Great Legs Look Good With Everything

There's no sexy way to tell people you live with your parents. Just try and sugarcoat it. Tell people its all the rage in Europe or just mask the truth by saying you have "Roommates," but ultimately, they know. People can tell. That poor soul who lives rent free, pays the ultimate price in pride, and can be spotted from across the room. Their clothes are clean, pressed, and never missing any buttons. Their faces are also clean, pressed, and perfectly spit-scrubbed. Their phones will ring every 20 minutes and they'll have to go off and make a call to their "Roommate" some time around 11pm never mind what their lips may be in the middle of. And their bellies... their bellies will be BURSTING.

Yes, living with your parents is the number one cause of obesity in America today. If any parent birthed a child in the '80's, their cupboards are sure to be stocked with all of the saltiest chips, the high fructose corn syrup gummy snacks and only cereals with cartoon characters on them. There will also be cakes, cookies, pies, and ice cream. Your parents ate healthy when you were a kid, you were sure of it! But these days, as they stew in retirement and buy bigger and bigger pants, they eat whatever they want. And, if you're unlucky enough to leave independence to "save money and stay with them, for just a little while," you too will be find yourself stuffing your face at all hours of the day, waistline be damned!

I was foolish enough to think that moving in with my parents for a few months would be some kind of Fat Camp. My mother is the woman who does leg lifts while watching TV no matter who else is in the room with her. If she feels like an innocent bystander also needs to tone the butt muscles, she will not shy in encouraging them to join her. "Your friends too, sweetie! Look, here's how its done. And 1- and 2- and 3...." Mom's remedy for ANY illness is to drink water and take a walk. This goes for broken limbs or uncontrollable vomiting as well. Far too optimistically, I was sure that hers would be the fridge with all the best healthy stuff I could never afford and lengthy amounts of time spent in front of the BoobTube would not be tolerated.

You can imagine my surprise the first time I stepped on the scale a mere month into living with this woman who still wears clothes from 1978. Apparently, my jeans were not tight on me because they shrunk from finally being washed. No longer doing any of the food shopping, I was blindly eating whatever was in the pantry trusting that my health was still her number 1 concern. Sure, I'm a grown woman who can monitor what goes in to my mouth and when, but,

"What shall we have for dinner?

-Meh, I'm fine with cereal.

-Cereal it is then!"

"Here honey, try these Belgian truffles I picked up. They'll just melt in your mouth!"

"Ooooh, the boy scouts are selling a chocolate lovers box. Chocolate caramel crunch in bulk??! I'll take two!"

As for exercise, who sat with me during the House marathon on the Bravo channel? And continuous, miraculous home improvements on HGTV? Dear old Dad. By my side for hours, like we were invalids, plaid blankets included. We now speak in code for all operations concerning the remote control. One grunt for volume. Two grunts to switch to HBO.

Something has to be done. No one is going to have to forklift me out of this house!

Food for the Ages

My family is huge. My immediate family alone consists of 2 parents, 5 kids and 3 step-kids. By-product of the 10 of us consists of 3 in-laws and 2 nephews and 2 more on the way.  We are a modern family, fused together by divorces, marriages, and a similar skin type, and we are Many. Because we are so many, we are rarely all in the same place at once. And, when we are together, my siblings and I resort to pre-teen behaviors and mentalities after about 5 minutes of pretending to be grown-ups. 

But I love my family. I really do. We're interesting and different. A house full of characters with enough stories and drama to give Days of Our Lives some real competition. We don't see each other enough and when we do, there hardly seems to be enough time.

This week, by the miracle we shall call Spring Break, two of my brothers are visiting Richmond at the same time. Naturally, this warranted a trip to the batting cage where hitting balls with sticks for an hour inspired them to make a steak dinner. They went out and bought the biggest, fattiest steaks they could find. Then, they smothered the slabs of meat in beer, butter and salt and threw them on the outdoor grill even though it was raining. I'm told they braved hypothermia because cooking outdoors is the only respectable way for Real Men to cook and electric indoor grills can go F themselves. 

