Tellin' the Truth Careless

Be Patient with Me, Four Fans

2006-03-28T09:10:00.000-08:00

Dear four fans,

I have been busy of late. I've had to watch 24, shop for clothes, drink, IM my sister Aitch (it's her last day at the Troubletree--woo!), dine out, fast forward through The Aristocrats (40 min. of my life I'll never get back), clean my house (which currently looks like a crack den), grade 42 papers, research Buenos Aires, check out Mg's fashion market, drink, catch up on Jon Stewart, sleep, work on the second chapter of my novel, take in the fabulous conversation at a gay coffeeshop, and attend class. And actually do some billable work so I can bring some money into the household, which my husband really appreciates.

Stay tuned for propaganda. It's coming. Soon. Seriously.

Sincerely,

Daughteire

London, Day 3

2006-03-23T11:56:00.000-08:00

Saturday, March 4

That morning, Debbie walked around London and saw Big Ben, Parliament, and, I imagine, other stuff, while Paul and I again slept in. V A C A T I O N.

Around lunchtime, we three went in search of a 4-pint pub by the fabulous name of Monkey Chews. Fancyapint says, "It would be a travesty to describe Monkey Chews as anything less than a really great place to spend an evening - the sort of place you can go, intending to have just a drink or two, and end up staying until closing time. It's a clever and modern take on the British pub .... Regulars seem to love it, and so do we. All very impressive, it must be said." Unfortunately, when we got there it was closed. Why? Not a clue.

So we headed back to the tube and went a couple more stops to Hampstead to hit one of our favorite pubs, the five-pint Ye Olde White Bear. Hampstead is home to Boy George, Kenneth Branagh, Russell Crowe, Ralph Fiennes, Jeremy Irons, George Michael, Sting, Emma Thompson, and Kate Winslet. It's pretty cool--they all share a Big Brother house and periodically sneak into some weird coatcloset to trashtalk current head of household Russell Crowe. Unfortunately, none of them left the Big Brother house to come into the pub for a pint while we were there. The pub played all Sting, all the time. While Debbie ate, a black cat sat on her lap. Later, the cat took a comfy chair, thus preventing a patron from sitting there. Apparently, the cat owns the place.

Afterwards, Debbie and I shopped on Oxford Street while Paul wandered in search of new areas to the east, out by Docklands. Debbie and I noted that every woman but us had their pants tucked into knee-high boots. Every single woman. Throughout the entire city. It's an attractive look for someone 6' tall who weighs 43 pounds. Luckily, we didn't buy any boots for ourselves since the dollar is bad, bad, bad. Really, the only thing we could afford were drinks for drowning bad-bad-dollar sorrows.

Early evening, we three tried to meet up at the King’s Arms, but the place was closed. So Paul met Debbie and me at the Yorkshire Grey pub, a nondescript two-pinter. We then headed out for dinner. Told we’d have a wait approximately five years to get a table at Red Fort (Native American?) Indian restaurant, we instead poked our heads in Pierre Victoire, a charming French restaurant. The wait there was only 30 minutes, so we got a pint at the nearby Marquis of Granby before returning to our little French gem. En route to the restaurant, we passed a business with Clemmow Hornby Inge's name lettered on the front. Try saying this name slowly, ponderously, in an upper-class British accent. If you wear glasses, push them as far down on your nose as possible without them falling into your pint of beer. Now use Clemmow's name in a variety of sentences. Try it. It's loads of fun. After a few drinks, Debbie and I can play this game for hours.

Anyhow, dinner was great fun. Bustling crowds. Cool artwork. Good wine. Excellent food. Fabulous company. ("Oh, Clemmow Hornby Inge, this dinner is a most excellent affair--most excellent, and most grand, indeed!") Debbie even threw down the gauntlet (in this case, the cloth napkin) and declared Pierre Victoire's food superior to Belgo's. Paul and I declared it to be a tight race--too close to call.

After dinner, we headed to Bradley's Spanish Bar on Hanway Street, which comfortably fits eight-nine people. We drank Coronas (the Bradley's drink of choice) and listened to music from a jukebox. Then we tired people called it a night.

Stay tuned for propaganda! And ripperologists! And more propaganda!

London, Day 2.5

2006-03-22T10:00:00.000-08:00

Friday Addendum

Turns out we had so much fun on Friday that I forgot about some of our doings. So, here goes ...

After dinner at Belgo and before boogieing at the Blues Bar, we hit two-pint Waxy O'Connor's pub and four-pint The Ship pub. That's right. We incorporated two additional drinking spots into our day. Because the pub at lunch, Claridge's martinis, Belgo beers, and Blues Bar ciders weren't quite enough to sustain us. Ah, London.

Now, Waxy O'Connor's was a coming home of sorts for Debbie, who visited the place years ago during her first trip to London. In fact, she couldn't remember the name of the place, but after she described it to Paul, Paul miraculously located it. He's good that way.

Anyhow, Fancyapint says, "More theme park than pub, [Waxy's] cavernous, never-ending pub is enormous. A full-grown tree in the middle of the pub adds to the Tolkein-esque air of the place. Still, it serves a mean pint of (rather rare) Beamish and a decent enough pint of the dark stuff. Overall though, it's about as authentically Irish as an inflatable leprechaun." Cavernous is right--the place goes on for days, and it's loaded with people who are, well, loaded. Several TVs are situated near the big tree, and standing near the TVs are a bunch of men fixated on the football matches being shown. Surrounding the men are a clump of women fixated on the men. These women do everything they can to get the men's attention, short of beating the men into submission. All to no avail. It's some seriously good people watching, and that's the truth.

Here's my issue. (Yes, I have an issue--surprise!) I wore a beret into Waxy's, and a bouncer grabbed my arm, yanked me backward, and threatened to throw me out of the place unless I took it off. Because I look so incredibly fierce in my beret. You know, sort of like one of the mean urchins in Our Town or in-your-face Anita from West Side Story or a really snotty French person. Maybe Officer Krupke thought I was going to ask for a handout, break into song, or start speaking French or something.

Seriously, I could have brought a gun, a knife, or Tom Cruise and his merry scientology men into the bar, and I wouldn't have heard a peep out of bouncerman. But a hat? Christ, whatever you do, don't wear a hat. Little did bouncerman know that my hair is crazy enough these days without having the added disadvantage of hathead. In short, you do NOT want to see my post-hat head. Trust me. Anyhow, it has been ages since I've been thrown out of a bar, so I almost welcomed the opportunity to challenge bouncerman's authority. Instead, I sullenly removed my hat and plotted his overthrow. (I'm still plotting. Apparently, I have lots of time on my hands.)

Side Note: The pint notations (e.g., two-pint, four-pint) are fancyapint ratings, not a tally of the drinks we downed. Well, not necessarily a tally of the drinks we downed.

Saturday write-up to come -- stay tuned!

London, Day 2

2006-03-20T13:54:00.000-08:00

Friday, March 3

Debbie began her morning by wandering around Trafalgar Square. She then popped into the National Gallery and St. Martins in the Fields. What a lovely morning Debbie must have had.

Paul and I slept in ‘til about noon.

At 1:00, we three attended a free lunchtime concert at St. Mary Abbots, the charming Parish Church of Kensington. (The earliest church on the grounds was built before 1102; the present church was built in 1872.) We had the pleasure of listening to students from the Royal College of Music play Claude Debussy’s Sonata for Violin & Piano in G Minor, Eugène Ysaÿe’s Sonata for Violin Solo No. 3 Ballade, Pablo de Sarasate’s Caprice Basque Op. 24, and Joan Albert Amargós’ Atlantic Trio. If I lived in London, I'd be here every Friday. Simply wonderful.

Side note: According to the church bulletin, five children were baptized at St. Mary Abbots on February 26, 2006: Columbus Robert Hugh Mais-Garding, Emilia Elizabeth Primrose Finney, Beatrice Rosemary Honor Gove, William Frederick Gove, and Zoe Isidore Hendrika Hart. I can almost hear the church bells ringing 25 years from now in celebration of the nuptials of young Mistress Zoe Isidore "Hennie the Hottie" Hendrika to dear sir lord Columbus "I found the new world, not the Indians" Robert Hugh.

