At funerals, we say goodbye. We mourn, we cry and hopefully, get the closure we need to close that chapter of our lives forever.

I’ve mourned, lord knows I’ve cried, but I really need to say goodbye and close the door on that chapter of my life forever. More than I already have, that is. That is why I am burying Jess.

Should it matter that he’s not dead?

Last year I read a book called Her Story, a compilation of short stories by women authors. In Funeral for a Live Ex-Husband, author Ellen Sommers writes of the turmoil she experienced after her husband left her for another woman, sending years of marriage and their entire way of life down the drain. Her friends got tired of her endless bitching and suggested some closure, so they had a funeral. A funeral for a man very much alive, but ceremonial in that it gave her the sense of peace she needed.

I never forgot that story. I too need a sense of peace, because there’s something I haven’t yet done. We will always be bound to each other, Jess and I, until I get rid of the one thing that ties is together. And that one thing tying us together is my hate.

I hate the man. I can’t help it. I hate the fact that he was a part of my life. I hate him for finding me and using me and treating me as badly as he did. I’m not perfect, but I don’t think I deserved that. I hate the bullshit excuses, the drugged hazes and the promises of better tomorrows. I hate how it ended, how he was never even remotely apologetic, or even thought of re-compensating me, or that six plus years of my life were wasted on the biggest jerk in the universe. I hate it all.

To get rid of that hate, I have to forgive. But, it’s not Jess I intend to forgive.

Why the hell should I forgive him? He’s an asshole of the worst kind, who landed on my life with the sole intention of making his easier. If I really forgave him, that would make everything he did okay. If I truly forgave him, it would mean that I’d have to forget. And if I forgave him, then I may as well have never broken up with him in the first place.

Jess doesn’t deserve my forgiveness, but someone else does. Me.

If there’s one person in this world that I hate more than him, it’s me. I hate that I ever looked at him. I hate that I ever started anything with him, and I hate that I gave him so much of myself. I hate that I gave him so many chances, I hate all the picked up tabs, and I really hate the hundreds of times he yelled at me until I was reduced to a blithering mess.

I hate that I thought he ever loved me, because that isn’t what love is. I hate that most of all.

I’ve been hung up on this for a long time now, that I made this mistake. This huge, unbelievable mistake that’s cost me so much time, and so many years of my life. How could I have been so stupid? Me, the girl who never took shit, falling for the biggest shit disturber around.

I’ve been thinking about it and thinking about it so much that I know I’ll never move forward, with anything, until I let this all go. I have to let it all go.

And so, it’s to the burial ground with Jess. A makeshift one anyway, because I’m pretty sure a legit corpse is required for cemetery occupation. I could only imagine his face if he knew I was doing this; he’d yell, he’d scream, he’d call me a lunatic of the worst kind and maybe even flail holy water at me. He was superstitious, that jerk.

But none of that matters, because he’s not around. What matters now is me, and which steps I take from this day on.

It’s time to bury the past.

I have a lot of work to do. If I’m going to be skating 20k in a mere few weeks, I have to eat right, exercise more, go back to the gym and skate every day.

Except when it’s raining. Slippery roads don’t mesh with wheels and besides, water makes the bearings rust. Not a good story. But it’s safe to say that if I don’t take the eating right, exercising and skating in dry weather part seriously, I’ll be wheezing within the first three kilometers.

While a big part of me is still all chattering teeth and shaky knees at the huge task before me, the other part is relieved for this change, this much anticipated genesis of all good things to come. I know once I get into the habit, I’ll be okay.

But there is something else I have to do first. Before I take on this biggie, this genesis of all good things to come, there is a part of me I wish to leave behind. There is something that needs to be settled; old ghosts must be laid to rest.

It’s a gorgeous day today, pearl white clouds against a crisp blue sky. The green grasses of spring are here, and the trees are starting to bud. It is the newest, clearest part of the year, that first turn in the cycle of seasons and the prelude to summer.

It’s a beautiful day for a funeral.

June 3rd. 20K. D-Day.

Pros: I’ve always wanted to do this. It’s a highway full of smooth, beautiful pavement. The weather in early June is gorgeous so I won’t drop dead from heat exhaustion, and if I learn how to pace myself properly, I can do anything. Plus, it’s for a good cause.

Cons: I’ve never done this. I just might die.

While it’s very clear that I didn’t do all that much thinking before I signed up for this, I’m doing plenty of thinking now. Most of those thoughts circle around stroke, cardiac arrest, pulmonary respiratory failure, toppling over a guardrail etc. etc., there is that one tiny little glimmer whispering to me, You can do this.

Let’s go over my skating history. Got my first pair of Rollerblades for my 18th birthday, spent a few weeks with bloody knees but within a few weeks, was whizzing around just as easily as everyone else. I skated a lot that summer, and every summer after that, especially during that June and July of my eating disorder time. Skating was my one shining star then, and I easily did between six and 10 k per session.

However, it has been awhile since I’ve done any serious skating, making me all the more nervous of impending death. But I really do think that if I lay out good skating and workout plans, this is completely possible.

After all, this is Rollerblading. I love doing this. And I do need some kind of kick start, right?

I have just over five weeks to train. Let the games begin.

Well, it’s very safe to say that I’ve possibly gone ahead and done the stupidest thing I’ve ever done in my life. My whole, entire, ridiculous life. And believe me, it’s getting more ridiculous by the second.

The Becel Ride for Heart takes place every June in my city. A major highway is shut down for the day, and the cars are replaced with hundreds, thousands of bicyclists all united in motion to cure heart disease. They collect their pledges, bless ‘em, and bike up to 75k to raise money for the Heart and Stroke Foundation.

I have always been in awe of these people, coupled by the fascination of wanting to exercise on a real live expressway, but never even thought of signing up. I haven’t significantly ridden a bike in years, and the thought of dying of a heart attack while in the midst of raising money for a heart foundation is a little too ironic.

I got my first pair of inline skates, Rollerblades, for my 18th birthday and haven’t looked back since. I love the freedom of it, the wind in my hair, the speed, every muscle in my body working as I push onward. I may have been a really fat girl on skates at 18, but boy, could I ever skate. I always thought, if Ride for Heart ever includes skaters, just maybe I’ll sign up.

I checked the site. They include skaters for 5k, 10k and 20k increments. In a moment of pure dementia, I signed myself up. For the 20k.

Here are the thoughts that were running through my head: “Wow, they finally let skaters in on the action! I so have to sign myself up!” So, I did.

Then, after seeing the 5, 10 and 20 kilometer distances, “Well, I can do the five no problem. 10’s totally doable, but 20, what an adventure! What a great way to get in shape too!” I checked off the 20 box.

After the forms had gone through and the screen congratulated me for being registered in Ride for Heart, I sat there with a smug smile on my face, full of self-indulged satisfaction that Wow, I’m going to skate 20k! I am daring, I am brave, I am going to attempt what I’ve never attempted before! I am Spartacus!

Five minutes later, after remembering that I haven’t done any serious skating in years, any serious exercise in months and that I’m nowhere near fit enough to do this, my thoughts somewhat altered.

Oh, man. I’m going to skate 20k.

Top 10 Things to Do when it’s official you’re Terminally Insane:

10) If you build it, He will come. Start building.

9) Reenact Ophelia’s madness for houseguests. Strew flowers.

8) Invent a new sorority, Kappa Delta Ya Ya. Make the uniform.

7) Bake dozens of pizzas just to spell out different words with the pepperoni.

6) Chase your childhood dreams and audition for the lead in Annie.

5) Quit your day job to become an alchemist. Claim you’ve cracked the formula for gold.

4) Run through the streets with your arms outspread, singing “Fly like an Eagle” at the top of your lungs.

3) Pierce your forehead. Convince everyone you meet that you’re just using the stud to fill up the bullet hole.

2) Design your own line of newspaper pirate hats. Sell them on street corners.

1) On a whim, sign yourself up for a 20k inline skate for charity knowing full well you haven’t done any serious rollerblading in a good two years.

Get out the butterfly nets.

I was watching Gilmore Girls last Tuesday night, one of the few TV vices I have left along with HBO mega dramas, and TMN On Demand.

In this particular episode, Rory, that darling, blue-eyed innocent of Star’s Hollow, has gotten a job. Not just any job, but a newspaper job. Jumping up and down ecstatically, she exclaims to Lorelai and Logan, “Someone actually wants to pay me to write!”

Well, aren’t you special. Born under a lucky star at the end of a rainbow with a leprechaun up your ass. Stupid Rory. If she wasn’t a fictional character, I’d want to rip all the hair out of her pretty l’il head.

What a lovely theory there presented on Gilmore Girls, that the very second one finishes Journalism school they’re snapped up by a fantastic paper. Hired, paid, with benefits and a 401K, doing what they love to do the most in the world: write.

While this has happened to people I know, the number is pathetically small and worse yet, I’m not among them. I really did think I’d be among the chosen ones, I mean I scored pretty good grades and was the only one to land such an opportune internship.

Bla bla bla. Point is, I didn’t get the close-to-graduation phone call from people willing to pay me to write interesting things, and outside some dithering stories on less than fascinating subjects, any call like that has yet to come.

So while I sit here in my angst, peeling a blood orange so roughly you’d think it did me a great personal wrong, something is becoming abundantly clear: I need a job search strategy.

It’s been a week and some change into the “new me” program. I set down some ground rules for myself, small things, and agreed that come what may, I wouldn’t be too hard on myself.

So, how’d it go?

