let my twelve year old within arm’s reach of a bad hair freak claiming we’re all fucking communists.

And it might have a little something to do with the fact that I haven’t been behind the steering wheel of a car for a little over three years.

Abomination.

Well, maybe I am a communist. Of all the communists I know, not many own cars.

We all have setbacks. Mine came in the form of mashed potatoes. Mashed potatoes are on my “No” list, but when I looked at them they just kept screaming, “Yes.”

A stronger person would have walked away. But I just really needed mashed potatoes. Well, I didn’t need them so much as I was feeling sucky and wanted to gloss over myself. With mashed potatoes. They made me feel better. Temporarily.

I don’t want to whine, I want to do something about it all, which is why I’m here. I’ve already agreed to stop fucking obsessing so much, hence, to hell with the mashed potatoes. I did what I did, and so what if I did it. We’re all entitled to a treat here and there, and it definitely won’t kill me.

The second thing is, I need to be strong, and that begins with a head check from Sir Thomas Browne. If there’s anything I took away from four years of an English degree, it was this gem, buried in the 2200 page anthology from hell:

Men that look upon my outside, perusing only my condition
and fortunes, do err in my altitude, for I am above Atlas his shoulders.
The earth is a point, not only in respect of the heavens above us, but of
that heavenly and celestial part within us; that mass of flesh that
circumscribes me limits not my mind; that surface that tells the heaven
it hath an end cannot persuade me I have any. I take my circle to be
above three hundred and sixty. Though the number of the arc do measure
my body it comprehendeth not my mind.

Boldness, courage, and empowerment at its purest. At least for me. So since I don’t see this nearly as often as I should, I’m going to climb up on top of my desk, rip down the cork board and scrawl this on the wall in giant letters.

Wait. I live in my parents’ house. These pristine walls do not belong to me. Okay, I’ll just have to read it. But I’ll read it every day!

I sprained my ankle. Again, for fuck’s sakes. The same ankle too, for fuck’s sakes. It looks fantastic, really. Make this picture in your mind and then say, “not pretty”: an ostrich egg hiding in the skin over your anklebone. It’s just so glamorous when you can’t fit into your shoes.

Well, at least it can be said that when I do something, I do it really well.

After the good cry that I had because I was so unbelievably PISSED OFF for tripping over that one rock in the Ikea parking lot and inflicting this misery upon myself, I had another good look at the sky-high stack of magazines next to my bed. The first time this happened I took it as a sign to bury my nose into my décor materials and find a suitable look for my loft. I didn’t exactly do that, not to the extent that I should have anyway. Does that mean I’m being punished?

Pout. I’d get to it, really, but Christmas is around the corner and there’s just so much to be done. I will choose to defy gravity one more time and throw myself into “Holiday Baking” instead.

If I sprain my ankle a third time in the near future, wag your finger at me all you want. In the meantime, go away. I'm swollen, I have needs, and "Holiday Baking" has the pretty pictures that I cleave.

Nanner Nanner.

My Boyfriend, Part Two

Hearing that was something terrible.

If I mentioned this to him he probably wouldn’t even remember it. That’s just the way he is. But I can’t forget it. I can’t believe he had the audacity to say it, and I can’t believe I had the stupidity to take it. Part of me knows he’s right; the other part wants to belt out a Fuck You before walking off and being my own goddess, as the books would say.

Outside opinions are also split down the middle. My friend Vicky was pretty harsh with me, and couldn’t understand why I take this crap. “He should understand, he should be patient, and he should love you no matter what. Especially after everything you’ve been through.”

And then comes Raj whose significant other, teddy bear though he may be, is starting to have a weight issue. “Darling, I love you and I hear everything you’re saying. But I understand what he’s saying too. It’s hard when things become different like that. What if he was overweight?”

That’s a fair question. Jess has had his ups and downs within a few kilos, but he’s never been fat. If he was nearing obesity I think I’d start to speak up, mostly for his health and partly, I’m ashamed to say, through my own vanity. Maybe I would be bothered if he did become obese. But, obese is one thing I am not, and I think if he had extra padding, like me, I would stand by him. Just as I have with everything else.

And I certainly wouldn’t withhold love.

So what am I to think? That my boyfriend will dump me for not looking like a cover girl? That if I become a 36-24-36 Venus he’ll be hanging on my every word again, the sex will be as explosive as it once was, and in general, all will be right with the world? Or worst of all, if I gain a few pounds and deter from my Venus status, that he’ll stop loving me?