Both before and after the concert, Paul, Debbie, and I wandered around the peaceful cloister. Beside the church is St. Mary Abbots Church of England Primary School. Wonderful sculptures of children in bright clothing are situated on the front of the building, and old carved signs indicate separate doors for (1) boys and infants and (2) girls. As an added treat, we saw little kids in the schoolyard dressed in very strange clothes. It was costume day! Mr. Incredible, a cow, an elf, a cowboy, Spiderman, and some girl with mouse ears or something. Kids skipped rope, ran about, and walked on little plastic cup stilts. They were having some serious fun.

We headed off for a pub lunch at the nearby 4-pint Scarsdale Tavern, located on a very quiet, very charming square. Fancyapint says, “Offering the sort of old world experience you’d expect in this neck of the woods, the Scarsdale is a cut above most of the nearby pubs. The darkened interior evokes a genuine atmosphere as does the intriguing history of the place (it was reputedly built as living quarters for the officers of Napoleon’s conquering army). ... its refined feel is upmarket yet not ostentatious.” We ordered some lunch and a few pints. Mismatched wooden furniture and church seats (complete with hymnal holders) added to the immense charm of the place.

Next, we peeked into various swank hotels and fell in love with the very grand Park Lane Hotel with its smashing 1920s Art Deco ballroom. Located in Mayfair, the Park Lane overlooks lovely Green Park. We contemplated taking tea in the hotel's world-famous Palm Court Lounge, but we would have dropped roughly $50 a person for the privilege. Enough said.

Instead, we dashed off to Claridge’s Hotel Bar and dropped roughly $20 each on the yummiest chocolate martinis on the planet. (Well, Paul drank wine, but still ...) Novelist Carol Morin says, “If I were meeting God for a cocktail, I’d take him to this Art Deco paradise.” Amen, sister.

Well, wouldn’t you know it--dinner time already. Off to Belgo, which is one of Paul’s and my favorite restaurants. Enjoyable group dining at large picnic tables, an immense Belgian beer list (including my fave Pauwel Kwak, which is served in a wooden stand), and lovely food (peppercorn steak, moules, frites). And for dessert? Dark Belgian chocolate of course!

Then off to Ain’t Nothing But The Blues Bar, an unpretentious place roughly the size of my pinky finger. A local Brit wore a Northface fleece coat, much to the disdain of her male companion. We immediately bonded with her and made her an honorary Coloradoan. Meantime, Debbie whooped it up with approximately 82 local boys, all doing that stand and sway dance people do when there's no room to move. Undaunted, Debbie and her band of Brits carved out some space on the dancefloor and boogied 'til dawn. Or 'til whenever we closed the place down.

Another successful day in London. Stay tuned, as I try to remember what on earth we did on Saturday ...

London, Day 1

2006-03-20T08:30:00.000-08:00

Thursday, March 2

Paul and I arrived in London crazy early in the am and took the tube to the Thistle Marble Arch hotel, only to find that check-in time was roughly 47 hours later. Luckily, the TMA is our home away from home (it’s where we stayed this time last year when we hit the city with my sister Heather), so we know the neighborhood well. Or, rather, Paul knows the neighborhood well. I am known for getting lost in shopping malls, parking lots, my housing development, the open space behind my house, the deep, dark recesses of my basement ….

Anyhow, too exhausted to do anything productive, Paul and I headed to the local ‘Bucks for a much-needed caffeine fix. Like most cities in the US, London is jam-packed with Starbucks coffee shops. Throw a rock, and you’ll probably hit a pissy mocha junkie. While at our local, Paul read newspapers while I checked my email and read Time Out to catch up the doings about town.

I also took in the Bucks surroundings. Every woman present had scraggly, unkempt hair. Seriously. (Little did I know at the time that my hair would get uncontrollably knotted by the end of the week as well. No amount of daily brushing made my London hair less ratty.) Across the room, a homeless man in tattered clothes slumped over a table. The Buckstaff and Buckspatrons barely registered his presence.

Around noon, Paul and I grabbed a couple of baguette sandwiches from a nice local patisserie and hit our hotel. We got keys to our room and crashed for several hours.

Debbie’s flight landed around 9:45, and after she made it to her hotel (the Thistle Charing Cross), she wandered around Covent Garden.

Late afternoon, Paul and I met Debbie at her hotel. Debbie proudly showed us the hotel’s dramatic sweeping staircase and her lovely room (our **** hotels cost roughly $80-90/night—right on, Priceline). We then walked around the city a bit, and Debbie fell in love with the seriously spendy shoes in the Kurt Geiger store window. We dragged Debbie away from the shoes and hit the 4-pint Dover Castle pub, which fancyapint calls “a fine old Sam Smith’s pub tucked away in a mews, just away from the hustle and bustle of Marylebone Road and Portland Place. It rarely gets crowded and [it’s] just the place to put your feet up, and read a good book or ponder eternity.” The cosy, dark-paneled, 250-year-old pub has a wonderful lounge with a toasty fireplace. Debbie and I ordered the first of the approximately 492 pints of dry cider we’d consume during the week.

Side note: The Dover Castle is located on Weymouth Mews. Hee. God that’s fun to say. “Mews.”

That night, we ate a wonderful dinner at Souk Medina, a fabulous Moroccan restaurant with low tables, dimmed lighting, comfy couches, colorful pillows, and loads of happy diners. Daring to try a Moroccan drink, Debbie and I choked down some sort of sambuca-like beverage. We then hit the Cittie of Yorke pub, a 15th century, dark-paneled, very comfortable 4-pinter that fancyapint calls “A well-known, large, magnificent pub with a host of unusual architectural features (especially in the back bar). Packed lunchtime and evenings with people associated with the nearby Inns of Court.”

After the Cittie of Yorke, we weary folk called it a night.

That's all for now. Stay tuned for more London adventures of Paul, Debbie, and Carolyn.

Theories of Hobbling

2005-10-03T06:16:00.000-07:00

About a week ago, I tore a ligament or two in my right ankle while walking. That’s right. Walking. Well, really, I stepped into a small hole, and my ankle subsequently swelled to the size of a grapefruit. So I've been hobbling about on crutches ever since. My shoe of choice: Tevas. No socks--you try fitting a sock over a grapefruit-sized lump in your ankle. Anyhow, just about everyone I know has told me, “Torn ligaments while walking. Wow, you really need a better story.” Truth be told, I do have a better story, though I’m not quite yet prepared to share it. So let’s try two fallback theories as to how/why this injury occurred:

(1) I’m graceless. Inelegant even. I don’t glide across a room; I bound. I don’t stroll; I bumble. I slam into things all the time, and the bruises all over my body tell the tale. I fall on stairs while jogging up them. I hit my head on the roof of the car when I climb in. I sometimes even hit my head with the freezer door when I open it. (Try this at home—it’s hard to do.) I've superglued my fingers to the floor, burned my fingers with a car cigarette lighter, torn cartilege in a knee while stretching, dislocated a knee while doing a backbend. I used to have a car with a sunroof, my hair got stuck in it everytime I closed it. There is seriously nothing funnier in the whole world than watching a person try to get out of a car when her hair is stuck in a sunroof.

(2) My ankle injury is a companion injury. I broke my left wrist on December 26, 2004, while “snowboarding” (falling backwards, headfirst, at full speed down a mountain more accurately describes what I was doing), and my friend and fellow cleanser Debbie says that sometimes people break a bone in some body part that’s opposite of or diagonal to the initially injured body part. Left wrist, right ankle. The new injury occurs out of solidarity and friendship with the old injury. So apparently my ankle, feeling sorry for my wrist, injured itself 8 months later so it can be all, like, "I’m there for you, man. I am totally there for you.” It's like some sort of stupid bone/body bonding experience or something.