They also made steamed asparagus with shredded parmesan and mashed sweet potatoes. Granted, they cooked the asparagus in the microwave and the potatoes came in powder form, but hey, they boiled water and didn't burn anything. I was impressed. 

By the time we sat down to eat, the pre-teens had been running rampant for over 30 minutes, which means both of them had farted, one was already full from stuffing his face with Cheez-Its while dinner was cooking, and the kitchen looked like a cyclone had ripped through it. Further evidence of retro-growth: My oldest brother had to take a picture of his Great Culinary Accomplishment and post it on facebook before he could sit down, and my youngest brother ate a giant fork-full of gristle in exchange for the picture so he could photoshop it before it was tagged. 

Observing my brothers at the table is like watching grizzly bears protect their young, or hyenas eat roadkill. They sit, hunched over their plates so that their mouths are only inches from their food. Their elbows extend as far out as possible, for balance I presume, so that they can simultaneously shovel food into their mouths and guard their plates from a stray fork wandering in from enemy territory. I remember once reaching for a dinner roll, blinking on my way there, and grabbing air as my hand reached an empty plate. Thinking I may have hallucinated, I looked up to see my second youngest brother swallow a baseball sized dinner roll, my baseball sized dinner roll, in its entirety in less than half a second. 

The steak was delicious though, cooked to perfection, and its always entertaining to listen to my brothers lament and laugh about their current realities, even with food in their mouths. Dinner only lasted about ten minutes, which, in case you were wondering, is how long it takes two grown men to eat 3lbs of steak, a bushel of asparagus and six servings of potatoes. I managed to get a few bites myself, but of course, I blinked. 

... and they were gone.   

How I Discovered the Bomb and Decided to Move to the Mountains and Make My Own Booze

Photo by Eda Aksoy

LA and I broke up and I've moved to Richmond.

Richmond was an accident, of course, but if you must know, it just wasn't working with Los Angeles. You could say we parted ways because of artistic differences. That we were heading in different directions. But in reality, I was miserable. It takes two to make a relationship really work, and LA just wasn't giving me the commitment I needed. We fell into a routine and I'm not going to lie to you, it involved a lot of TV and whooooole lotta chocolate. We really stopped going out too. And when we did it was forced and uncreative. That part is kind of my fault. Admittedly, I was working long hours and when I came home I just didn't have the energy to really do anything. But c'mon! Someone has to pay for that lifestyle!

I did try to make it work. Really. I did. I was

exercising, staying in shape, making more time to spend quality time. But, I just didn't feel like I was getting as much as I was giving. When an enticing offer came from some place else.... I took it. I'm not proud. I know what some of you must be thinking. But you just can't keep beating a dying horse! That's animal cruelty and I'm against it.

Call it quitting. Call it cowardly even. I call it evolution. I had reached a point where I realized that there was no rat race. No one cared if I stayed or went. And I don't mean that in a depressive, suicidal kind of way. I mean that everyone is so wrapped up in their own life, in their own game, that I wasn't "winning" by hanging on by the skin of my teeth. The only one who was losing was me.

So, I left. I planned an amazing road trip, clubbed my unsuspecting friend over the head and dragged him with me, and had a great week on the road.

And how did I end up in Richmond? Well, I ask myself that everyday.

Sometimes I miss LA. Especially when people look at me funny for wearing stilettos to Target. Or when I'm waiting outside some place, car running, expecting a valet who never shows up. I think this is normal in any separation, though. It takes time.

I'm in this place now, and that's what matters. I'm starting over, again, which is also very exciting. I'm figuring some stuff out. Getting my feet back on the ground. Planning my next move. Trying not to go crazy or get fat.

Stay tuned.

A Japanese Drag Queen Walks in the Door....