I have been drinking at least eight glasses of water a day, but that’s no biggie. I’m a beverage girl by nature, especially during meals, and water is 99% of my liquid intake. I didn’t force that, either. I just don’t like drinking much of anything else.

I have had at least one cup of green tea every other day.

I haven’t eaten after 7pm for three whole days. Yes, I know there’s plenty of room for improvement there, but there’s even more room in the “eat whole foods only” section. While I did make a special effort to do that, I didn’t make a spectacular effort.

But keeping in the spirit of not being too hard on myself, I have to see this as a good start, albeit a shaky one. At the very least it builds for a strong foundation, I’m hoping. And at the very least, the waistline on my jeans isn’t so snug. Nothing drastic, mind you, just a bit more free flowing.

That has to mean something.

Points over the next week: try harder. And, lose the sugar.

New incentive: My cousin and his fiancée have asked me to emcee their September wedding. What is it with my family and September weddings?

Oh, how crude my friends can be. In fact just yesterday, when on the phone with Raj…

Me: Hi honey!

Raj: Where the fuck have you been?

Me: What are you talking about, I’m right here. I’ve always been right here.

Raj: You haven’t called me!

Me: Have you called me?

Raj: Only because I’ve been so upset at you not calling me!

Me: Oh, please!

Raj: What is this, you have some sex and forget about all your friends?

Me: Raj!

Raj: Is this what a few orgasms do to you?

Me: RAJ!

Raj: James, sweetheart, you-know-who hasn’t been coming to see us because all she does now is have sex! She’s too good for us now! Sex sex sex!

Me: THAT’S NOT TRUE!

James: (in the background) Is there white stuff leaking out her ears?

Me: JAMES!

I took this picture from last week’s selection on www.postsecret.com. The rules state that when you borrow from the site you’re supposed to link directly back to it, alas, I’m not good at those things whatsoever. I’m hoping the mention and address will suffice.

This postcard struck me right away. I caught myself reading it over and over, because I know exactly what she means. I thought being thin was THE answer.

At the time, I very much thought it was. It’s an easy notion to get wrapped up in, when you’re fat, that being a skinny, gorgeous goddess will solve absolutely every problem you ever had.

Why is this the case? Because being fat in a fat person’s eyes is, hands down, the biggest problem they have. It was the biggest problem I had and thus, every other problem stemmed from it. I was fat. I was ugly because I was fat. I didn’t like myself because I was ugly because I was fat. I was depressed all the time because I didn’t like myself because I was ugly because I was fat. I didn’t have a great job because I was depressed all the time because I didn’t like myself because I was ugly because I was fat. I didn’t have a boyfriend because I didn’t have a great job because i was depressed all the time because I didn’t like myself because I was ugly because I was fat.

Fat fat fat. It’s a vicious cycle.

So I was fat, so I dropped all this weight, so I became thin and for awhile it was a dream come true. But then, other things started happening.

I don’t know how a thin person thinks, in regards to a thin person who has always been thin. I don’t know how a fat person thinks, in regards to a fat person who’s always been fat. But being fat then becoming thin, I know exactly what’s going through that person’s head, the head that starts to play tricks with you once the euphoria has worn off and reality sets in.

I’m walking down the street; a good looking guy winks at me. Instead of being happy and oh, smiling back or tossing my hair, I’m thinking, Why didn’t you look at me before? I was still the same person. Is this the only reason why I get a second glance?

Dinner. I’m with my friends at a trendy little café, chatting the afternoon away. As we look through our menus and they all compare suggestions, my stomach is tying itself into a knot. I can’t eat this, or this, or this. I can’t eat anything here. I’ll get fat again.

Speaking of friends, this was also the time when I started to lose them. Some acquaintances here and there, I wasn’t terribly injured over those, but two very good friends, girls I loved and trusted, flew the coop. The first very suddenly started making fun of my appearance telling me over and over that I had a big ass. I found that more than somewhat strange, considering this was the smallest my ass had ever been.

The second, at the drop of a hat, decided I was letting my new appearance get to my head. Wearing tighter pants, fitted t-shirts, wearing my hair down, traveling Europe with my boyfriend, none of this was me. In fact, I’d become an insufferable snob.

But I worked so hard for this. You’re my friends, shouldn’t you be happy for me? Were you only my friends in the beginning because I was bigger than you, because I made you look good? Am I that bad a judge of character?

Then, I fell in love. Or at least I thought I did, with Jess, and I was skinny at the time. I was thin, I was fine, I was dressed to the nines and he didn’t stand a chance. Neither did I, for the affair that ensued. And every single day into it I remember thinking, Would this have happened to me if I was still fat? Do I deserve it more now because I lost weight?

The deeper I fell for that boy, the more I felt for him, the more I worried. I remember asking him once what would happen if I ever got fat again, if his feelings for me would change. Jess assured me that he loved me no matter what, and would always love me no matter what. As long as I was happy, he was happy too.

Well, look what happened with that.

I’m not saying I wasn’t happy with my newer self, I was. It’s just that I wasn’t happy as I thought I would be, because I know now that it wasn’t the end all, be all solution to absolutely everything.

There is no solution to absolutely everything. That’s why it’s so important for me to not do things so blindly this time around. I have to be doing it for all the right reasons, not just the flirting and couture. In the end, it’ll only be me and myself left to face the music. Fat or thin.

There will always be jerks on this planet for thin and fat girls alike, just because there will always be jerks on this planet, period. There will always be people who will like me better a certain way, or not like me at all either way. We live in a vain world, and no matter how beautiful one person may think I am, there will always be another who thinks I'm far from it. I’ll have to live with that.

As for the voices endlessly nagging me about what if, why not, don’t do this or that… I’ll just have to learn to let things go, one at a time, and definitely not be so paranoid.

So, why do I want to do this again? For dozens of reasons that I’ve mentioned dozens of times, but one in particular stands out.

I want to look at myself in the mirror again. Really look. And watch that face smile back at me.

I loved being thin.

I was 24 years old and not even two months into journalism school when the weight started to go. I’d been sick of myself for a long time by then and started the Dr. Stern Diet, a miraculous regime that advertised weight loss at five pounds per week.

Being constantly busy with school, sharing my first city apartment with Oli and being in the throes of newfound love boded well for my waistline. I didn’t have time for food, or at least I didn’t make the time like I used to. I started that diet a size 16; three months later I was a size 6.

The whole thing had happened so quickly, it took me time to get used to. I’d never been so small before. Everything felt lighter and men, lots of men, were taking notice. I was becoming braver, letting my hair down and dressing more stylishly. Slouchy pants and baggy sweaters gave way to low rise jeans and fitted tops, and I took shopping more seriously in general.

I loved the simplicity of it all. Things became so easy. I didn’t have to limit which stores I shopped at, because most everything fit and looked good on me now. I didn’t have to critique my appearance with the supreme efficiency of days past, contemplating if every single inch of clothing fell exactly as it should. I wanted to go to clubs, I wanted to be more physical, I wanted to dress sexier. And if a friend would nudge me to say that some guy was checking me out, I’d flash my pearly whites and believe them. Not, Oh please. There’s no way anyone would ever look at me.

I won’t say I didn’t love that attention, either. My, invisible girl, finally garnering some appreciation from the opposite sex. How you look, or how you think you look, drastically affects your appearance and how others react to you. If you’re miserable or down on yourself, everyone notices the black rain cloud over your head. If you’re happy and full of life, everyone notices your radiance. People want to be around you.

I knew I was looking marvelous, and that gave me all the confidence in the world.

Now, when I look back on that time, I realize just how lucky I really was. I had everything I wanted, you see, and I was exactly where I wanted to be. I was in graduate school, I lived in the city, I had a boyfriend who adored me and I was thin, THIN. I wanted to scream from the rooftops.

Then again, after experiencing all of that and being where I am now, there are other things I realize now too. There are lessons to be learned before I go down that path again, because as wonderful as it is to be thin, it isn’t the key to a charmed life.

In fact, a whole new set of problems come with it.

100% Real Juice: Showgirls

You read right, but I can’t blame you for the second glance. What inspirational anything could possibly come out of Showgirls? The writing is horrific, and the acting is overdone and cheesy. The doggie chow scene alone makes you cry blood. I always wondered if the producers made the movie terrible on purpose, guaranteeing it would become a cult classic out of sheer badness.

Anyway, seeing as the movie is more comedy than drama or boobs, it’s fun to watch every now and again. But only if it happens to be on when you’re channel surfing.

One of the scenes in the very beginning, when Nomi is still in the pickup with Elvis wannabe dude hitching a ride to Vegas, he asks her if she gambles. She says no, and he replies, “You gotta gamble if you’re gonna win.”

We all know this to be true. How on earth is your hand going to win if you don’t put any money down on the table? Similarly, in the grander scheme of things, how can you experience victory if you don’t, in some sense, put yourself out of your comfort zone? Or just even, go for it? How will you know what triumph really feels like if you don't reach out and try?

That’s my take on things, anyway. You can go back to staring at boobs now.

Being completely brain dead this morning and therefore at a total loss for words, how about we try something different?

Tell me what the above picture says to you, or what you imagine the story is behind it. Then, guess the name of it. In the spirit of Natalie's song snippets, I'll give you a hint. The name of this picture is contained within a line from the poem:

Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the dingle starry,
Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
Trail with daisies and barley
Down the rivers of the windfall light.

And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
And the sabbath rang slowly
In the pebbles of the holy streams.

All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
And playing, lovely and watery
And fire green as grass.
And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
Flying with the ricks, and the horses
Flashing into the dark.

And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all
Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
The sky gathered again
And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
Out of the whinnying green stable
On to the fields of praise.