On Wednesday, I’ll be heading to the DC area for 10 days, and I’ll be blogging my adventures. Attend Daughteire’s sister’s wedding and Daughteire's college reunion vicariously through the blog. Hear tell of the doings of the Daughteire family, a crazy, crazy bunch. Discover who has inexplicably chosen to remain friends with Daughteire for the past 10-15 years. Seriously, you'll want to stay tuned.

A Trip to the Drycleaners

2005-09-27T07:05:00.000-07:00

Pre-cleanse, I dropped off some clothes at the drycleaners. That was back when I was able to drive and back when I drank a bit more than I do at present. It’s hard to drive when you’ve torn a ligament in your ankle. And drinking becomes less appealing post-cleanse. Different stories. I’ll tell them on a different day.

Anyhow, here goes.

Daughteire: I’ve got some items to drop off.

The drycleaner rummages through the items.

Drycleaner: Ooh, this one has a stain.

Daughteire: Right. Cosmopolitan. Messy drink, that. Crazy glass wasn’t meant to hold liquid. It’s really a stupid, stupid glass. Pretty though. Stylish even. I like to hold the glass by the stem about chin height and then strut fancily about. But only if the glass is empty. If I try the stem holding and the fancy strutting when the glass is full, I have to haul all my clothes to the drycleaners.

Drycleaner: I see.

The drycleaner continues rummaging.

Drycleaner: Look, this one has a stain, too.

Daughteire: Someone poured an entire beer on me. Course, I did bump into the guy while I was strutting about with a fully loaded cosmopolitan.

Drycleaner: And this one?

Daughteire: Red wine. The wine was gunning for my white carpet, and I made a split-second decision to throw my body atop it as a sort of human shield. I’m sort of heroic that way. And action-hero speedy.

Drycleaner: And this?

Daughteire: White wine. White wine leaves stains? That's just wrong.

Drycleaner: And this?

Daughteire: No clue. I blacked out that night. Could be anything.

Drycleaner: Are there stains on the rest of these items too?

Daughteire: Probably. I’m pretty clumsy. And often tipsy. I’m sort of clumsy and tipsy. In an old-school charming sort of way. Seriously, over time the clumsiness has started to become oddly appealing and the tipsiness, downright delightful. I’m actually charming the pants off myself right this very minute.

Drycleaner: You've spilled something on your pants, by the way.

Daughteire: Slurpee. Blue raspberry. Cup has a lid and everything. I'll bring these pants to you next week.

Emmy Wrap-up

2005-09-19T09:36:00.000-07:00

1. Patricia Arquette’s hair. Patricia Arquette’s hair, your directionally challenged airborne curls took my breath away. Whimsical locks, you also accomplished the near-impossible, magically drawing attention away from the evening’s ugliest, most ill-fitting dress. Patricia Arquette's hair, you couldn’t have looked any worse if I had swung by Patricia’s house five minutes before the show to style you myself.

2. Desperate Marx brothers. Whoever voted for Terri Hatcher to win Best Actress, Comedy, undoubtedly became too embarrassed to fess up after watching her attempt to channel Groucho Marx, complete with fake cigar. Have you noticed that the muscles in Terri’s face are on two-second delay? When she smiles, the muscles seem to struggle indecisively until sheer force of will shifts them into a new, if unwelcome, position. Watch her face sometime. It’s serious fun.

3. Earth, Wind & Fire and the Black Eyed Peas lyric-pimping the evening’s nominated shows. Bad. Not as bad as having to listen to a Peas song on the radio, but bad nonetheless.

4. It’s tucked in my bra for safekeeping. S. Epatha Merkerson (police captain from Law & Order) lost her thank you speech somewhere in her dress. While she gave her acceptance speech for Best Actress TV Special (or something), the camera did several sweeps of the floor, apparently in the hopes that the speech would materialize under her dress train. Awesome.

5. William Shatner and some other guy. They won Best Actor, Drama, and Best Supporting Actor, Drama, for some show called Boston Legal. Approximately 1,400 people watch this show each week, and apparently they’re all Emmy voters. People, it’s time to stop giving awards to David E. Kelley shows and to the people who star in those shows. Just stop.

6. Doris Roberts won Best Supporting Actress, Comedy. For, like, the 18^th time. Jessica Walter (Arrested Development) was robbed. (Arrested Development. Monday nights. Be there.)

7. The dude from Monk won Best Actor, Comedy. I don’t even know what channel Monk is on. I do, however, know that Monk has obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD). Hee! OCD is funny! Try thinking about OCD without laughing. Repetitive hand washing. Funny! Checking and rechecking the pilot light on the stove. Funny! Did I lock the front door? Did I? Funny! There’s no way Zach Braff (Scrubs) and Jason Bateman (Arrested Development) can compete with three seasons of funny, funny OCD. (Arrested Development, Monday nights. Be there.)

8. Felicity Huffman won Best Actress, Comedy. Huffman plays a bitchy, dull, completely unlikable mother of a heap of hellchildren on Desperate Housewives, which is exactly the kind of character that trumps that of a deliciously devilish Stepford wife (Marcia Cross). At least Terri Hatcher-Marx didn’t win. That has to count for something.

9. David Letterman paid a long tribute to Johnny Carson. While Jay Leno sat in the audience and watched. Later, Jon Stewart paid brief tribute to Letterman. While Jay Leno sat in the audience and watched. Too much fun.

10. George Bush hates black … Sabbath. Jon Stewart, you rock. YOU ROCK.

Ten Foods That Don’t Rock My World

2005-09-15T05:36:00.000-07:00

1. Gross foods (bugs, worms, grubs, foods that stare you down while you eat them, squirmy crap that they eat on Fear Factor). My friend LuAnne and I recently submitted an application to be on The Amazing Race. She weighs approximately 82 pounds. I weigh ever so slightly more. Perhaps, then, it comes as no surprise that I’ve got her pegged to do the eating challenges. Swallow a bucket's worth of caviar? That’s LuAnne. Drink a gallon of pig’s blood? LuAnne. Savor eye of newt? Gnaw through an entire sheep’s worth of intestines? Eat 5 pounds of cow’s brain? LuAnne, LuAnne, LuAnne. She’ll also get the scary challenges. And the hard challenges. And the boring challenges. In return, she’ll probably make me drive the damn car. She really pisses me off sometimes. But I digress ...

2. Seafood. I do eat tuna fish (the canned stuff with the nubile fishfreak on the label). And, yes, it does so count. Sometimes I’ll nibble on a crab cake to be polite, but I will not eat sea bass, lobster, or shrimp. Just try and make me.

3. Lamb. My friends and I used to hit after-hours chips joints in London back in the day, and the smell of roasting lamb almost made me pass out. Seriously, there’s only so many times your friends will carry your post-pubbing ass home before they start to make plans that don't include you. Believe me, I know.

4. Veal. Why veal? Why not veal?

5. Mushrooms. It’s a consistency thing. They just flip-flop around the plate, and sometimes when you’re enjoying some bowtie pasta, you’ll find them buried in a secret bowtie pasta inner core. Because I can’t even bear to look at mushrooms, I have an unfortunate tendency of hunting them down one by one, situating them into a big pile on the side of my plate, and then flicking them onto other people’s laps. Just one of many reasons why people hesitate to be seen with me in public. (See also #3.)

6. Ricotta Cheese. My parents didn’t let a little undiagnosed allergy to ricotta cheese interfere with their dinner plans. As such, I spent many a night as a child hunched over an unforgiving plate of lasagna.

7. Berries. Blend them up into a smoothie, and I’m right there with you. Raw and unmushed? Blick. Just blick.

8. Cantaloupe. They’re an embarrassment to the entire melon family. I am, however, all about watermelon and honeydew, both of which have a much less stupid-looking color.