Not even kidding, the other day, a vintage, Japanese pop-star Drag Queen walked into my store. Here's who I'm talking about:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J136WjKxkbY&feature=related

He/she carried a ceramic she-chicken like a bouquet of flowers before buying a large aluminum abstract painting. It was all very spectacular. Cards were exchanged, I immediately found youtube evidence (see above) of his/her validity and thought about how he/she must feel to be so famous on one island and so anonymous everywhere else. I also thought about his/her translator. The whole interaction was done through her (definitely a her) because, even though the "Frank Sinatra of Japan" (more evidence):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tMYiKzPkraQ

had been in the public eye for decades, and traveled and performed throughout the world, he/she still didn't speak enough English to conduct a pretty simple business transaction.... but he/she did have an iPhone. Without the translator, not even I, who has been to Japan, bought Japanese cars, electronics, and sushi, and who fully acknowledges that Asians are taking over the world, I have not even learned enough Japanese to say, "Thank you for spending a few thousand dollars here today."

How did this happen?

This got me thinking about communication and technology and all the wonderments therein.

Technology: the Great Equalizer, Communicator, and Divider.

The Japanese pop-star drag queen just bought a condo around the corner from me, but I will never see her/him again. He'll be in his iPhone and I'll be in my computer. I'll be talking to all of you in English, he'll be connecting with friends in characters.

Sixty years ago, everyone in our neighborhood would know about the new guy/girl and everyone would have an opinion about it. Now, we barely notice. We're busy! We have apps to play with and second cousins in Germany to facebook. We'll be translating and navigating and constantly evolving our new language of inter-web, passing over opportunities to learn dozens of legitimate languages. I've been promising myself to learn some Spanish for years now, but I just don't have time since I'm still trying to work out effectively communicating sarcasm via text message in 160 spaces or less.

What's funny about all of this is that even with my cell phone, lap top, desk top, GPS, and camera, I'm still behind the times. I learned at the Apple store the other day that now you can get all of that in one nifty little hand held device... and more!! I felt really old when I had to ask the 12 year old who works there where the power button was.

Some other side effects of all of this technology that I've noticed include intense awkwardness at cocktail parties. Its almost as though no one really knows how to start up a conversation anymore. Lacking this skill fades the subsequent tradition of courting. Once upon a time, I've heard tell, a gentleman would meet you, send you a cute note and flowers. Then he would actually show up at your door, take you for a "tour of the gardens" and then a few days later, have dinner with your parents. Nowadays, you get excited if he finds you on facebook and you're lucky if you get more than a "hi" via text message (was that a sarcastic "hi"? or was it sincere? Do I just say "hi" back? Would it be weird to ask for a picture because I really don't remember what this guy looks like...).

Are we losing our innate human skills of socialization in exchange for online social networking? Or are we upgrading? Are the subtle nuances of pleasant conversation being lost to phrases like LOL? Or is this truncated version an improvement?

Sixty years ago, before the little "i" was attached to anything, Mr. Fabulous-Japanese-Drag-Queen and I would have considered ourselves neighbors. We only live a few hundred yards from each other. We probably would have found a personable way to communicate, and, I like to think, we would have become friends and exchanged beauty tips. But these days, I'll probably just see him on TV... and wonder what's happened to the ceramic chicken.

Somehow in Transit

When you really think about it, airports are kind of amazing. 

They sit like small metropolises, filled with people of every age, shape, size and occupation. Most have restaurants and shops. Some have metros and moving walkways. They're glowing little transit centers - modern day oases specifically designed to facilitate the weary traveler in their journey. A stopping point to rest up and refuel or a starting point for the next adventure. Airports are the beginnings of your vacations, your resting place between meetings, your safe haven from the elements. Need to charge your cell phone? Have an outlet! Care for a pretzel? Or maybe a money exchange booth? There they are! Right next to each other. So convenient. 

What I particularly appreciate about the harbors of the sky is the temporary anonymity and the autonomy that they provide. Because I know no one there and I don't have any place to be until my flight begins boarding, my mind gets a break from focusing on the little things and has time to consider the Big Picture. Since I'm in my egocentric early 20's, the Big Picture = Me. And My Life. And where it thinks its going. 