And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
In the sun born over and over,
I ran my heedless ways,
My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
Before the children green and golden
Follow him out of grace.

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

The Quest for Peace, Love and a 24” Waist, Exercise #1: Writing your Story

Apparently it is mucho importante to answer certain questions about one’s self in order to discover why there are body image issues to begin with. We’re getting to the root of the problem, remember, and in order to do so, we must start from the very beginning.

Again, these questions are reprinted without permission, but I hope that if Deborah Low ever gets around to reading this, she’ll understand.

And now, let us delve into the past and therefore, the ugly truth.

When did you first begin to have issues with food?

Early teens. Eating just made me feel better sometimes. Most times actually, which is probably why I’m doing this test to begin with.

When did you first begin to gain weight?

When it really started to pack on I was 17, 18.

What was going on in your life?

A million things. Nothing. I was flunking physics, I had overly strict parents, a gorgeous sister who seemed to have it all. There was all that pressure to get into a good university, and my heart was broken. I thought I’d lost my soul mate.

How did you feel about yourself?

How do you think I felt? Awful, miserable, like shit. Less than human.

Are there any patterns in your story?

As a whole? Of course. Every time the going got tough, I made it better with food. I’d say that’s a pattern.

What weight loss methods have you tried?

Good lord, everything. Behold my shame: Calorie counting, the cabbage soup diet, the Scarsdale diet, performance drugs, a gym membership, Atkins, Weight Watchers, Slimfast, a personal trainer, body cleansesJenny Craig, starvation, diuretics, vomiting, Herbal Magic, the Dr. Stern Diet…there may be one or two more I’ve forgotten.

How did these different techniques make you feel?

The gym memberships and personal trainer made me feel great. The others, great in the beginning. I would get high off the initial loss of the first few weeks and then… crash and burn.

What have you learned?

That none of these methods work, or I don’t work for the methods? That the diet industry is geared towards failure? That I’m weak and not working hard enough towards what I really want? That I’ve wasted a lot of time, energy, and money? All of the above?

Where are you today?

At work, ready to start in 10 minutes, in the dreaded valley of in-between. Meaning, I’m marginally comfortable with myself physically, but not yet where I want to be.

Why do you want to lose weight?

To be healthier. To be happier. To look good in a bathing suit. Hell, to be able to actually wear a bathing suit. To not have to think about stupid things like the most flattering way to sit, or turning away from mirrors. To silence these stupid voices in my head, once and for all. To be a peace with myself.

Are you willing to challenge yourself and work at your goal?

Yes, but I’m scared. I don’t want to fail anymore.

The Men and the Boys: Jules

Sometimes, every now and then, something happens to show you the more beautiful side of life. These lessons are not always obvious though, in fact they can be under the most cryptic disguises. Be careful because if you blink, you might miss them.

It was the beginning of the eighth grade, the first day of the last year of elementary school ever. The playground was rammed with chatty kids and adolescent hormones, and I was a 13-year old nerd.

Puberty had not been good to me. I was a year into my growth spurt, and maintained the record of tallest kid in the school. I wasn’t allowed to wear any kind of makeup and had no idea what to do with the mop on my head, my naturally curly, short, brushed out do that could’ve been the envy of all nefarious 80’s hair bands. Nor did I have any clue about things like upper lip waxing or eyebrow plucking, and went about with dark twin bushmen hiding my eyes. The final nail in the coffin was parents who’d wisely learned to budget with my growing ways, so I was stuck with ugly, too big shoes.

I started that year freshly returned from a Europe trip with Oli, knowing that even if I wasn’t the school bombshell, I did have the best tan. I also started the year still smarting from the emotional blows of Gabriel just months before, but with newfound adopted wisdom. The way I saw it, I’d gotten some hard knocks on the streets of love, but had spent an entire summer toughening up and getting him out of my system. Gabriel could never get to me again.

Just to prove to myself that I was impervious to Gabriel’s charms I sought him out on the grounds, quickly spotting the handsome devil. He was a few yards away and he wasn’t alone, talking to someone I didn’t recognize. New kids, from the looks of it. A boy. A really cute boy. And as I found out soon after, he was in our class.

He was a skater boy by the name of Jules, and his family had moved to the area just three weeks before. Jules had dark wavy hair, a mischievous grin, and quickly earned the respect of his peers by sarcastically putting the teacher in her place not five minutes into roll call. While that assured he would never be teacher’s pet, it automatically boosted him to the Uber Popular level of our class and therefore, untouchable to me. I was still squirming within the echelons of the geek squad, after all.

The first few months of the school year passed just the way I thought it would; I read a lot, studied a lot, and didn’t mix with the other kids all that much. My brush-ins with Jules were few, but he seemed nice enough. We almost never spoke, but it didn’t escape me that he never teased me or made me the brunt of jokes like the other, more beautiful kids did.

Then, for the second time in two years, the impossible happened. In seventh grade the teacher had put Gabriel next to me in the class setup, and now, in the eighth grade, the teacher sat Jules beside me. The desks in our room were arranged in three columns of pairs, and Jules and I now occupied the top right corner for the rest of the year. I may not have been cute and flirty, but reading a lot proved you always got to sit next to the cute boys.

Was I happy about this new arrangement? Yes. Did I like this boy? Yes. I dared not show it, though. If there was anything I’d learned from the year before it was that Jules never would and never could like me. I was an ugly duckling, too tall, too bookish, and the basic rules of physics dictated that popular kids never mixed with nerds. We just didn’t go together.

But that didn’t mean we couldn’t be friends on some sort of level, and sitting next to Jules everyday was a lot of fun. He was easy to talk to and a big prankster; we’d spend a lot of our time laughing about this or that. He had great music taste and got me into The Cult and Black Sabbath when the other girls in class were bopping to New Kids on the Block. We didn’t hang together at recess, but he never once ignored me or made me feel inferior.

It’s safe to say that the more I got to know him, the more I liked him.

As it turned out, Jules liked me in his own way. Our relationship, in all its early adolescent awkwardness, was put to the test. One day in the spring Jules and I were talking about something, I don’t remember what, but I do remember being reluctant to tell him because it was something I wanted kept secret. He may have been my desk buddy but he was still in the trendy crowd, and you know how they are. Any juicy tidbit from someone lesser, they tear to shreds and tease you for weeks.

He swore up and down it would stay between us, and so I caved. Unfortunately a busybody girl sitting in front of us heard me say the word “secret” and by recess, it had spread like wildfire that Jules had dirt on me.

I was prepared for this and spent that recess away from everyone else. Being alone often made things easier to manage. What I wasn’t prepared for was almost an entire class full of Jules haters, because he’d refused to dish. “I told you I would keep my promise” he said, as we went back to our desks.

“But no one’s speaking to you.”

“Who cares? Most of them are posers, anyway.”

I was astounded. Outside of Hollywood, boys like him didn’t protect girls like me. It just didn’t happen.

Things between us didn’t change after that, we still sat next to each other, talked every day, and teamed together over assignments. He was better at math and I was better at the comprehensive subjects, so we were a good match that way. I didn’t keep my hopes up that he was in love with me, but took very great comfort with the fact that we were friends. Good friends.

The rest of that year passed quickly and before I knew it, we were on the verge of high school. Our last day as eighth graders, the teaching staff had arranged a special dinner in the school library, followed by a dance in the gym. The library was bedecked in streamers and the tables were arranged in rows, covered in crisp white tablecloths, and rented china and silverware. I sat across from Jules because that’s where my place card told me to go. I figured our very wise teacher had paired everyone across from their desk buddy in the seating arrangement, to avoid the awkwardness of the recess cliques.

The gym dance opened up with some good fast music that the girls honed in on right away, while the boys either mingled amongst themselves or held up the wall. When the first slow song came on the girls did their customary “hurry up, stop dancing and grab a chair” thing, all of a sudden becoming sweet & docile, waiting for the boys to approach.

Ugh. I hated those times. I almost never got asked to dance and when I did, it was by my male compatriots in the geek squad. I knew the drill well by now, as did everyone else: the most popular boy would approach first, taking his pick of dance partner among all the girls, usually the prettiest one. This would muster the courage of all the other boys who, one after the other, would ask the remaining girls to dance. The second most popular boy, then the third and so on, eventually declining in status and looks until the last two squares went for their turn.

It’s amazing how the mating rituals of adolescents can be compared to those of mountain gorillas.

I took my place on a bench next to the wall and assumed my position of staring at the floor, waiting for the worst to be over. There were more girls in our class than boys, and past experience dictated that either one of the very last boys would ask me, or I wouldn’t get asked at all.

Not 30 seconds into my self-pity, I saw a pair of polished black shoes approach me. And then I heard, “So how about it, kid?”

I looked up. Jules was standing in front of me with his hand held out, and he was smiling. I looked around quickly and saw everyone looking at us, their mouths wide open, surprise written all over their faces. Jules, the most popular boy in our class had made his choice for first dance of the evening, and he’d picked me.

I smiled, stood up, put my hand in his and off we went. Everyone else watched us go, still in the throes of their shock so that we were alone on the floor for the first little bit, dancing in the atypical Catholic school style of a casual sidestep, one arm’s width apart. I don’t remember what song was playing, but I do remember thinking for the first time ever that maybe, just maybe, good stuff happened to too tall, big haired, nerdy girls too.

When the dance was over that night, so was our time as eighth graders. The next day our summer vacation would begin and in two months we’d all be Freshmen. Our ending was bittersweet, Jules’ and mine. We signed each others’ yearbooks, hugged, and left youth behind forever. We went to different high schools in the fall, and I never saw him again.