9. Sweet Treats. I had a cotton candy back in 1978, and my hands are still sticky and a little pinker than I’d like. And fried Twinkies? The dirty-boweled mystery person who keeps appearing in these pages probably eats these by the dozen. Just last weekend, my friend LuAnne ate half a fried Twinkie, and she claims she has sustained enough twinkalicious caloric intake to carry her through our entire Amazing Race adventure. (We expect to be called for interviews any day now. They will call us, right?)

10. White Chocolate. White chocolate, you’re just wasting my time. Wasting. My. Time.

Post-Cleanse

2005-09-12T05:58:00.000-07:00

I am feeling cleansalicious. Physically energetic. Mentally spry. I’d tell you about the dancing in the streets, but I’m afraid you might recognize me for the dork that I am.

On day 11, I drank a ten-ounce glass of orange juice, and it was good to the last drop. For lunch, I made vegetable broth mixed with grilled tomatoes and onions, a spot of curry, and some black pepper. Yum-may. Do try this at home.

After reading my blog, my sister Michele said, “I don’t get it. Is this a joke? Did you really go without pizza for ten whole days?” Pizza. That was her main concern. Not the wholesale absence of food. Not the mere 400 calories—all maple syrup—I consumed a day. Not the collapsing over potted plants on the back deck due to the strain of lifting the watering can. Not the driving over highway medians after having passed out cold. Pizza. The daughteire family’s snap daddy? Papa John. Who’s your snap daddy?

Debbie got her post-fast fix on with a turkey/brie/cranberry sandwich. She notes, “It was everything I hoped for and more. I can honestly say I now enjoy every bite of food I have.” Unfortunately, reentry isn’t going as well for Maura. She says, “It’s been sort of tough. This morning I had some soup. Like 3 spoonfuls. Didn’t hit the spot. Made some rice, that was tasty but made my stomach hurt. Had about a handful of rice with butter and some salt. It tasted crunchy with salt. And I had 1 sip of coffee (I like this?). Had a small glass of carrot/kiwi juice. That was AWESOME. Went to lunch with Mike and ordered a Greek Salad. Ate the top layer. Didn’t want any more, though the red peppers tasted pretty good. Had 2 oreos. Feel gross. I don’t really have any cravings right now.”

What concerns me most is that Maura wants me to ask Gwyneth, body/mind/balancing guru turned Brazilian expatriate, if the lemonade can be consumed on a daily basis with some food. “Will I kill my liver, rot my teeth or anything?” she asks. Yikes. More lemonade? I plucked a lemon out of my water at a restaurant the other night and lobbed it at an unsuspecting child just to get the offending fruit out of my sight. More lemonade? No, no, and no.

I do, however, know what Maura means about the coffee not tasting the way she had remembered. I ordered a glass of wine the other night, and after about three sips I gave it to my friend Kevin. Now, the last time I turned down a drink was back in 1991. And, if memory serves, I was throwing up in a bucket at the time. Let’s just say that, with the proper signage and the purchase of lots of ice, I could open a bar in my home, say, tomorrow without making any additional alcohol purchases. Right now, though, I'm just not craving beer, wine, margaritas, martinis, or any of it.

Shout out to two of the most supportive people I’ve never met, K-Prime and Clark. Show them some love by checking out their links on the right (Caffeinated Observations and POW).

The Cleanse, Day 10 (Wednesday)

2005-09-09T08:34:00.000-07:00

I've heard from the blog’s four or so fans that the Day 10 recap is unforgivably overdue, so here goes. Apologies for the delay, four fans.

Everyone will be happy to hear that Debbie is alive and well. I wish I could say as much for the man she killed in a bar fight. Rumor has it that they fought over a tortilla chip. After eating said chip, Debbie noted, “Oh My God. I just had my first bite of grains/carbs. I had a tortilla chip. It was like a little slice of salty heaven.” At least the chip was worth it.

This morning, I firebombed a stable bridge and then spent the rest of the morning shocked by the appearance of flames. I don’t lack self-awareness. Unfortunately, though, my self-awareness is on ten-second delay. This afternoon, however, I started writing a new story. The inspiration hit around 4:00 pm, and I worked on it for several hours, left for the Art of Narrative class I’m taking, and returned and worked on the story for several more hours. That night as I lay in bed, the story stretched up and down, back and forth, in my mind. Crystalline clarity. I leapt up at 2:30 am and continued writing until 5:00.

How go things for Maura and Debbie? Well, Maura says, “My day ... you might find this hard to believe, but I have no desire to eat. Today has been productive but when I think about eating. I can’t even picture it. Or what I would want.” Debbie, in turn, says, “My taste buds and sense of smell have changed and the food doesn’t taste the same way it did before the fast. It seems like parts of my tongue have shut off. Some things I can taste very distinctly, others I can hardly taste at all.” And me? I’m starving. STARVING. That didn't stop me from abandoning the lemonade midday, however. Simply put, I couldn’t take it anymore. I may be extra hungry tomorrow as a result, but I don’t care. No. More. Lemonade.

In closing, a completely anonymous poster, someone we’ve not heard from before in these pages, a veritable stranger to this blog, notes, “On Thursday you are allowed to drink fruit juice. I suggest you spike it with champagne. PLEASE!! It would be sooo entertaining for me to see you three get drunk off one sip of champagne. do it! do it! your dirty bowelled pal, ----(I can't sign my name after that closing!!)” Oh, dirty-bowelled mystery person, your thoughtful words touch a tiny, tiny—infinitesimal, really—corner of my heart.

The Cleanse, Day 9 (Tuesday)

2005-09-07T09:51:00.000-07:00

I’m not starving. I know because I still have no desire to eat mushrooms, olives, feta cheese, or fish. If I were starving, I’d eat anything, right? Put just about anything else in front of me, however, and I’d be tempted to go for it. Chicago pizza (sausage and green pepper), chicken tikka masala (with a samosa, mint chutney, and cheese naan), chick peas and rice with yogurt, Tuk Tuk chicken curry, a cheeseburger, Cobb salad, a turkey wrap with cheddar cheese, and creamy soups (the restaurant kind, not the hermetically sealed in 1984 for decades of dining pleasure Campbell’s kind).

Maura says she’s “Hungry. Weak. No revelations. Black out every time I stand up.” I haven’t heard from Debbie in the last day, so I can only assume she’s passed out in a back alley somewhere. She’ll undoubtedly be found later this week beating the crap out of some drifter over an empty Happy Meal box and a half-eaten packet of ketchup.

Long, long day. God help me.

The Cleanse, Day 8 (Monday)

2005-09-06T14:48:00.000-07:00

I woke up feeling pretty strange after having dreamt that I was doing a poor job of coordinating a large event, one with thousands upon thousands of attendees. In my dream, I was distributing programs during, rather than prior to, the event, and for some reason the scheduled performers/speakers weren't appearing on stage. The crowd was losing patience. Pushing, shoving, yelling, roaring. I felt torn. I desperately needed to calm the crowd, but I couldn’t concentrate on my work because I was trying to locate three nameless, faceless friends with whom I was supposed to room in some apartment or dorm. I had a choice to make: manage the event or work to sustain my friendships. I see several fears addressed here: being behind the curve, being out of the loop, having to decide between work and play, ....

Dreams aside, I had an uneventful day. I had five glasses of lemonade and one glass of tea, and in the evening my husband, Paul, and I joined my former friend Laurie and her husband Scott at the movie theater to watch The 40-Year-Old Virgin. Laurie says she has been groaning out loud after reading my "we are the world" blog entries, so she was undoubtedly thrilled that I had to sit silently beside her through this silly, lighthearted flick. I am smiling as I think about regaling Laurie with tales of spiritual renewal for the next 10 or so years. I can only hope that Maura and Debbie sing it with me. Afer all, isn't that what friends are for? Oh, and the movie? Funny, funny, funny. Go see this movie. Right now.