Of course, when I am in an airport, I know exactly where I'm going. I know how I'm going to get there too and what I'm supposed to do until then. I have my routines and I go through the drills. Begin with security. Show ID. Take off the shoes, take off the belt, take out the little plastic baggie with my harmless little travel sized shampoos. Wait for the guy who doesn't know what he's doing to make a few trips through the metal detector. Be patient. Go through the metal detector. Collect my shoes, belt, plastic baggie, find the departure screen. Appreciate the myriad of possibility each listed city represents. Find a snack and a magazine. Go to my gate. Chat up the gate attendant for a window seat. Sit down somewhere and watch the people go by. Take a deep breath and think.... 

Having those few hours just to kick it have become crucial to my mental health in recent times. During the typical stop-over, no one expects me to answer a phone call or be anywhere. Technically, I'm on the go, and so that itch to be doing something is already satisfied just by showing up. There's no pressure to be making friends since I'll probably never see the nice old lady sitting next to me ever again. It would be physically impossible to take care of all of the overdue errands I've been meaning to get to. And so released from those responsibilities, I can seriously consider my future and the scary facts of my current situation. 

Scary Fact #1: After 5 years of specified study and one year on the career path, I don't like the field I've chosen. A shocking revelation, to be sure. I feel like there should be support groups for stuff like this. Hello my name is So-and-So and the focus of my adult life sucks and I no longer want any part of it. 

Scary Fact #2: My unique set of skills does not really equip me for many other industries. Not the way I thought it would when I chose art history classes (which I loved) over biomedical chemistry classes (which I just kinda liked). 

Scary Fact #3: The economy. 

Scary Fact #4: I'm terrified of poverty but for some reason, I still feel like I can be picky when it comes to taking a job. 

So now what? Do I go back to school? Learn something else? What would I study? I'm young enough. I could still become a doctor, or a lawyer, or a Pirate Queen, or.... realistic. I have the world at my fingertips, but what do I do with it? Its like standing in front of the departure screen, choosing a city. All you really have to do is pick a gate, cash in your frequent flyer miles and get on the plane. 

Just pick a direction and go. Go. 
... 
Airports are awesome... if you're leaving soon. 

Sun vs. Skin

Two years ago, sitting on a beach on the Greek island of Mykonos, I fell asleep in the warm Mediterranean sun. It was lovely, relaxing, calming. Until I woke up.

Sunburns are never pleasant and sun allergies bite the big one. Unlike any sunburn, during an allergic reaction, your skin will not only burn to a red onion like crisp, but it will swell and itch and become as hot as the surface of Mars. I know this from first hand experience, because when I woke up on that beautiful beach, an allergic reaction to the sun quickly followed. My eyes, as though trying to expel some toxic chemical, teared up and a mucus formed at my tear ducts. My throat swelled and swallowing became very difficult. Episodes of extreme fatigue washed over me every hour of my trip. My whole body was sore and I felt like an overgrown Oompahloompah. I avoided cameras.

That trip was definitely a learning experience. I learned precisely how rare aloe vera lotion is in Greece and how expensive specialized allergin soothing creams can be. I also learned that perfect health isn't part of the formula for an awesome vacation.

Though lots of lounging was done in Greece that summer (thank God), there was too much to see and do to sit around all the time. My gracious host and super cool friend filled my activities calendar with the perfect amount of interesting stuff, some of which we did together, and some that I got to do alone (fun fact: my toenail polish perfectly matched the marble of the Parthenon -- it was magical). We went on little outings to grocery stores and great auntie's house. We went to the mountains and out to the beach. We went on trains and boats. Coffee shops and clubs and we met up with a couple other Greek-Americans who spent their summers visiting the home-homeland.

On one such outing, we went to some posh club in Athens that sits on the waterfront and pumps techno out over the sea. There were three of us: me, my hostess, and one of her Greek-American buddies who also went to UVA, Harry. We danced and drank and carried on with several groups of people speaking languages I did not understand well until the wee hours of the morning. We were by no means the last to leave the place, but when we wandered back to the metro, I distinctly remember dawn quickly approaching. It was a Saturday night, so we ended up merging with the early Sunday morning church service crowd. Since it was 4 in the morning though, our car was mostly empty save for this old man who came and sat directly beside our little group.