Looking back on it all, that was my first really first positive relationship with a boy. I started high school a little more grown up, and with a different take on life that would carry and grow stronger through the years. It's amazing what happens to a person when they realize that good things can happen, and that good things do happen.

I’m not sorry that nothing ever happened between Jules and I, not in the emotional sense that is, because I truly love remembering it for what it was: the impossible friendship of Skater Boy and Nerdy Girl.

Jules, if you’re out there somewhere, I’ve never forgotten you, or what you did for me. And, I’ve never forgotten that dance. Thank you.

Almost two months later, the time was finally right. I gave Sandy his Valentine’s Day present.

After a big family dinner at my parents’ place last Friday, I loaded us up in my car and feigned driving to his house. We really were going to his house but there was something I wanted to do first; something I’d been wanting to do with him for a very long time.

Although his face doesn’t easily betray emotion, Sandy was pretty surprised when I stopped the car on a random side street and then pulled a shawl out of nowhere to blindfold him. He did have a very nice smile on his face though, and made sure to hang on to Joey’s door while I sped and swerved us to get there. I had to take the most obscure and confusing route, see, to make sure he couldn’t map in his head where the car was going.

Only a few minutes later I made it to our location, and undid the shawl only after he swore to keep his eyes closed. I knew that was a safe bet, because Sandy always keeps his word. I still had to laugh though, as I maneuvered him around the car and through the parking lot. He was looking down, eyes closed, still smiling, and moving at a snail’s pace. “You’re very unsteady on your feet without your eyes, Ace.”

“Uh, yeah.”

The walk wasn’t far, and it wasn’t long until we were standing exactly where I wanted us to be; on the few metres of flat ground between the doors and the steps. I told Sandy it was okay to open his eyes and he did, taking only a few seconds to realize that we were in front of the public library where, 15 years ago, he first kissed me.

I was just 16 then and he was 18, two kids who really liked each other, pecking on library property. Now, as adults in our 30’s, we kissed the kisses of grownups and for a fleeting glimpse, felt young again. “You know I don’t consider myself a sap, Ace. Is this way to sickly sweet?”

“Nope.”

Back in the car, he held my non-steering hand the entire way back and we didn’t say much, looking at each other every now and then with wide smiles. We may be adults now but with each other, even if only sometimes, we’re still kids at heart.

“Think. The big fucking picture.”

-- James Gandolfini as Tony Soprano on The Sopranos

A gritty HBO mob drama is the last place you’d expect to hear pearls of wisdom, but Tony, or at least the writers of The Sopranos have a point here. If there’s anything I’ve been trying to beat through my head over the past year and some change, it’s that the big picture is the most important thing, at least far more important than just a tiny clip of it. The film is always more important than a single scene, just like the apple tree is more important than one apple.

My life is more important than just a day. You get it.

Now, I’ve been discussing my life with myself (who better to talk it over with, right?), and we’ve decided that this Monday morning is a good time to start. I know, I know, when one starts to turn the wheels of change that should always happen as a “now” and not a “tomorrow,” but I just like the idea of morning beginnings. It makes things feel more fresh.

So in light of this and on the subject of days, I get a last one. One Last Day, that is.

All fatties know the Last Day very well, it’s the day before the day of your “big change” where you excitedly allow yourself to eat absolutely anything you want, sky’s the limit. Why? ‘Cause come midnight, it’s all strict. You do what you want and in plenty of excess, because tomorrow is all about change.

I’ve had many last days, and even though I’m sure they were great at the time, they couldn’t have been that memorable because for the life of me, I can’t remember anything I ever ate.

But still, since my life is going to be one nice big change starting tomorrow, today I’m going hog wild! That’s right baby, it’s all about the cakes and the ice cream and the sumptuous world of fats! Oink oink!

Pause.

No, I’m not going to do that.

I’ve gone wrong far too many times on this road called Dieting, and the above is one shining example.

So we’re going to try something a little different this time. Wise choices is what it’s all about, and that’s got to be my new motto. No starving, no denial, no cutting everything out so the threat of pigging out looms just around the corner. You know how it works, you say no to chocolate forever and within the week you’ve got Nutella smeared all over your face.

Doesn’t matter that you’ve never eaten that much chocolate before in your entire life; the minute you said “No” to it all was the minute you wanted the stuff more than ever before.

If I’m going to cut out, it’s got to the for the most part, and not forever. Like coffee. With the exception fo extreme emergencies I just have to say, goodbye my darling; I’ll never forget our happy days. At least the weather is getting warmer, so my cravings for you are down to a minimum.

If it’s a bad thing but I really want it, and I’ve been good, then I can have it. Slow and steady wins the race, right? Argh. I don’t like slow and steady, I want to sprint around the track and call myself a winner. But I really think that in the long run, the slower route is the more guaranteed win. It worked for the tortoise.

So we’re going to start with some rules, minor ones, just so I can break myself into the system., but nothing so intense that’ll be too nuts to follow.

So, over this following week I will:

Drink at least 8 glasses of water a day
Drink at least one cup of green tea per day
Not eat after 7pm, and
Eat whole foods only. As in, the good stuff.

I will also rule one thing out: sugar. With the exception of coffee. For emergencies, that is. See? No extreme denial.

I won’t be having a last day, but in honour of all this hoopla I am going to have a last fun something. Not something overly fun either, if you get my drift, but lately I’ve been craving my comfort food of old and so tonight I made a bowl if it: Balkan yogurt covered with crushed walnuts, and drizzled in honey.

Then again, why should that be a last anything? Yoghurt, nuts and honey are whole foods and therefore, plenty good for me. Maybe not for everyday, but good nonetheless.

Oh and, Wednesday morning I have to be at work by 8am. Predicting a coffee emergency.

Cheers.

Awhile ago I purchased Deborah Low’s book, The Quest for Peace, Love and a 24" Waist, and like most of the “better me” books I’ve bought over the years, it ended up on a gigantic stack collecting dust.

I pulled it back out a few days ago, and a simple leaf through reminded me why I’d purchased it in the first place. Here are the first few paragraphs of Chapter 2:

I was once a most favored, loyal, and tormented member of The Diet Club, and with only a hint of apology, I believe that if you are reading this book, then you, too, may be a silent member.

Gee, thanks. I might be more offended if you weren’t so dead on.

Welcome to the club - and guess what? No initiation fees!

Why can’t gyms or health clubs have no initiation fees? Credit cards? Cell phone packages? Anyway, I digress.

Most new members become part of the club for free by passively adopting the messages of our diet-focused-body-conscious-media-crazed society.

I’d say. One glimpse of a bikini model’s behind makes me want to rip my hair out. And, even though she’s never done me any personal harm, it makes me want to hate her forever. How’d she get so lucky? Why is it so easy for her? How nuts am I to even think having a great body is lucky, when I know absolutely nothing about this person to begin with, or what they might have done to get that body?

The power these messages have on how we think our bodies should look, are insidious and complex. We sign the contract without consciously examining the mentality behind this ingrained belief.

A concise over-simplification of the message would read something like this: First, you must have the body. Slim. Lean. Strong. Sexy. Then you are permitted to reap society’s rewards – respect, a successful career, a loving man who desires you, and personal validation as a strong-willed, competent, bathing-suit-wearing, free-spirited female!

Sigh. Sometimes, being a girl really stinks. Stinks with that rotten egg smell.

But you can get the jist of what this book is all about: no vigorous exercise or meal plans, but the issues we have on being fat, and how that prevents us from really being happy in the now.

It’s an interesting theory, getting to the root of the problem. It’s more interesting that something in this slim book could make me think a different way.

Hare Hare Krishna. Break out the patchouli.

But again, in all seriousness, if beating the dead horse the past almost 20 years of my life has gotten me nowhere, then maybe a quick rewire of my brain will.

Ha! Quick, my arse. But it’s worth a try.

The scene: Sandy’s house. I’m ironing a blouse I want to wear when we go out later; he’s at the store getting groceries. After awhile I hear the key in the lock; door opens and there he is, bags in hands and wearing a nice smile.

Sandy makes his way over and says, “Hi cheech. You doing good?”

“Always.”

He gave me a kiss and right then, something really whack happened. For that moment, that split second, something completely new washed over me, a feeling I’ve never had before.

Wife.

Hoo boy.

Naturally, this gave me an instant headache, and I teetered a bit. Sandy noticed. He bloody notices everything. “You okay cheech?”

“Yes.” Not really.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes…” I’m positive I’ll be fine once I finish having this stroke.

Once, a long time ago, I almost had a fiancé. Not once did I ever have a feeling like this.

Another time, not so long ago, I lived with someone. Not once in three years of sharing an address with that man did I ever get a feeling like this.

After assuring Sandy one more time that I was fine, I meandered over to the stairs and sat down for a bit. After my breathing and vision had returned to normal, I shared a good few minutes with my thoughts.

Quick consult with Catholic Right and Orthodox Left:

CR: Sweetie, this is wonderful! You're finally feeling true love, and all the great things that can come with it!

Sonofabitch. Time for Orthodox Left to snap me back to my ever-insane self:

OL: Nope. She's right.

Again: hoo boy.

Boyfriends, love, commitment, and the dreaded M word. You know, I honestly never thought I would come to a place like this. Even when I was with Jess, I never really thought we’d get to that next step. Even when I wasn’t alone, I got used to flying solo.

Sandy was in the kitchen, whistling to the radio and getting ready to barbecue some steak for lunch. His way of doing things, his way of going about life, makes me feel good. He always makes me feel good.