My friend Debbie, who is on the veggie/juice version of the cleanse, notes, “Apparently I hit another chakra/meridian early Monday morning. I sat bolt upright in bed at the ungodly hour of 4:45 am, and it took about an hour to relax enough to go back to sleep. I woke up later with back pains, particularly the lower back. So decided to stay on the juices one more day. However, my body had other ideas in mind. I was starving all morning—even Taco Bell commercials looked good for some reason. I broke down at about 3 pm and had a big handful of grapes. Had some veggies for dinner. The act of chewing was great, but my stomach protested at first at the food. I can’t wait to eat some sort of meat and grains again! I’m totally craving chips and guac right now. Mmmm ... guacalicious ...”

Maura, in turn, says, “I can’t stop thinking about food. I’m completely obsessed. The last 2 days have been hard. I’m hungry. For food.”

Are you still reading this blog? Are you? Seriously, drop everything and go see The 40-Year-Old Virgin.

My friend Sharron is planning to start the cleanse later this week. Apparently she’s hoping to make herself as physically weak as possible in the hopes that she too will get winded walking from her kitchen to her living room. Let’s just say that this cleanse isn’t exactly prepping us fasting femmes to run a marathon. It has, however, been a physically, emotionally, and spiritually eye-opening experience for all three of us.

So, as Sharron winds up, Maura, Debbie, and I are winding down. Only two days left.

The Cleanse, Day 7 (Sunday)

2005-09-05T10:28:00.000-07:00

This evening, my former friend Laurie asked if the cleanse makes people more emotional. In particular, she had a few things to say about my “I am woman, hear me roar” power stance at the close of the Day 5 blog. “‘I regret nothing.’ Both poignant AND meaningful,” I believe she said as she fell over snickering. I hope she accidentally misplaces a chakra by laughing too hard. That’ll teach her.

And, emotional? Good lord, Maura, Debbie, and I can burst into tears if the rewind button on the VCR doesn’t work or if the stoplight stays red a few seconds too long. I may burst into tears upon writing this blog entry. Everything is heightened and made vivid. Tastes, smells, sights, memories, thoughts, feelings. Everything. Debbie says, “Who knew so much could happen in your life just by not eating food for a while?!” Maura, in turn, says, “I personally have not experienced this profound an impact during any of my other fasts. Maybe it’s the added strength of girls. Which should never be underestimated.” Yet another meaningful-moment-music sort of realization by the fasting femmes. And there you have it.

Both Maura and Debbie made it through barbeques yesterday. Their fortitude makes me want to cry. (Shout out, Laurie.) Maura only drank three glasses of lemonade today, so she felt pretty weak. She’s planning to drink her full six-glass allotment on Monday.

I had five glasses of lemonade today (along with a cup of tea). This morning, my friend Sharron and I attempted to hike up Green Mt., located right in my backyard, until such time as I almost collapsed, prompting Sharron to contemplate creative ways to haul me back down the mountain. Luckily (for Sharron), I made it down on my own. I've probably hiked Green Mt. 50 times. Never before have I had to stop and turn around before getting to the top.

Sharron and I then spent the next several hours writing on my back deck, after which time Paul and I visited with Laurie, her husband, Scott, and their son, Alec. During the course of our visit, Laurie had to pick up a few food items, so we ran over to a convenience store. Walking up and down the aisles, I saw preservatives wrapped in pretty packages and sold at reasonable prices. I can honestly say I thought less about the sugar, fat, and carb contents of these items than I did about the likelihood that these items would be around longer than the people eating them.

My friend LuAnne says, “I'm really enjoying reading about your self-imposed starvation and am impressed you've stayed with it this far! … [Soon,] your body will be free of preservatives. A fast is something I would never do. I guess I'll have to take consolation in the fact that when I die, my body will still be around when the next ice age comes due to the enormous amounts of preserved foods I eat. Your body, on the other hand, will just rot away to nothing. Well, maybe your skeleton will still be around. Mine will be beautifully preserved, the perfect specimen to represent the atrocious eating habits of 99% of Americans.”

If you sat through the special features for the movie Super Size Me, you probably saw Morgan Spurlock’s French fry experiment. In short, homemade fries grew mold, whereas McDonald’s fries will be the only thing left after the second coming of Christ. Have you ever cleaned out your car only to find an errant McDonald’s French fry that has been sitting under your seat for months? I have. And let me tell you, it looked good as new. Be frightened. Be very, very frightened.

The Cleanse, Day 6 (Saturday)

2005-09-05T09:43:00.000-07:00

Debbie, Maura, and I have hit the gross phase. Our tongues and teeth are coated with white gunk (part of the detox process), so we’re brushing early and often. We’re all feeling a bit dehydrated, so our goal is to drink lots more water in addition to our lemonade/juice. I drank a total of six glasses of lemonade today, and around 3:00 pm I was feeling weak and wobbly, so I mixed up a protein shake that Gwyneth had given me. It felt like I was drinking bread. After three sips, I quickly abandoned the shake in favor of more lemonade. Gwyneth’s being in

Brazil

apparently hasn’t stopped her from trying to kill me. No matter where she is, it’s like she’s right there by my side.

On Saturday night, Debbie, Maura, Mike, my husband, Paul, and I played games. In women against the men Trivial Pursuit, the women won, and Debbie blew everyone away in Uno. That whole evening, Mike was meditative (he’s a newly devout member of the Church of Flying Spaghetti Monsterism), Maura wouldn’t shut up no matter how much we all politely asked, Paul couldn’t get an answer right to save his life, and Debbie was in her usual bad mood. Or something like that. The details start to get fuzzy late at night when you haven’t eaten in six days.

Not one to be forgotten, Laurie has some parting words to share: “I'm enjoying reading [the blog] while eating my hot buttery salty popcorn and drinking my cold Coors Light. I know Carolyn is not a fan of Coors Light, but even that must sound mighty yummy simply because it is not the Same Old Damn Swill That You've Been Drinking For 5 Days!!!!! Freaks! (I mean that lovingly, of course.) Your Pal with the not-so-clean bowel, Lola.”

“I'll be there for you (when the rain starts to pour) / I'll be there for you (like I've been there before) / I'll be there for you (because you're there for me too).” I just can’t get that damn song out of my head.

The Cleanse, Day 5 (Friday)

2005-09-03T10:24:00.000-07:00

I had six glasses of lemonade today, a record for me. This morning, I drove Gwyneth, my body-mind balancing expert, to the airport (she’s heading to Brazil for two weeks on business). You have to be highly talented to starve someone to death long distance, and Gwyneth is at the top of her game. In her stead, Emily, friend of Gwyneth, will provide any emergency guidance or support that Maura, Debbie, and I need. Thanks, Emily!

I had a conference call around 12:30, which was supposed to last 30+ minutes, prompting Paul to take the opportunity to cook chicken with rice, curry, and yogurt for lunch. My conference call ended in under 2 minutes, and I bolted downstairs to investigate the culinary doings. Once in the kitchen, I felt like throwing up. The rice smelled as good as Mike’s water tastes. I assumed the rice was burning in the pot, though Paul says it wasn’t. I fled back to my office to escape the lingering smell.

Debbie experienced constant low-level hunger all day. She also notes, “I woke up this morning and almost wretched from the asphalt smell coming in the window from my neighbor’s rooftop. Not their fault of course, just the smell of heated shingles wafting into my window.” Debbie is feeling happier and more energetic these days. She also fears she has been a bit cranky over the last few months. If you say so, Debbie. I'm fairly certain that the grouchiest thing Debbie has done in recent memory is curse at the neighbor's cat while tripping over it and subsequently tossing it out of her house in the middle of the night after waking to find it mysteriously sleeping in her bed. On an related note, Debbie says she’s “hitting a chakra,” which sounds both masochistic and unduly complicated.

For her part, Maura dreamt a lot last night and woke up feeling pretty good. In recent months, she has experienced some frustration regarding various past events of her life, and she awoke feeling a sense of release, as if any anger and hurt she had stored up had seemingly dissipated overnight. She thinks the cleanse is helping her colon and its associated meridian. Maura also had a ton of energy today, and she accomplished quite a few things that she had been putting off for a very long time.