Now, I don't speak any Greek. At all. But what happened next didn't require much translation. The old man began to mutter, as old people taking mass transportation tend to do. We thought nothing of it, until his mutter turned to yelling, and his hands began gesturing. Out of my dazed stupor, I realized that he was yelling at us! AND, he was looking at ME!!! Hang on a tic! I'm doing nothing but sitting here swollen! Is my discolored skin that insulting?! I looked to my friends with a bewildered expression. ("Wtf?") They said he was yelling about disrespect and the flats of my feet. ("Wha...?" )

Apparently, in last-generation Greece, its a serious insult to show someone the bottom of your foot. I was sitting cross-legged and, as swollen as I was, that meant that the bottom of my foot was pointing up and out rather than down and over. Oops.

Here's where it became epic: Harry, who is a dear sweet guy a few years younger than me, doesn't appear to be the heroic type. If there is a confrontation, he seems like he would be the witness hoping it would stop, rather than the initiator standing up for justice. And usually, with most guys his age, personal comfort takes priority over a damsel in distress. Even though in that particular situation I wasn't really distressed (I couldn't understand anything Old Man was saying, so how could I get upset about it?), I was getting uncomfortable. I was beginning to wonder what I would do if this guy got really out of control. Could I punch an Old Man in the face? Could I move my arm? Just as I was trying to remember what have fully functioning limbs felt like, Harry spoke up! He spoke in Greek, so I didn't understand until later what he was saying, but he looked like he was making really good points. His voice took a controlled tone of authority. His posture was straight and unflinching. It was the Young vs. the Old, David v. Goliath, Respectful Sanity up against Unreasonable Anger. Young Harry talked this guy down from Crazypants Land! The Old Man stopped his screaming, and walked away!

When all was translated later, I learned that Harry had argued that I wasn't Greek and couldn't be responsible for unknowingly insulting someone in such an obscure way. I felt protected. An unwitting foreigner understood and defended by the natives. It put a grin on my face for the rest of the day and Young Harry became my friend.

I've loved Greece ever since.

Post-Break Up Detox

For those of us prone to falling in love hard and, some might say, idiotically, there will undoubtedly be a number of pitfalls. After all, if there's only supposed to be "The One," all the other ones will have to be heartbreak. (Unless of course you're a super model with amazing self-assurance and security who only dates fellow insanely beautiful and emotionally stable people for sport. THOSE people need not read further. They may go for a roll in the Egyptian cotton below deck of their yachts, thank you very much.) As for everyone else, we get it now; the Disney format isn't real. Chances are, one isn't going to wake up to a kiss from a handsome prince on their 16th birthday and get whisked away in a deluxe chariot wearing glass to live happily ever after in a ridiculous house in the hills. Most of us have to kiss/date/fall for/get dumped by a number of frogs before we find "The One." Of course, rarely do we just walk away from someone we've sworn to love inside and out for the rest of time. Nononono. There must be some drama. Some kind of emotional turmoil and unrest before we can learn, grow, and please oh please, move on.

But how? What to do with all of this heartbreak until then? Well, Disney? Where's the fairy tale that plays out THAT scenario?

Things get a little dicey without a Disney movie to show us how its done. I have experienced this crap a grand total of three times now, and I barely know what to expect, much less how to deal with it. I've even gone so far as to research the subject. I've taken a number of surveys, all of them ending in depressingly optimistic anecdotes along the lines of the "give it time, there are more fish in the sea" nonsense. Unable to hear such logic and reasoning, I've turned to literature, and by literature, I mean self-help pamphlets I find next to the blood pressure monitor at CVS. And by self-help pamphlets, I mean de-toxicity assistance manuals. Thankfully, there are plenty of programs to help the smack addicts find solace.

Nowadays, with only a will to carry on and a number of Addicts Anonymous hotlines, I've developed the Post-Break Up Detox Program. Its a bit unstructured, but I'd like to think that that will enable a broader interpretation and allow for people to use this as they will.