So maybe then, that thought, that feeling, isn't such a bad thing.

When my stroke eased off, I walked into the kitchen and interrupted his marinading to give him a huge hug. "Know what, Ace?"

"What, Cheech?"

"You're great!"

And with that million dollar smile, he replied just like I knew he would: "I know!"

I'm not ready for that M word yet, but maybe being on the beginning of its path doesn't have to be all that terrible. In fact, I think it will be very nice.

I do think I'm ready for something else though, and really, it's happening whether I like it or not.

Kids, I'm growing up.

you Thinking Bloggers, you

And now for something completely different: A man with a tape recorder up his brother’s nose.

Happy vibes and fortunes to whoever can guess what the above line is from. And on another note, I wonder how hard it would be to get a tape recorder up your brother’s nose? What on earth could he have done to piss you off that much?

I don’t have a brother so he can’t peeve me to that extent, and don’t worry Oli, you never pissed me off that much. Although a few times I seriously contemplated putting your hands in a bowl of warm water while you were sleeping. Damn you for being such a light sleeper.

This post is something completely different because it’s not a post per se, but an awards ceremony.

What, you ask, brought this on? A comment on my blog last week that gave me the shock of my life:

I wanted to let you know that I just nominated you for the "thinking blog" award. It is on my post for today and I am too inept to put the link in a comment. You totally deserve it. Posts like this one don't let people forget.

This was given to me by the most charming author of the blog entitled, “Almost Interesting Musings on Life” and most totally astounded me to no end. After a few minutes of mindless staring, reading that comment a few thousand times, I clicked onto Musings and saw this little tidbit about me.

Memoirs of a Fat Girl- Although her humor isn’t as obvious as the others, MFG (as I like to call her even though it reminds me of Girbaud jeans) has a very honest look on the world and I think balances the tragedy and comedy of daily life very well. She is straight-forward and her posts come straight from the heart. Although she has been a little more serious than funny lately, she always makes me smile. She has a big heart and isn’t afraid to share it. She is probably the biggest technical "thinker" of my bunch.

Natalie, just so you know… I cried. Yeah I know, I’m a sensitive shit. Thank you so much.

So, I’ve had the honour to bestow upon my humble pages that cute l’il award and I have to say that looking at it everyday gives me those warm, fuzzy peach feelings inside.

And now, I’m supposed to pass this award on to five others who I feel are "Thinking Bloggers." Drumroll, please.

(By the way, my efforts at linking totally nosedived, though I finally managed to get the pictures up. A techie I am not, so everything is just highlighted in bold)

My first pick is Active Corner, written by my Aussie friend b. She was one of my first overseas readers, and her blog is one of many parts: worldly musings, doctoral dissertation, psychological relationship dissection, and life as a girl. Her posts are deep and full of thought; heck, I even borrowed one of her entries for my August 10th, 2006 post. She’s a fun one, and has a lot to say.

My second and third picks are Lance of Lance Morrison and his boyfriend of Light ‘n Flaky fame.

Lance is my quirky superhot hair stylist, and when he’s not doing hair, puppy sitting, commiserating or saving the planet, he’s writing in his blog. He’s got posts about drunkety drunk drunk Liza Minelli, braiding in the first grade, and some truly heart wrenching, personal pieces about dying. We all thank our lucky stars you pulled through both times, Lancey. Your heart’s desire to make the world a better place via volunteer work and being a good person in general never fail to strike a cord.

Light ‘n Flaky has something to say about just about everything: Halloween costumes, irritating people, pie. He doesn’t post that often but I thoroughly enjoy reading when he does; that last nostalgic post about deciding not to revisit his childhood home, even though there was an open house, really got me right there. Always well written, and a deserving read.

(by the way, if both of you don't reply to this, you totally and eternally suck)

Mood Indigo of My So Called Love Life is more deep than you’d expect, with writing bordering on Sex and the City meets Carl Jung. Her ponderings on life and love make one think about their own standings in the here and there of the everyday. I don’t know if she’ll be able to accept or even respond to this award anytime soon since she’ll be in Africa for another two months, so we’ll just have to see what happens.

Last but not least, The Coffeehouse. Queenie doesn’t write as often as I’d like, which is a shame, but her views are never apologetic, and her want for peace makes me want to run out and join a demonstration against the numerous injustices in this world. She makes me want to do more, and that alone is enough for any reward.

Now, for all recipients of this, I’ve lifted the instructions off Natalie’s blog as to what happens from here on in:

To those I have chosen: Should you choose to participate, please make sure you pass this list of rules to the blogs you are tagging. If, and only if, you get tagged, write a post with links to 5 blogs that make you think, Link to this post so that people can easily find the exact origin of the meme.Proudly display the 'Thinking Blogger Award' (see sidebar if I can get it to work) with a link to the post that you wrote

Go on, get to it! And know that if you even have a link to the left of this writing at all, you’re a reward in my books. Hugs and Kisses.

PS: I’ve added a number of delicious new links to my blogroll, don’t forget to check them out!

Calorie Chronicles: The Eating Disorder(s), Concluded

Writing about that was really hard. Thinking about it was even more difficult. Doing it at the time was one thing, but looking back on it years later and realizing that I was stupid enough to do what I did… that’s something else altogether.

I highly regret every minute of it. Luckily, that same day Oli and I got on the plane was also the last day I ever forced myself to throw up a meal.

How did it all end? I thank our trip to Europe for that. If we’d never gone, I would have probably stayed in that loop for much longer.

Like all journeys, the traveler quickly realizes that how things are done in one country, are very different from how things are done at home. Changing continents is a shift most perceptible in the everyday simple things, like food.

In Europe food is more of an experience, and meals are more highly valued than in the West. On most parts of the continent there’s no such thing as, “Do you deliver?” You eat out at good restaurants, or you eat in with freshly made, home cooked food. If you have a family, you mostly eat in.

Having guests in Europe is the perfect time to showcase culinary skills, and if those guests are related, that’s yet another notch up the ladder. When you haven’t seen people in years there’s a lot of catching up to do, and what better place to do that then at a table of sumptuous dishes?

That’s a lot of work for the hosts, but the guests have their jobs too. Being the well-trained product of a strict European mother, I know my place at the table, and what to do. You smile, let yourself be served, and clean everything off your plate, period. There is no shitpicking, I don’t like this or that, and every dish gets equal respect. Meal done, heap mountains of praise upon your hosts, especially the cook.

Our first stop was Frankfurt Germany, where we stayed with our aunt, uncle, and cousin. We had great fun there, sightseeing, spending time with our relatives, club hopping and drinking plenty of weissebier. Our aunt had spent a lot of time preparing for our visit, down to getting the flavours of soda we liked (overseas I’m a Fanta junkie), and took pride in being like our second mom.

I enjoyed her food, and my body, at long last, enjoyed the wonderful feeling of satisfaction. I could have thrown up but wasn’t totally comfortable doing that in their tiny apartment with the one very small bathroom. I said I knew how to throw up quietly by then and I did, but it wasn’t a totally noise-free scene. The parents’ house back home was pretty big and I’d had my choice of bathrooms, and the dorm at school had that loud bathroom fan.

I couldn’t risk being caught in Germany, and something else was happening to make me rethink my actions: my hair was falling out. Every morning when I was shampooing in the shower, I’d pull clumps of hair out of my head. I may have been idiotic enough to attempt anorexia, but I wasn’t so stupid that I couldn’t figure out why this was happening.

No puking in Germany. Thanks to all that walking, touristing and dancing ‘til the wee hours of the morning, no weight gain either.

Croatia was next, with a brief stop in the capital city of Zagreb, then off to the islands for the bulk of our stay. In Germany we’d had the small handful of relatives, whereas in Croatia there were more than we could count. Lots of sharing, lots of stories and tons, tons, TONS of food.

After a few days I could feel the waistband on my jeans tightening. It wasn’t that I was making a pig of myself but really, any food at all after digesting nothing for so long was bound to make a noticeable difference.

Did I throw up in Croatia? No. Despite the hair problem I contemplated it, because the small gain was making me panic. I’d worked so hard to get rid of it all, see, but that issue was quickly resolved by a little seven-year old cousin who’d made himself my shadow. This kid followed me absolutely everywhere, to breakfast, outside, the balcony, and perched himself outside the bathroom door every time I had to make a visit. He’d be out there knocking madly, saying things like, “What are you doing in there? Are you going to be long? Will you come outside and play? Don’t forget to wash your hands!” and then sit on the floor and sing until I was ready to come out.

I didn’t want to vomit with him outside the door like that. He was just seven. That wasn’t something I wanted to explain, or try to make him understand. He was bound to learn about these things someday anyway. He didn’t have to learn them from me.

I enjoyed myself with my family for those few weeks, through all the talks and the meals; even through the several trips to the beach where I very nervously lounged about in a bathing suit, just like everyone else. Being in a bathing suit makes me nervous at the best of times, and during those beach hours I was a total wreck. In all the pictures I’m sitting upright on my towel, hugging my knees to my body in an effort to show as little fat as possible.

Miraculously I’d gained very little weight back during that trip, but I knew it wasn’t meant to last. When we got home, I made the executive decision to not purge anymore.

Why? Because my hair, once wild and strong, was lifeless, thin, and missing in clumps. Because I realized that I’d missed a few other things that normal people did, like sleeping. During that trip I’d slept soundly through every single night. The rotten, acid taste in my mouth was gone. My stomach, once wracked with emptiness and pain, was silent and content.

Of course every decision comes with its consequences, and I knew what was going to happen. Within two weeks of returning home, every single ounce that I’d worked so hard to lose had come back.