All three of us have noticed that, in Debbie’s words, “everything we as a society (and maybe the world) like to do involves food.” Cooking, coffee shops, meals in, meals out, grilling, movie theaters with popcorn, drinks at the local. We’ve been racking our brains to think of fun social things to do that don’t involve food. (How hard can it be to think up non-food/drink-related activities? We haven’t eaten for five days. Cut us some slack.) So far, we’ve got miniature golf, movies at home, games, and hiking.

As promised, I thought I’d spend a minute discussing a recent tongue-in-cheek comment made by my friend Heidi. She notes, “I think I’m starting to see a pattern here. Friends suggest strange and unpleasant adventures or experiences, and you’re up for it. Hmm, better you than me. I hope the friendship is worth it ;o).” Heidi is an expatriate who has lived in England for many years, and she, my friend LuAnne, Paul, and I went on a horseback riding tour of County Donegal, Ireland, a couple of years ago. LuAnne and Heidi are skilled horsewomen through and through; Paul is a fairly skilled, though novice, rider. Me? Let’s just say that I am a novice rider for whom riding comes anything but naturally. Let’s also say that my horse, Ben, kicked my ass all week long. Periodically, Heidi and LuAnne gave Bad Boy Ben (LuAnne's nickname) a stern talking to in the hopes that he would periodically stop headbutting me and punting me into fields. To no avail. I’m certain that if I returned to Ireland right now, Ben would find me and kick my ass one more time, just out of spite. Bully.

So why would I consent to take a trip to a foreign country in order to ride (walk, trot, canter) for many hours each day? Because I had never done anything like it before. Because, until LuAnne suggested it, I would never have thought to do anything like it. Because County Donegal must be seen on horseback. Because I got to spend time in the beautiful countryside with Paul, LuAnne, and Heidi, three wonderful people. Because I could.

Do I seek out strange and unpleasant adventures as a general rule? Not really. Am I inspired to sign up for such adventures when friends suggest them? Sometimes. Did I feel pressured into doing the cleanse? Not at all. Gwyneth mentioned it in passing, and I said, “sign me up.” The decision took me about 2 minutes to make.

It is year 35 of my life and day 5 of the cleanse. I regret nothing.

The Cleanse, Day 4 (Thursday)

2005-09-02T09:55:00.000-07:00

Today I had 5 glasses of lemonade. I met a potential client at Starbucks, and I didn’t even think about a café mocha while I was there. Yea to me! I did, however, start to feel achey around 2:00 pm.

Initially, our friend Mike was supposed to join Maura, Debbie, and me in the cleanse, thus prompting Laurie to ask, “Did Opie [Mike] bail? I do not see mention of him in these posts. I thought he had decided to join the ranks of the insane ... er, uh, ah ... I mean do the cleanse with you all.”

Laurie’s right. Mike’s putrid water got a shout out, but Mike has yet to appear in these pages. Mainly because he bagged the cleanse at the eleventh hour. When asked to explain, Mike noted the following: “Having recently converted to FSM [Flying Spaghetti Monsterism], I was worried that the rigors of my newfound religion could potentially tax my body and mind in ways I was not prepared for ... thusly I felt compelled to ready myself -- both psychologically AND with excessive food intake -- so that I might have the mental and physical nourishment necessary to propel my soul to a higher plane.” He further noted, “And, I am really enjoying eating Maura's chocolates for her.”

As you may know, FSM is a pastafarian religion that promotes an alternative theory of Intelligent Design. FSM has also shed light on the statistically significant inverse relationship between pirates and global temperature. (Truckloads of pirates in the past, low global average temperature. One-two pirates today, skyrocketing global average temperature. A coincidence? I think not.) Mike’s also a fan of FSM heaven, which has both a stripper factory and a beer volcano. Find out more about FSM from the link on the right.

Anyhow, after hearing Mike’s excuse, Maura noted that the real reason Mike isn’t on the cleanse is that he prefers to prance about while eating burritos and chocolate in front of her. [She never mentioned the prancing. I’m just speculating here.] Maura says, “He thinks he is torturing me in some way. He’ll be sorry he missed out.”

Maura is looking forward to the days when her body is no longer filled with toxins and preservatives. She’s feeling pretty good today. Last night, she and Debbie watched Hotel Rwanda, and Maura “personally realized that not eating that pink frosted doughnut I envisioned yesterday is really not so bad in the grand scheme of things.” Maura has lost 5 pounds already.

For her part, Debbie is feeling much better today. Her body pains went away late yesterday afternoon, so she’s already feeling the detox love. She’s also not experiencing too much hunger, and she has loads of energy. Yesterday was her first full day of juices only, though she’s not drinking the lemonade; instead, she’s drinking no-sugar-added Whole Foodsish sorts of juices. On Monday, she craved cheeseburgers and pizza. Now, she’s craving a nicely seared salmon steak or pasta with grilled veggies and a spicy marinara. She says, “I guess my food cravings are getting healthier by the day!”

Maura, Debbie, and I have noticed that our senses of taste and smell have become heightened. For example, we can taste distinct flavors in water and in the lemonade/juice we’re drinking, and we can smell people’s breaths when they talk. Well, really only when people are near us. Your breath? Right now? Can’t smell it.

Stay tuned for my friend Heidi’s thoughts regarding the choices I make in life. She may be onto something …

The Cleanse, Day 3 (Wednesday)

2005-09-01T06:20:00.000-07:00

I had five glasses of lemonade today. I felt pretty good all day, though perhaps not as energetic as usual. I met up with two people at two different coffee shops, and I didn’t feel tempted to drink coffee or eat baked goods. When I met up with my friend Sharron at Shooting Star, our favorite coffee haunt, I enjoyed a cup of peppermint tea (with Gwyneth’s prior approval). Nice change of pace. Sharron says she’ll join me in the cleanse the next time I do it. For the record, though, I have no formal plans to repeat this process. My friend LuAnne says that her tenant does a fast/cleanse every three months. Put another way, he spends roughly 1/9 of his life on a cleanse. I find the very idea incomprehensible.

LuAnne also says that, in lieu of the cleanse, I might release my tension by simply moving west (she lives in Sacramento). She somehow finds a way to tie all topics and events to my “impending” move to California, which I find somewhat endearing.

A couple of days ago, I mentioned that I was doing the cleanse to locate a misplaced wayward meridian, formerly located under my clavicle or a lung or something. Well, according to Gwyneth (my friend and body-mind balancing expert), the cleanse will help Maura, Debbie, and me do the following: (1) clean the colon and its associated meridian, which has to do with grief and letting things go; (2) flush the kidneys, as they hold fear and are the storage reservoir for chi (energy, not the tea), pronounced “chee”; (3) literally and figuratively get rid of all the old crap in our lives; (4) assimilate food better and assimilate information better (cleanse the body, cleanse the mind); and (5) increase body awareness and self awareness (learn about ourselves).

Sounds pretty good, non?

Debbie, unfortunately, is starting to feel sick. She shifted from fruits and veggies to liquids today, and her body aches, and her muscles feel stiff and sore (as if she had run a marathon or caught the flu). I’m not experiencing body aches, at least not yet, though Maura has experienced some. Maura attributes her aches to yesterday’s daytrip to Vegas, where she spent the day walking the tradeshow route while eating nothing and hauling 5 pounds of lemonade everywhere she went. To add to her challenge, the only place she could find to sit and rest was a food service area.

Maura notes that it’s common for the body to uncover illness in the detoxification process, and she suggests that Debbie drink lots of fluids, including juice with pulp (like our lemon juice). Hang in there, Debbie!

On a closing note, I’d like to share a message sent yesterday by Laurie (aka Lola), a former friend of Debbie's, Maura’s, and mine: “The only other thing I really have to say is: hot fudge sundae, cold amber brew, hot steaming mocha, chocolate shake, chips and queso and Margarita from On The Border, pizza, nachos, Sonic cheeseburger. Hee hee! --Evil, Evil Lola.” When I think of Laurie, the Friends theme song always comes to mind. Mainly because Laurie's a really big fan of that show.