Life is sickening in the sense that we get no answers. It’s crazy unfair, when you think about it, that we’re thrown into this cold place without any tools or knowledge on how to make it all work. All we can do is try our best.

When I asked the nearest and dearest to my heart, my boyfriend of six years if I didn’t deserve his love unless I was thin, he didn’t answer back the way I expected. I was so upset I literally curled up into the fetal position, and wanted to die.

I’m better with it now. I don’t think he should have said what he did; I don’t think he should have said a lot of things, but I can’t change that either. So this, everything, will have to become a revelation of sorts, always reminding me of what I have missed, and what I have to do. And that is to become myself again, body, mind and soul.

If I succeed, and I will succeed, you will be tempted to think that I did this for him. That’s fine. I’ve certainly given you plenty of reason to come to that conclusion. But at the end of the day it’s still me in that mirror and, boyfriend or not, I’m going to be with me for a very long time. She deserves some respect, too.

So when all is said and done, what happens then? I really don’t know. I want guarantees. Like all of you, I won’t get any. I want love. I don’t know if I’ll ever have the love I want. I want everything to be okay between me and Jess again, but relationships are a two-way street. I’ve done my part and will continue to do so, but I can’t speak for him or predict our future.

It’s all one big bummer, and seems as if there is no point at all.

But there is a point, and it’s a good one. My shining star, the biggest and best is that I also want peace of mind. I was going to say that this can be the gift I give myself, but I can do better. In the larger sense, no pun intended, Peace of Mind WILL be the gift I give myself. Because honey, if there’s anything I deserve, it’s the gift of having myself back.

My Boyfriend, Part One

The one thing I haven’t talked about yet is my love life. Doing so makes me nervous; I feel like I’m going to jinx whatever shaky foundations are still left.

Jess and I met six years ago, when I was just starting grad school. To that point my experience with men was mostly surface; I got bored fast and usually ended things by the six-month mark. This one was different. Very smart, very sexy, very resident bad boy. Cool without trying; green eyes I wanted to drown myself in. If a good kiss has the power to stop an elephant stampede, his could have done more. I was a goner.

We lived in different time zones and had limited time together. When we were apart we talked every night into the wee hours of the morning. I burned up countless phone cards and slept on the train ride to school so I’d be semi-coherent for class. My plate was full and I was running on empty, but I didn’t care. I was happy.

When we were together, it was madness. New lovers can't keep their hands off each other, and this trap we threw ourselves into, headfirst. Gentle teasing quickly became fire, translated into mind-blowing sex dozens of times a week, anytime we could, everyplace we could.

The whole experience, the whole situation was completely euphoric. I couldn’t get enough, and it seemed he was walking the same line. Everyone says long distance relationships don’t work, but we were proving them all wrong. No matter how far away, no matter how often apart, the more time we spent alone, the more we craved each other.

We lived together during my internship in Europe, and we lived together in my home city. And slowly over time, fueled by one fuck up after another, everything started to slide.

I won’t ploy you with the bullshit because I’m not here to rant. To be quick, here’s the list: worries, terminal illness, funds and lack thereof, jobs and lack thereof, etc. Life became a giant millstone. Well, shit rolls downhill, and first list gave birth to second list: worries, anxiety, argument, minor depression, gap in communication, gap in sex, etc.

And yes, this was the time that my “gained most of it back” happened. Of course he noticed, and he would let me know that he’d noticed. At first it was subtle prodding, and he would say things like, “Do you think you’ve gained weight?” He would squeeze my butt with a sly grin, but then wrap his arms around me and slurp giant kisses on my neck. Everything would be okay again.

A couple of years later, he was being downright cruel. He’d waited long enough. He’d especially waited long enough to see me in a skirt. He had a right to want his girlfriend to look good. It was starting to affect our sex. He didn’t want people gossiping about it. And so on. Not too long ago, after it was brought up for the umpteenth time I blurted out, “Do I not deserve your love unless I’m thin?”

Here’s the answer I got. "Ask me when you are thin."

I've been screwed over. I've been screwed over and it's not pretty. Worst of all, she who did the screwing belongs to the holy trinity of M's:

1) Martha Stewart

2) Mother Nature

3) Mom

I express my love through baking. If you’re tempted to remind me that this is why I can most effectively shake my bon-bon, no can do. At least 90% of the time I’m an events baker, meaning holidays and special occasions. Baking also relaxes me, and takes my mind off certain messes (gay weddings, lifestyle changes, interior design etc.), and would probably throw me into a zen-like state if I didn’t always manage to overdo things. And so, with two birthdays and a graduation to bake for, I chose the edible gift that keeps on giving: cupcakes.