It was a bitter pill to swallow, but I did it.

My weight has had its ups and downs, and my opinions of myself have gone up and down, but I don’t regret not starving and throwing up anymore. That took awhile, a long while actually, to get over the panic of swallowing food again. And that rush of losing eight pounds per week… that notion took even longer to bury.

But some things are worth it. Sleeping, for one. Still, not shaking hands. A healthy head of hair. It took four years for my curls to get back to normal after that summer, but they’re back, and here to stay,

I think that’s a pretty good thing.

If you guys don't mind, I'm going to be taking a little break. The only thing more intense than writing that last post or admitting it to all of you, was admitting to myself that it actually happened.

Take care, happy almost weekend, and see you Monday. Cheers.

Calorie Chronicles: The Eating Disorder(s)

I’ll never forget the first time I put my finger down my throat to throw up a meal. It was harder than I thought it would be.

The only prior experience I’d had with this was in the form of cop shows and Made for TV movies. My favourite high school show was 21 Jump Street, and I’d watched the narcs puke out drugs on that program several times. They’d had to swallow all kinds of stimulants in order to save face, but always made the obligatory bathroom trip right after to prevent anything from getting into their systems.

The procedure seemed quite simple: kneel in front of toilet, one finger into your mouth, hurl, flush. Don’t forget to rinse and get that barfy smell out of your mouth.

The Made for TV movies designed to educate teenagers about all kinds of adolescent horrors illustrated the scene in pretty much the same way, although the subject matter was different. The most beautiful, popular girl in school hides her anorexic secret, force vomiting every chance she gets in most the discreet fashion: she kneels, holds her hair with one hand, uses finger from the other hand, hurls, and flushes. Then she rinses, but doesn’t repeat.

Easy peasy.

I thought about a lot of scenes like that as I was eating my dinner that night, which I remember was some form of powdered soup mix with barely any calories, and cucumber slices sans salt. Bird food. When I was done, I made my way upstairs to the bathroom, locked myself in, and turned the fan on so the noise could muffle out what I was about to do. I didn’t want my roommates to hear.

The formula was running through my head like mad: Kneel, finger, hurl, flush. Kneel, finger, hurl, flush. I kneeled, took a deep breath, stared at my reflection in the still water of the toilet bowl, then put my right index finger into my mouth, and down my throat.

It didn’t happen right away. I gagged hard and felt the contents my stomach jump, but nothing came out. I would have to try harder. I extended my finger further and gagged again. My stomach lurched, but still nothing.

I was starting to breathe quickly, and I felt sick. I didn’t like any of this, not one bit, but I had a goal to accomplish. After all, there was weight to be lost. I braced myself, extended even further, and scratched at the back of my throat.

Voila. Undigested cucumber chunks and brown liquid from the onion soup mix. One part of me felt awful for crossing that line, while another, much smaller part, was cheering at this small “success.”

Most of me was in awe that I’d actually done it. After a few minutes I stood up, flushed, rinsed, then brushed my teeth to get the acidy taste out of my mouth.

From that point on, my life became very routine. Wake up, do a weighing, write numbers down. Drink lots of water for breakfast. Go to work if called in, if not, skate for three hours. Home for lunch: two or three lean cold cuts, a small piece of fruit, and two glasses of water. Puke. Back to work if necessary, if not, do school work. Class in the evening. Home for dinner: soup mix and small serving of raw vegetables. Puke. To the radio station if I had a show that night, if not, skate for another hour or two.

Go home and collapse in bed, fully dressed. Too tired to change. Spend the night staring at the digital red numbers on my clock radio because those days, no matter how exhausted I was, sleep never came.

But it was working. My weight was dropping like wildfire, and it wasn’t long before I was receiving compliments for slimming down. There was never any cause for alarm, though. No one sat me down for a talk or came rushing to my rescue, because the difference wasn’t that apparent. I always wore baggy clothes.

My family didn’t notice either, not in the larger sense. I was only home on weekends, and those 48 hours freedom from the buzz of my daily life at school, mysteriously, let my body rest. I usually slept two thirds of my weekend away. I’d learned to throw up really quietly by then too, so none became the wiser.

What does it look like from the outside, living like this? Had anyone close to me known what I was doing, what would they have said? Or did they really suspect, but just not say anything?

I’ll never know. But I did know that my insides were feeling bad, awful, TERRIBLE. It was a serious tug-of-war for me, a good versus bad justified by the fact that I’d gone down another waist size. It didn’t matter that I always felt sick, or that I had permanently pulled stomach muscles from throwing up all the time. Sometimes I was too tired to reach for the phone when it was ringing, even though it was on the nightstand right beside my bed, and other times my hands shook so badly I couldn’t fit my key into the front door.

None of that was important. I was getting smaller.

My freedom from this mess was skating. Every single day I’d strap on my rollerblades and skate down the cement path, past the school, then the daycare centre, through the parking lot and out onto the street.

The university was close to some new blocks of suburbs, and every blader’s dream: miles upon miles of freshly paved cement. For hours every day I skated the neighbourhoods, ignoring the stomach pains, and just enjoying what it was like to be young. I didn’t think. I just skated.

I also sweated like a madwoman, wearing two layers of long sleeved, black clothing during these sessions, even though it was the peak of summer. The more you sweat the more you lose, right?

Two moments from that summer stick out: the little girl from the daycare, and the night that I crashed.

I used to love skating by the daycare every day. It was after a long, gradual turn, so by the time I got there I’d worked up enough speed to look sufficiently impressive to the group of three and four-year olds playing in the yard. After seeing me roll by multiple times, they’d developed the habit of standing by the gate to wave at me as I went by. I always waved back.

One time as I was doing my skate-by, right after the kids had waved and I had waved back, I heard one little girl exclaim, “One day I’m gonna be just like her!”

How innocent children are. How deceiving appearances can be. Later that night when I was in the bathroom throwing up my dinner, the only thing I could think was, Kid, I’m the last person in the world you want to be like.

The night that I crashed, I was cooking for a potluck. My roommates and some of the other girls staying for the summer had planned a block barbecue that I’d bailed out on at the last minute. I didn’t want to be tempted with party food, and I certainly didn’t want to eat. The girls were peeved at me and so to appease everyone, I still chipped in with my share of food donations.

Potato salad, a la mom’s recipe. Boil Yukon gold potatoes, slice into rounds, then layer in a bowl with plenty of olive oil, lemon juice, salt and chopped green onions. I made a big one in the wee hours of the morning, when everyone else was asleep, but made the fatal mistake of taking one last glance at the bowl before going back up to my room.

I was starving. I had been starving for a long time, and the salad looked so good. One slice of potato can’t hurt, I thought. Just the one.

My lips actually shook as I was chewing. It was marvelous, and it was real food. Maybe just one more, I thought, and reached in for another slice. Then another. And then another.

You know where this is going. In no time flat I’d finished off the potato salad. It was an amazing satisfaction, finally having a stomach full of food and the aching at a standstill, interrupted by this sudden glaring, brutal thought:

Pig.

It couldn’t stay with me. I went up the stairs and to the bathroom, and did what I’d done so many times before. It was easy by then. I got up extra early the next morning to go to the store for more potato salad ingredients, and had another one ready hours before the party began. No one had even noticed.

That month was an eternity, but like all things, came to pass. The day my sister and I boarded that plane to Europe, I weighed myself one last time. In four weeks, I had lost a total of 32 pounds.

Calorie Chronicles: The Eating Disorder(s)

I do not do well as a Fat Girl, and that summer, I was not doing well as a fat girl. Me with some extra isn’t all that bad, but me with too much all around is a turn for the worst. I was very depressed.

I had just finished my third year of university, and was living in the dorms for the summer break. I had a part time job with the school, was taking a couple of courses, and was the DJ of two of my very own campus radio shows. I was a busy.

Then, I weighed 215 lbs.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I’m lucky I’m so tall. It enables me to carry my weight well, for the most part anyway. Everyone I’ve admitted my actual weight to has said the same thing: “You look fantastic for that number!”

But still, it was too much. I wanted to be smaller.

That summer I was determined to make positive changes for my weight, kick started by my sister’s surprise announcement that, come July, she and I were going to Europe. Family reunion in Croatia with a few days pit stop in Germany to visit yet more relatives was our itinerary. We would be gone just over two weeks.

Our trip was booked six weeks before departure, and I calculated that I didn’t have a lot of time to drop numbers. I wanted to do as much as I could with the little time that I had, and put myself on a strict regimen post haste. Exercise, mostly in the form of in-line skating, and strict meal portions three times a day. No fats, no sugar, no oil, and almost no carbs. Tons of water.

I weighed myself every single day and after one week, I’d lost three pounds. While this would normally be cause for celebration, back then it just set off the alarms in my head. I had five weeks left, and a lot of weight to lose.

So, I upped the ante. Smaller portions, more exercise. Another week went by, and another two pounds fell off.

But it still wasn’t enough. I was in a panic that I’d lost less weight during that second week, especially since our trip was only a month away. I was starting to get desperate.

More adjustments: Serious exercise, no breakfast, smaller portions, two meals a day instead of three, and nothing but liquids in the evening.

And, a little something else to speed up the process.

Calorie Chronicles: The Eating Disorder(s)

I was born and raised in the Western Hemisphere, a blessing and curse in its own right. I live in a country with a stable economy and equal opportunity for all, where everyone has the right to realize their dreams if they are willing to work hard enough.