The Cleanse Day 2 (Tuesday)

2005-08-31T14:21:00.000-07:00

I felt sort of good and empowered this morning when I awoke. I felt like I had some semblance of control over myself, which, honestly, I’ve been lacking in large part for a few months now. In short, this cleanse is my way of trying to take back my life. It’s a first step. And I’m proud of myself for making it to day 2.

First thing I did this morning is abandon the Tom Collins glass. I’m now using a coffee travel mug. It’s less decorative, but it’s also less sorely tempting.

At this early point in the cleanse, Maura, Debbie, and I miss the event of eating more than anything else. The cooking. The smells. The clanking dishware. The camaraderie. The chopping, the cutting, the boiling, the baking. The glass of wine with dinner. Turns out that Debbie is hankering for a “stupid cheeseburger,” though she isn’t usually much of a fan. Me, I’m obsessed with ground beef casserole. It’s the closest thing I’ve got to a family recipe, but really it’s just a bunch of yummy things thrown into a glass dish and baked until they brown, melt, and mingle into one happy, goopy mess. To make the casserole (and, you really must make the casserole), layer the following ingredients in the pan in the following order: 2 cups cooked egg noodles; 1/2 lb cooked ground beef mixed with 8 oz. tomato sauce, 1/8 t salt, 1/8 t garlic powder, 1/8 t pepper, 1/2 t sugar, and lots of grilled onions; Velveeta cheese; 1/2 lb cooked ground beef, etc. etc.; and 2 more cups of cooked egg noodles. Top with parmesan cheese, bake for 30 minutes at some temperature (let’s say 350), do a little happy dance, then enjoy. The key to the success of this dish is the ground beef mixture. You MUST make sure the seasoning is just right. If you nail the mixture, you will do a little happy dance. No dance? Flawed mixture.

But I digress …

I had 4.5 glasses of lemonade today. I also suffered through the grilling of the sandwich Paul had for lunch. I have never really noticed before how the smell of cooked food just sits in the room for hours and hours and hours.

Debbie is still on the vegetable portion of her modified fast (raw carrots, raw green beans, and tomatoes), and she’s excited about days 3-8, which are all liquid diet, all the time. Seems raw veggies aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. Maura flew to Vegas for the day to attend several trade shows. She says her sense of smell has “already escalated into the stratosphere.” She about passed out when she opened a jar of peanut butter (consumed, along with some medicine, by her dog, Tika). She also notes that Mike’s water “tastes like old metal.” Not new metal. Old metal. No offense, Mike’s water. Dems de facts.

My headache has continued today, and it turns out that Maura has had a lingering headache as well. Nothing too bad, though. Here on day 2, the slight hunger pangs are kind of nice in a weird way. Kind of like I’m really pushing myself here—bravo to me! And bravo to Maura and Debbie, too.

The Cleanse Day 1 (Monday)

2005-08-31T12:37:00.000-07:00

I had 3 glasses of lemonade today, though I used too much cayenne pepper, which made the drink less appealing that it otherwise might have been. I've been mixing my lemon concoction in a glass that measures liquid by the ounce, which is very helpful. Recipes for alcoholic beverages are also inscribed on the exterior of the glass, which is less helpful. Maura and Debbie are craving food. I'm craving a Tom Collins (the glass says: juice of 1 lime or lemon, 1 t sugar, 2 oz. gin, shake and add ice, club soda, and fruit). The picture on the glass shows a tall, sort of summery looking drink. It would probably be nice to drink in the evening on the back deck.

I nursed a bit of a headache all day. When I told Gwyneth that I had had only 3 glasses of lemonade all day (vs. the prescribed 6-12), she was shocked. She asked how I was going to get full on so little lemonade. Are you kidding me? I hadn’t realized that this stuff was supposed to counteract hunger pangs. I had just assumed that its sole purpose was to keep us from passing out cold while driving or while attending business meetings.

Along those lines, I was hungry all day, but I was never ravenous. I experienced some food cravings (nothing too out of the ordinary), and I spent some time daydreaming about what a fine fellow Tom Collins must have been. My husband, Paul, had a simple sandwich for dinner, so I didn’t have to suffer through the smell of cooked food.

The biggest issue I’ve had so far has been an almost unconscious desire to eat, even when I’m not hungry or when I don’t really know what I want. I woke up this morning and wanted coffee. Later in the day, I got up from watching a television program and walked into the kitchen automatically. I can honestly say I hadn’t realized how eating on a regular basis is so programmed into us or how often snacking is something we (or at least I) do for sport.

The Cleanse (intro)

2005-08-30T10:38:00.000-07:00

Here’s the deal: I’m starting a cleanse, which involves 10+ days without eating. In place of eating, I’m supposed to drink 6-12 10 oz. glasses of “lemonade” a day. The ingredients for one serving of lemonade are as follows: 2T pure maple syrup, 2T freshly squeezed lemon, 1/10t cayenne pepper, and water (fill the glass to 10 oz.).

You may be wondering why in holy hell I’ve chosen to do a cleanse. Well, I’ve been tense of late. Seriously tense. Panicked even. After putting up with me for the last few months, Gwyneth, my friend and body-mind-balancing expert, suggested that I embark on the cleanse, probably as a defense mechanism (for her as much as for me). Rather than abandon the friendship wholesale, she has graciously chosen to starve me to death instead. She’s a gem and a peach.

In short, this cleanse is supposed to detoxify the body, as well as reinvigorate the body, the mind, and the soul. I’m totally hoping for a threefer, and I’ll seriously feel gypped if I only get the body and soul (no mind) combo. Gwyneth has a more technical way of describing the effects of the cleanse. She says my daily habit of eating crap is exacerbating my tension, which is holed up in some chakra or other, located near my colon or liver or some other body part. Or something like that. I’ll have to get her to weigh in (in writing, cause it’s obvious I don’t listen to a word she says), after which time I’ll share her feedback. Also, she did the cleanse back in January, and she loved it.

Now, just so’s you know, I’m not doing the cleanse all by my lonesome. Nope. I’m the kind of person who is always looking out for others (no, really, I am—just ask me, and I’ll tell you), so, after deciding to do the cleanse, I immediately convinced my friend Maura to join me. We started our fast yesterday (Monday), and by now Maura has undoubtedly deleted my contact info from her email address book. I expect to never hear from her again.

But it gets better. Maura somehow convinced our friend Debbie to join in on the fun. Debbie is doing a modified version of the cleanse, one that allows the eating of vegetables. Rumor has it that Debbie is currently asking why in holy hell she, too, jumped on the crazy cleansing train. By now, she has undoubtedly deleted Maura's contact info from her email address book. Unfortunately for Debbie, Maura is her roommate, so they're sure to exchange a few angry looks in the kitchen around 2:00 am as they whip up enough lemonade concoction to quiet their unhappy stomachs for the rest of the night. (For point of clarification, the midnight snack version of the lemonade concoction looks stunningly similar to the day and evening versions.)

Anyhow, here goes. I’ll be blogging (hopefully) daily to document the adventures of cleansing. I’ll also report Gwyneth’s, Maura’s, and Debbie’s thoughts along the way.

Paper Towel Abuse

2005-08-23T09:00:00.000-07:00

Soon after moving to Denver, I had the extreme misfortune of working for the worst employer ever. Let’s call that employer the State of Colorado. For fun.

Now, I’ve had bad jobs before. As a teenager I worked the coveted 5:30 am “non-stop verbal abuse from management” shift on weekends at McDonald’s. However, I can honestly say I hadn’t seen the manager (rocket scientist) vs. employee (troglodyte) dichotomy in full, unabashed swing until I worked for the State. As it turns out, all State employees are liars, halfwits, and thieves. No, really, it’s true. Just ask any manager at the State. They’ll tell you.

Here’s a snapshot of a typical workday.