Cupcakes are perfect, really. They are small, they are cake, and are usually topped with icing that makes them more delicious, and really cute. Every cousin gets cupcakes for their birthday on the two conditions that they pick their flavour, and they actually pick them up. Be it for the sake of balance or fighting the homeless, cupcakes on the subway are a no-no.

Cousin wanted carrot cupcakes, cousin’s girlfriend requested chocolate, and sister’s boyfriend/fiancée (still not official) requested nothing. But, being that he just graduated into full-fledged electrician, that deserves something and so he gets a few of each.

Enter first of the three evil M’s: Martha Stewart. Yes, I know I’m mentioning her again but this time it’s not in the most positive of ways. I’d just gotten her new Baking Handbook, and christened it with the cupcake plethora on page 165, but the one thing I’d really like to know is why, oh why, does Martha not give instructions for batches of one dozen, like everyone else in the world? All Martha's batches all yield two-dozen cupcakes. Martha must think she's something special.

Forty-eight cupcakes for three people is a little nuts, so I had to cut some corners. The chocolate cupcake recipe was halved, which wasn’t bad since it only called for two eggs, but the original carrot recipe needed three eggs, so I had to be creative and make two thirds.

I suppose I could’ve beaten the second egg and only used half, but pah. Where's the fun in that?

This is where everything started to go wrong. My theory of failure is either that Martha’s recipes are too high-maintenance, or what the third evil M, Mom, told me long ago about the second evil M, Mother Nature: a woman should never, ever bake when it’s that time of the month. Why? Because it’s all destined to go wrong.

As a modern woman, this has to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. As the daughter of Eastern European villagers with funny cold cures and creepy stories, I can’t help but wonder.

The idea was implanted shortly after “the curse” came upon me. I was making sweet bread for the first time and somehow managed to mix up the sugar and salt, which had the whole family wincing and spitting in no time. Moms asked me if Aunt Flo had pitched her tent for the week and when I confirmed it, she nodded her head knowingly. Never mind that I might have been clumsy or some culprit had unknowingly switched the containers, the bread couldn’t have turned out anyway. Her eyes wide and finger wagging, she told me that you “never, ever bake ven is dat time. Okay?”

Okay, mom. Unfortunately, people weren’t born spaciously around my cycle, so I’ll have to gamble with “dat time.” The chocolate cupcakes went very smoothly, until I took them out of the oven and placed them on the stovetop. Aha. Mom had just used one of the burners and it was still hot. Sure I noticed the burning smell, but didn’t catch on and failed to save the handful of cupcakes that were charred into oblivion.

The carrot batter went beautifully, but for some idiotic reason, failed to rise. Pancake city. I panicked and threw some extra flour into the leftover batter, and even though those few rose quite nicely, they’re a completely different colour and shape then the original carrot cupcakes.

The icing! Oh, the icing. How was I supposed to know that the only icing sugar we had left clumped itself into madness long ago? Sift it, my ass – a half-hour of pounding, forceful obedience was more like it.

I managed the carrot cupcake icing easily enough after that, but the chocolate icing was pure bitch work. Martha calls for Swiss meringue buttercream. I don’t have a double boiler but decided to try it anyway, adding some cocoa powder for that extra chocolatey effect. Well, after mixing on high for 15 minutes with no “soft peaks” action that she said would take 3-5 minutes, ha! - I threw in the butter. It separated, just like she said it would, and to tease & piss me off, didn’t come together until a good 10 minutes later. Martha said two.

If people don’t look too hard they’ll be very pretty, but the chocolate icing has to travel separately, via tupperware, to be assembled only right before eating. I’m pretty sure that icing the cupcakes and then taking them too far away from a fridge will result in one hell of a gloppy mess.

So, Martha, Mom, or Mother Nature? Or the fourth, unmentioned M: Me? Will we ever really know? I’m betting now, and I’m also betting that it will be a long, long time before I make cupcakes again. It’s just too fucking stressful.

And before we go, just one minute of guilt from our sponsors. Or not… I had half a cupcake. But as per my promise to stop obsessing so fucking much, I have decided to call it square. I was too busy to have dinner, and after all, even with all that cupcake temptation in front of me, I chose not to be gluttonous.

Cheers. Now that my fall birthday practice run is over, I’m all prepared for Christmas cookie season! Seeing as I’ve never been one to learn my lesson, I’ve dedicated myself to nine batches this year. Stay tuned.