I also live in a country with the most brainwashed and distorted perceptions of the human condition. Ours is a poisoned society, because all too often we give merit for good looks, instead of a person's true inner worth. We have America’s Next Top Model, The Swann and Extreme Makeover, shows where the most beautiful are rewarded, or where happiness is given to the miserable by reinventing their physical appearance. They were miserable to begin with, because they thought they were ugly.

Why don’t we have shows called Everyday Heroes, Shaping Young Minds, Inspirations, or The Next Nobel Peace Prize Winner? Low ratings, I suppose. But I hear the next installment of The Bachelor will be airing soon.

The expectations on women are particularly cruel, and we see them everyday. Svelte, gorgeous actresses, stunning models, magazine covers, centerfolds; they’re everywhere we look, everywhere we go, from billboards to subway ads to television and drugstore shelves. It’s unavoidable, all of it.

Ask a group of little girls who they would rather be like, Madeleine Albright or Lizzy McGuire. How many of them would actually know who Madeleine Albright is?

At one time or another we have all fallen into the Perfection Trap and for most of us, the standards of 36-24-36 are impossible to reach. Thousands, millions, billions of collective dollars are spent every year in that Quest for Beautiful, but how many actually reach it?

And then for others the situation becomes something else altogether; something a lot more dangerous.

I have never known a woman or girl with an eating disorder. At the same time, I have never met a woman or girl who didn’t have an eating disorder. I say that because I don’t know if dabbling with eating disorders really means that you have one; if the girl who’s putting her finger down her throat to lose a few pounds is truly on the same level as the 80lb girl at the clinic.

We all know what they are, the queens of the disorders crop being Anorexia Nervosa and Bulimia.

Anorexia seems the more fatal of the two, a psychiatric condition dealing with the obsessive fear of gaining weight. These poor souls starve, vomit and exercise their way to skinny, often becoming so fearfully thin that they barely weigh enough to survive. We have all seen pictures; often, a photo of a severe anorexic can be matched to the starving child living in famine, or the concentration camp victims of the second world war.

Many, many people, mostly women, have had Anorexia nervosa. Many have died.

Bulimia is the other one, where binge eating is followed by brutal purging; vomiting, laxative abuse, diuretics, fasting, and extreme physical activity. Television has given us the popular image of the bulimic as the gorgeous supermodel inhaling a four-tier wedding cake by herself, followed by a trip to the bathroom for a cleansing puke. No calories, no damage.

But there’s plenty of damage, especially over time. The digestive system pays a heavy price from all that forced vomiting, and severe potassium loss can lead to heart failure, heart attack and stroke. There is also the toll on physical appearance: limp hair, sallow skin, ruined teeth.

Sometimes I think it's pretty ironic that looks start to flounder, considering that a big reason a lot of people start doing this in the first place, is to look better. At least, that is what it seems.

Anorexia, bulimia, bulimia, anorexia. We are not strangers to each other, they and I. Though our time together was brief, there was a summer where I played with both.

To know me, one must know my Weight Chronology. True to Fat Girl form, it quite nicely showcases all the years of my bulge, highlighted with spots of thin-ism. Here it is, all badder years and shining moments:

0-11: Average.

12: After surgery, I put on some weight. Hey, you would too if you had to lie still all the time. My growth spurt helps thin me out.

13-16: Average.

17: Here come the pounds…

18: And more pounds…

19: My fattest year to date.

20: Ever-so-slightly smaller than the year before.

21: Drop quite a bit, but still thick.

22-24: Same.

24-26: Super sexy, super smokin’, super fine. My thinnest years to date.

27: Here come the pounds…

28-29: And more pounds…

30: Slow, slow downslide, but back to thicker than usual.

31: Here we are, present day. Better than usual, but still thick. I need to lose more weight.

In between these years, between the gaining and the losing and the crying and the upset were still more years and more diets where I lost a little, then gained it back. Lost a little, gained it back; lost a little, gained it back.

Bow to your corner, bow to your own
Three hands up and ‘round you go
Break it up with a dosey-do
Chicken in the bread pan kickin’out dough

This is not a dance I want to keep doing for the rest of my life. I hate square dancing, anyway.

Yo-Yo Dieting is very bad for you. Going up and down in weight during short periods of time can’t be healthy, and I’m guessing, will help contribute to a rotten old age. I don’t consider myself old (just yet), but I know I’m not getting any younger. If I keep dabbling like this, I’m going to make myself sick.

You will too, you know. People who are much smarter than me have said as much:

Besides being terribly discouraging – gaining, losing and regaining weight can be very dangerous to your health, specifically the cardiovascular system, the digestive system and the skin.

That is why, these days, it’s so important to look at the big picture. When one wants to change their weight, overall appearance and lifestyle in general, one must look at their entire world as a whole, and not just the quick fix that will temporarily make it all better.

Why? Because diets don’t work.

By only restricting caloric intake, chronic dieters condition their bodies to survive on fewer calories, thereby putting themselves at greater risk for weight gain with the slightest increase in caloric intake.

If you need further proof just take a look at my weight chronology or better yet, write out your own. See how far the Slim Fasts and Cabbage Soup Diets have taken you, and make sure to also carefully note the damage they’ve caused. Losing five pounds a week is fantastic, but gaining seven back the following week is devastating. The spring in your step and the glow that was once on your face will be nothing compared to the misery and bad feelings that replace them.

Doctors, nutritionists, dietitians and personal trainers who don’t work for the big corporations selling us the bullshit ads that promise "Thin for Life” but never pay up, have been telling us the same thing for years:

Most weight-management experts and physicians now agree that a far better approach to long-term weight loss requires a combination of good nutrition and exercise.

The moral of the story is, no matter how easy the fast way seems, it’s harder in the long run.

Oyvey. The painful truth. I have to eat better. And, I have to go back to the gym.


** Square dance lyrics from a Bugs Bunny episode entitled "Hillbilly Hare"
** Quotes taken from “Yo-Yo Dieting – Stop the Madness” by Sharon Stewart for www.lifetoolsforwomen.com

Skeeny or Not Skeeny, I have my own opinions of myself.

It’s been a couple of weeks since Sandy and I returned from Vegas and my life is, predictably, exactly where I left it.

Same job. Same weight. No book to speak of. Loft half done.

I know I can’t expect my life to 180 in a few lousy days, but still. What the hell is wrong with me? Why can’t I get a grip on this? Why is it so hard to do?

Something like getting a job doesn’t happen overnight; neither does writing a book, or decorating your home. The money alone for that last one is what takes the most time.

But starting a newer, healthier way of living, something that will only make me ecstatically happy, is something that can be started right away.

Why do I keep putting this off?

It’s easier to put off, that’s for certain. It’s easier to just keep living the way that I am, getting that morning coffee and visiting the Bagel Shack for lunch. But in doing that, all I’m really succeeding at is plodding through my day-to-day. I’m not putting up a fight, or even giving it my best effort. I’m not leaving blood on the ice.

I know I still want it. I’m still whining, right? I want to lose weight, I want to lose weight, I want to lose weight… You’d think that after I’ve gone this long, compared the good to the bad, typed my story until my fingers blistered (well, not literally), and knowing what it’s like to be fat vs. what it’s like to be thin, would have thrown me on the path long ago. In fact, I should have been in a frenzy to start.

Why, why, why? Because because because. Because I’m lazy. Because I’m a dumbass. I’m a 31 year old dumbass who still won’t shove through her thick skull that WANTING is not enough. It’s DOING that makes the difference.

So here I am again, wanting to be different. And here I am again, proposing to make changes. But I want to be a little different with it this time. Every diet I ever started, every “new plan” that never worked, I started with cutting things out.

Could I perhaps just smarten up a little and still get to where I have to go, without being a total dietary fascist? If I took things slowly and surely, as opposed to burning out after starting too quickly, I might just win the race.

I guess I’ll never know until I try. So, it’s time to start being a little more good. To start, I’ll eat healthier for a total of one week, just to see where it gets me. Up on the vegetables, down with the Bagel Shack. For now.

And, no sugar for that one week. I know the spirit of this isn’t to cut things out, but I do want sugar cleaned out of my system, for the most part.

After tomorrow, anyway. James is teaching me how to make crème brule.

I don’t know anyone who’s not a fan of Italian food. Pasta, cheeses, fresh vegetables, red meats, herbs, rich tomato sauces and decadent, creamy desserts. Even if you’re a vegetarian (and I’ve never seen an Italian vegetarian), you can find something mind-blowingly superb for yourself in their plentiful array of delicacies.

I’m not a vegetarian, and I love Italian food. Dating an Italian is one thing for your palate, but going to his parent’s house is another thing altogether. There you’ll find excellent everything, a cantina filled with his father’s homemade wine and bevy of cured meats, right beside his mother’s endless jars of sauces, preserves and picklings.

A couple of nights ago we stopped by for just a few minutes. Two hours, some homemade prosciutto, parmesan cheese, olive stuffed loaf, white wine and spiced sausages later, Sandy's mom is still insisting, “Mangia, mangia!” while his dad refills my glass.

Everything is so good, but I’m beyond capacity. “Please, I can’t,” I tell her, “It’s all delicious, but I’m too full!”

She looks at me quizzically. “But you can eat,” she says. “You skeeny.”

God Bless that woman.

100% Real Juice: North Country

I only saw the last 35 minutes of this movie, but the impact was significant enough that I’ll be seeing the rest of it, soon. Although a lot of it has been fictionalized, North Country is based on the first ever major sexual harassment case in America where female miners, suffering a series of abuses, filed and won a landmark lawsuit.

It’s a hard hitting, practical film that hits all the right nerves.