I board the 6:58 bus, punch the time clock at 7:32 (two minutes late), and have the pleasure of a brief but nonetheless enjoyable discussion about timeliness with my boss. He then tells me he has no tasking for me and suggests that I spend the day organizing my files. From 7:32-9:30, I type a few mission-critical emails to friends and count cars out my office window.

At 9:30, I take a final tally (total cars: 87) and then review all 100 of last month’s office timecards, all of which have been approved and sent to the Controller’s office by our asleep at the wheel payroll department. I find serious timekeeping errors in more than 40 of the cards. I forward the list of errors to payroll. Two payroll reps thank me by calling me names I won’t repeat here.

At 11:00, I walk into the conference room to attend a vendor demo. The project manager, five coworkers, and I sit in the room for thirty minutes. The vendor never shows up. Once it is discovered that the project manager forgot to invite the vendor, I return to my office.

Around 11:30, the HR manager passes by my office and admonishes me for websurfing (CNN’s page is visible from my screen). Minutes later, the payroll manager stops by to announce that if I plan to continue uncovering office timecard problems, we’ll need to hire more payroll staff to handle the extra workload. I affably reply that cutting back the payroll employees’ coffee klatch time by 4-5 hours each day should give them plenty of time to ensure that monthly timecards are complete and accurate. She calls me a few more names I won’t repeat here.

I lunch from 12:00-1:00. After lunch, I sit in a 2-hour meeting, where 15 managers launch into a heated discussion on the merits of paper towel purchases. It seems that State staff are in the habit of squandering five or—I hope you’re sitting down for this—SIX rolls of paper towels a week. The annual cost? About $260 a year. Shocking, I know, but true.

These bureaucratic wunderkinds apply their impeccable decision-making skills to the problem of rapidly disappearing disposable sheets. As the debate ensues, it becomes clear to all present that there can be only one reason for the appalling disappearance of this precious commodity: paper towel abuse. Employees must be pinching rolls and lugging them home for personal use. (“Junior’s face done been dirty for a month, but not no more now I snuck me out some of these deee-luxe napkins!”)

The truth is out there, and even Mulder and Scully couldn’t have crash landed upon it as quickly as these mental giants. What else could the State do but take a stand? In an attempt to teach the light-fingered masses a lesson, the State naturally decides to require employees to purchase paper towels and haul them into the office on a weekly basis. It’s sad it has come down to this, the managers note, but what can you do when staff can’t be trusted with paper towel products?

Total meeting time spent discussing the paper towel crisis: 1 hour. Estimated cost in staff hours: $600+.

Juliaworld

2005-08-09T21:23:00.000-07:00

When Academy Award and Golden Globe winners take the stage, they have approximately sixty seconds to deliver borderline-inarticulate thank yous to everyone they’ve ever met, including wife #5, their agent, their lawyer, their accountant, the man who manicures their lawn, and the woman who manicures their nails. Overstay your welcome, and the orchestra will drown out your words. Refuse to leave the stage, and the producers will cut to a commercial.

For some strange reason, however, award presenters are given full reign to languish on camera as long as they like. Case in point: Sharon Stone, who hasn’t made a movie in approximately 14 years, is inexplicably chosen each year to set up camp onstage in order to present an award to an actor who is actually deserving of international renown.

Her routine goes something like this …

Upon arriving at the podium, Stone shares a Mona Lisa smile with the captive audience, a clever attempt to disguise the fact that the blackmail photos of the Hollywood Foreign Press in her possession have given her a lifetime pass to events she should be relegated to watching from a 20” black-and-white TV in a neighborhood dive bar. Stone obliges the audience to bask in her formidable glory for 5-6 eye-gouging minutes before condescending to read seductively from the teleprompter. She is sometimes paired with another actor, though the poor sap assigned to Stone duty is seemingly required to join her onstage in an “impromptu” lindy hop. It is the dance of the desperate, a tangolicious cry for help that can be loosely translated as follows: “The audience adores me! I’m youthful, spontaneous, and fun! For God’s sakes, will someone please hire me?”

When the award recipient makes the ill-considered decision of actually joining Stone onstage, she forces the unsuspecting individual to foxtrot with her in an apparent attempt to make her co-presenter jealous. (“You don’t own me, co-presenter—I belong to the world!”) As the winner approaches the microphone, Stone steals his thunder and wraps it around herself like a mink stole. Strapping herself to the awardee like an emergency parachute, our A-list appendage periodically pokes, hugs, tickles, and kisses the by‑now abject winner, thus ensuring her simpering face will appear in every single one of the 8,552 photos that capture his triumph.

Recently, Stone was asked to pay tribute to Michael Douglas, the recipient of an award for lifetime achievement. Rather than praise Douglas for his professional accomplishments, Stone instead launched into a 10-minute self-aggrandizing infomercial. An abridged version of her homily went something like this: “Michael helped to make me the gorgeous, successful, fabulous actor I am today. Without Michael, I might not be on this stage reminding you about how I truly belong on this stage. For God’s sakes, will someone PLEASE hire me?”

Not unexpectedly, Stone isn’t the only self-important star to grace the stage. A few years back, Julia Roberts arrived on stage to announce the Oscar for Best Actor. Blinding the audience with a truckload of Juliateeth, she Juliagiggled, “I’ve got to tell everyone that I just kissed Sidney Poitier!” Mrs. Poitier was undoubtedly thrilled to hear it.

Eventually, Roberts named the nominees and then tore open the envelope. “Oh my God!” she screamed, “I LOVE my life. I LOVE my life! The winner is DENZEL!” Ostensibly there to announce the winner of one of the most important awards of the night, Roberts deftly turned the tables. My life! The life I love! Everything’s coming up roses for me, me, me, me!

Denzel Washington jogged up to the stage, while Roberts screamed, “I love you! I absolutely LOVE you!” Mrs. Washington was undoubtedly thrilled to hear it.

While Roberts attempted to perch atop him for some unknown reason, Washington somehow mustered the strength to deliver a dignified acceptance speech. Afterwards, Roberts took his impending exit as her cue to Juliaglue herself to him, thus compelling Washington to wear her backstage like a warm winter tooth-filled Juliacoat.

The Juliaworld must be a glorious place indeed.

Tellin' the Truth Careless

2005-08-08T22:02:00.000-07:00

Several years ago, my husband, my sister, several friends, and I vacationed together on the west coat of Ireland. One particularly lovely morning, we took a boat ride to see the three lakes of Killarney. Our guide, Paddy, a chatty fellow, shared abundant details about the history of the region and about the geography of the area. Along the way, he inquired if any of our party were of Irish descent.

“I am,” one of our friends told him.

“What’s yer name,” Paddy asked.

“Aimée Kehoe.”

“Spell it for me, lass.”

“K-e-h-o-e. It’s pronounced ‘Key-Hoe.’”

<> Shaking his head in disgust, Paddy chastened her. “Aw naw! ‘Tis not 'Key-Hoe.' 'Tis ‘Key-O.’ ‘Tis truly a sad day when a lass doesn’t even know 'ow ter say ‘er own name.”

“The wee people? You mean leprechauns?” she asked.

“T’be sure oi mean leprechauns. De wee people dat live in de forests an’ bide their time under de crags 'an rocks.”

“So you mean they really exist?”

“T’be sure they exist, as sure as yer an’ oi exist.”

After our boat ride, we took our leave of Paddy, hailed a cab, and climbed inside. As we drove along, Aimée leaned forward to speak to the driver. “Excuse me,” she said, “can I ask you a question? Our boating guide told us that leprechauns are real. What do you think?”

Without so much as intaking a breath, the cab driver dismissed the possibility, telling her, “Naw, dare are naw wee people in Oirlan’ or elsewhere for dat matter.”

“So are you saying that he was lying to us?” Aimée laughed.

The cab driver remained silent for a minute. “Yer man wasn’t lyin’,” he finally said. “Yer man wus just tellin’ de truth careless.”