The first phase of PBUD will be the withdrawals. You'll have the shakes, the tears, and the night terrors, naturally. Your shakes might cause you to look for things to steady your hand, like the phone, which you'll use to call your true love for comfort. Instead you'll get more rejection, leading to the tears, and then you'll pass out from exhaustion imagining the very worst: He's off shacked up on some yacht with Giselle ignoring the finer points of Egyptian cotton.

Phase 1 will transition to Phase 2. Refusing to sleep (for obvious reasons), you'll begin to spend your nights tossing, turning, and moping. I, personally, like to call and cry to people in different time zones, waking them up at all hours and severing any and all ties I ever had to happiness and friendship.

From there you'll move right along to Phase 3: loss of appetite and foresight. You'll realize that he's over you and yes, moving on without you, and you'll attempt to waste away like the remaining pieces of your shattered heart. Food will lose all flavor, you won't have the stomach for anything, and all you'll be able to think about is how ugly the future looks by your lonesome. You'll consider investing in cats.

Don't worry. Eventually you'll get hungry and then you'll rediscover Mint Chocolate Chip Ice Cream!! This is Phase 4, the Phase of Seeking Happiness through Gluttony. There will be food, shopping, perhaps extravagant adventures you can't afford, but who cares!? "Its all about me now!" you'll say, to what's left of your friends, and you'll order a second dish of Thai food and another round of... beverages.

At some point, you'll hit rock bottom. The Low Point. The part when you think it will never get better. These will be the days when you just canNOT plaster a fake smile onto your face or even pretend that another box of girl scout cookies will make this better. The ugly days. Everything you notice will remind you of the perfect relationship you've lost and the wonderful guy you had to let go of. You'll feel awful and pathetic because you won't have let go, you might even want to call him or plan to run into him somewhere, like in his parking space, and your stomach aches from eating far too many thin mints. In this phase, you'll just want to curl up in your crappy polyester sheets and forget you ever existed. This is Phase 5. It sucks and for most of us, its inevitable.

Luckily, following Phase 5 is PHASE 6!! Thank goodness for Phase 6. Phase 6 is Awesome. Phase 6 is just the most amazing, most wonderful, most bestest thing you could ever hope for. In Phase 6, the sun rises up, the light fills your room, your bladder forces you to stand and stagger over to the bathroom, you get a glimpse of yourself in your mirror, and you think, "O Dear God, get me out of this mess!" And then you my friend, have arrived in The Future.

The Future is a wonderful place where you have to consider no one but yourself. You get to go places and do things that you want to do whenever you want to do them. You get to wear whatever you want and shave whenever you feel like it. You get to meet new people and see new things. You can change your hair, or your personal style, or just your sheets and no one else will think twice about it. You can go see that movie you wanted to see and not worry if anyone else wants to see it too. You can eat like crap or you can eat like a vegan health fiend and no one will accuse you of going on a false diet for a day. You can have a quarter life crisis career change and move to Sedona to become a crystal vibrations specialist, or you can just redecorate your apartment. The Future is just so great because the possibilities are endless and they're all about YOU!! Its like, your whole world just revolves around just you! and no one else!! This is, decidedly, a very good thing.

Following the Phase of the Future is Phase 7. Not everyone gets to Phase 7, so wrapped up in The Future Phase that they think they're cured and have survived Post-Break Up Detox and they're on to better things. Good for them. However, some of us feel as though we must not only survive, but rise above. Others of us just aren't so lucky and we still have a bit further to go. That's what Phase 7 is for. Phase 7 is where you learn how to walk again. So wrapped up in the last Love of Your Life, you kind of forgot how to take care of yourself (this always happens to me -- wtf). In Phase 7 you begin a committed regime of eating right, exercising regularly and becoming a Babe. Step by step, you'll move further away from Heartachesucksville and closer and closer to Rockinhotchickland and you can plan on glowing when you get there.

I could tack on a Phase 8, but hopefully, by this time you've forgotten all about these phases and you're on to bigger and better things like rescuing orphans or curing cancer or something ultimately more important than whatever Detox program you were following for whatever it was that you just can't remember.

Life will have begun again and you'll be that much closer to your happy ending.