In the movie, Woody Harrelson plays the lawyer who brings the case to court. Near the end, he’s cross examining a witness and says this:

“I had a coach used to say, ‘Win or Lose, leave your blood on the ice.’”

To which the witness replies, “Good coach.”

I really hope some coach somewhere did say that, because that’s not just a good coach. That’s a great coach.

I find it absolutely amazing how many lines, quotes, songs, mottoes, games and even label instructions on this planet can be applied to everyday life. Real life.

Taken apart, the above means, simply, do your absolute best. Your blood, sweat and tears best, no matter the end result.

But then, if you really do that, if you give it your vein-bursting best shot and leave your blood on the ice, is there really such a thing as losing?

I like to think the answer to that is, clearly, No.

At least I hope so.

Day 5 1/2: Leaving Las Vegas

Well, if I was to die over food, I’d definitely die over that Kobe beef burger on a multigrain bun, topped with pepper jack cheese, caramelized onions and oyster mushrooms. The flavours Sandy and I had chosen perfectly balanced the tender, juicy burger, which was unlike anything I’d ever tasted. It practically melted, that Kobe beef.

One great meal, and our last great meal in Vegas. For now, anyway.

The rest of the afternoon we take in some more sights, just walking around and being together. We see the streets, the shops, and the tourists coming in droves for the weekend. We’re both people watchers, Sandy and I.

We see the New York, New York, only because we haven’t seen it yet. It’s quite the structure, based on the famous buildings of the Big Apple skyline, and an honest to goodness fake Statue of Liberty blessing the passerby. But inside the hotel, it’s… kind of bland. I’ve never been to the real New York, but I certainly hope all the stores aren’t that flea market-ish in comparison.

On our way back to the Walkarail we also see the Excalibur, a mess of chivalry and suits of armour in the guise of a castle-shaped hotel & casino. It’s like the grand puke of Medieval Times, with slot machines.

We have a few hours left before heading to the airport, and we spend it in the soon to be defunct Desert Passage, in the soon to be forgotten Aladdin. Desert Passage is over a hundred shops situated in the Arabian Nights mindset, though I’m quite sure Ali Baba never had use for a Discovery Channel Store. Except maybe the money counter, or voice thrower. It might have helped fool the 40 thieves.

As I mentioned before, there’s a fake oasis in the plunk middle of Desert Passage, with a fake rainfall every hour on weekdays. Overhead sprinklers carefully clustered to aim at the solitary pool do their work, while the lights darken and thunder booms on surround sound. It’s quite enjoyable if you’re at least over five years of age, and those thunder cracks don’t scare the bejesus out of you.

We did enjoy it, over two scoops of ice cream from the Ben & Jerry’s beside the oasis. One cup, two spoons. And after that, Sandy bought a travel steam iron, which made me laugh. Ever the practical man, he is.

It was a couple of hours before our flight, and time to head for McCurran Airport. The cabs from the Aladdin/Planet Hollywood leave from the underground, in the back of the hotel, and to get there we cut through the new, not quite finished Planet Hollywood casino.

It’s a gorgeous creation of dark wood and luminescence; crystal chandeliers and lights of ever changing colours dazzle an array of gaming tables and slot machines. The vibe there is good; the crowd is younger, lots of 30-somethings chatting, drinking, shouting “Hey!” over won rounds of craps.

Passing through there and hearing those shouts, I realize something. “Ace?”

“Yeah, Cheech?”

“Are you are that we’re about to leave Vegas, and we haven’t even really gambled? Outside of slot machines and electronic roulette? We came to VEGAS for Pete’s sake and we’ve haven’t even played a real game!”

“It’s terrible, I know.”

We only have minimal time left, but I can’t leave the trenches without a bit of Blackjack. I find a table with a couple of seats left, take the middle chair, and toss the dealer two $20 bills. Minimum bets are $10, and that’s what I start with. Actually, that’s what I stay with, and five minutes later I’ve doubled my money.

The fourth hand was the best of all. I got an ace of spades right away; the ace cards always remind me of Sandy, naturally, and since he was standing behind my chair, I leaned backwards and he gave me a kiss. It was like a scene straight out of a movie when I pulled away from his kiss to see the dealer come around with my second card; a king of hearts. Blackjack!

It was a shame we had to leave so early since that winning vibe was in the air, but home was waiting. I said my goodbyes to the Blackjack table, and we ran downstairs to hail a cab. Once inside and on the way to the airport, I said to Sandy, “It was a good trip.

“Yes Cheeh, it was. Thanks.”

“Ditto.”

Our flight was delayed a bit, giving us dinner time to share a four-cheese pizza at Wolfgang Puck Express, and a few minutes for some shut-eye in the terminal waiting area. When we board the plane, a rather shabby United craft, it is time again for my prayer of departure.

Vacation three has proved to be
Quite the adventure, yet again.
Vegas lights, glittery strip.
The appearance of flip flops
Though minimal, is always nice.
Howie, shine on.
Miles of food, oy.
Walkarail, I won’t miss you.
New sunglasses, bargain couture.
Sharing lattes and dessert
Is divine,
Especially with my Sandy.
May life be one big
Blackjack.

Our flight is blissfully uneventful, and we only have enough time in Chicago to get to our connector gate, and stop for coffee on the way. And then, shortly after, we were home.

Day 5: We'll always have Paris

Standard checkout time for Vegas hotels is 11am. Our flight is at 12am, and we want to sleep in without the hassle of packing. Here’s the secret to a later checkout at Sin City:

“Room 2894, what can I do for you?”

“Yes, I’m checking out today, but would like to stay in the hotel awhile to gamble. Is there any way the Paris could accommodate this?”

Oli told me that the hotels are suckers for people staying and gambling. You don't actually have to do it, just give them the illusion that they're taking your money away.

“Would another two hours be sufficient enough to suit your needs, ma’am?”

Oh boy, do I hate being called Ma’am. Abracadabra, I’m instantly aged a generation. “It will, thank you.”

“Enjoy the rest of your stay, Merci.”

All the staff say little French things all the time at the Paris, I suppose they think it makes the atmosphere more poo poo. They can mon fwa le fwah all they want right now, what matters here is that I get to crawl back under the covers with Sandy.

We sleep in, we snuggle, we get up and shower, we pack while watching Greg and, even though today is our last day, we’re eager to start it. It’s gorgeous out, the sun is streaming through the windows, and we say goodbye to our hotel room right after the bellhop leaves with our bags, to store them until we’re ready to go to the airport.

Today is a series of twos. The end of my second stay in Vegas, second stay at the Paris in fact; the end of my second trip with this man, and the second great time I’ve had. “Ace…”

“I had a great time too, Cheech.”

“Ace…”

“I know, I know, I’M WONDERFUL!”

We laugh and I tell him, “Indeed you are.”

Sandy wraps me up in a hug and says, “You’re wonderful too. You and I, we do good together.”

“We certainly do.”

“And we have to use up these stupid Walkarail passes.”

“We certainly do.”

So with a hand squeeze Sandy and I leave room 2894, most likely forever; head down to Le Notre, grab our coffee, and take a Walkarail ride south. There’s no point starting with breakfast today because it’s already in the afternoon, so instead we head back to Mandalay Bay and another of Oli’s tripled-star tickers: The Burger Bar.

“You just HAVE to go there,” she’d said to me before we left. “You’ll just…”

“I know sis, I know, we’ll try the amazing burgers and just DIE.”

Well, apparently everyone was just dying to go to the Burger Bar, as the wait for a table was 45 minutes. I’m not one to sit in one place and be happy about it, so I roam about the shops in search of bargains. Wouldn’t you know I finally strike gold with two tees by Project E for only $20 apiece, and a gorgeous embroidered summer blouse by 3J Workshop. The last time I saw one of these blouses at home it was just over $300, but here in Vegas it was going for $65.

Cha-ching, into my bag, and thank you so much for your business. I rejoin Sandy in the waiting game, and it’s not long before we’re seated.

We have come to the Burger Bar with a mission: We want to try Kobe beef. If you’ve never heard of the stuff, Kobe beef is known for its flavour, tenderness, and marbled texture. This, my friends, is achieved through the stellar treatment of the cattle: not only are they fed corn, alfalfa, barley and wheat straw, but they get to drink beer and are regularly given massages.

The Burger Bar has a Kobe beef burger, at the low low price of $16. And that was just the patty with bun; any other toppings were extra. I guess drinking all that brewski while being vigorously massaged raises the price a notch. Then again, it’s our last day in Vegas and we’re entitled to overpriced something.

“Whatcha looking at, Cheech?”

It took me a good few minutes, but I made my decision. “I’m thinking the Kobe beef burger on a multigrain bun, with pepper jack cheese, caramelized onions and…

“Oyster mushrooms?”

“Yeah…”

“You were originally thinking the blue cheese, but changed your mind at the last minute to pepper jack, right?”

“Yes, because…”

“Because it just seemed a better fit with the caramelized onions. And right now, you can’t decide between the sweet potato or zucchini buttermilk fries, right?”

“How’d you know?”

“Don’t I always know?”

Ha! Our eating tastes are so similar, 9 times out of 10 we end up ordering the exact same thing at restaurants.

When the waitress brings our plates they are almost identical, only the sweet potato fries are on Sandy’s plate, and the zucchini buttermilk are on mine. We figured we’d get to try both this way, and share all the fries on our plates. I also notice, quite amusingly, that we both eat our kosher dill slices separately, without putting them on the burgers.

Well, well. Opposites attract, but sometimes there’s nothing better than going out with yourself.