To Forgive if not Forget

Very delicate surgery. Stay strong my ugly child!

My car went into the shop last Monday (from a wreck I had in August — not my fault) and will be ready today. That’s meant more downtime. No work,  no Crossfit, and no long errands. Just me bumming around campus.

Oh wait, I don’t bum around on campus. I’m a senior; I pop by campus for classes then hightail it out of there. So in the meantime, I’ve been cleaning my apartment, catching up on books and movies, studying, and — wtf — exercising.

Ever since I got back from Christmas vacation, I’ve had the strangest shift in perception. Things are so much clearer. I’ve been twenty times better since I went on Wellbutrin, but post holiday, I’m even happier.

Mimi History: I have despised cardio machines with a burning passion ever since freshman year of college. I guess it’s burnout, or my growing suspicion I’m a closeted ADD case. Music helps but I still don’t like it. I do love weights, but I also love being a lazy sod.

I’ll be blunt: it makes no sense, but when I was thinner, I had more motivation to maintain my physique (and improve it), because there was no vast journey ahead of me. Thus, getting back into a non-Crossfit workout routine has been haphazard. The best way for me to workout has been my Crossfit classes. However, I doubt I’ll be able to continue them when I first start working. That stuff’s expensive. So it’s been weighing on my mind.

But then I got Joker, my iPad. And suddenly cardio rocks! I can put my movies on it, including my musicals and Netflix. Suddenly, it’s my top stress buster.

Vastly more entertaining than football or Food Network (what's always playing on the gym TVs)

I actually look forward to heading down to the gym to do my workout. Still with weights, but the cardio is necessary since I can’t move around as much as I could when I was younger and had fewer obligations.

"And I stood upon the sand of the sea, and saw a beast rise up out of the sea, having seven heads and ten horns, and upon his horns ten crowns, and upon his heads the name of blasphemy." Yup, always sounded about right to me for a long time.

But as much as I love Joker, I can’t attribute my sudden zest for ellipticals all to him.

On my way back to LA, I read Jillian Michael’s book, Unlimited. It was an unexpected Christmas present. Silly fate — finding stuff that seems to congeal everything that’s been running around my head.

Unlimited isn’t actually a weightloss book. It’s more about psychology. I don’t agree with Jillian on everything fitness and nutrition related, however, I’ve always felt a kinship with her. We were both fat kids, and both stumbled into hobbies that improved our self esteem. Mine was equestrian, hers was martial arts. I’ve spoken with Jillian a couple times before, and she’s just as passionate as she seems on TV.

Anyhow, reading Unlimited, it was like a gong rattled in my head. One of those “Ding fucking DING” moments. Thoughts that were murmurings in my mind suddenly came into resounding focus.

A few points Unlimited makes:

• Forgive — not for the good of the other person, but you
• Shame is useless and stupid
• Affirmations and gratitude are freakin’ powerful

I’m a very forgiving person. Long-term hate just doesn’t stick on me. It’s too time consuming and too pointless. Except for a strange event a few months ago.

Stopping by Starbucks, I stood in line for my drink. Then I saw someone out of the corner of my eye. It was one of my old roommates — from that traumatizing situation last year. My reaction surprised me.

Right down to the pointy ears.

I was seething. If she’d noticed me, my eyes might have shot blood at her.

That kind of reaction threw me because it’s one I just don’t have, not that long after something’s happened. My temper flares easily but it’s the flash-in-the-pan spark that recedes quickly.

After awhile I forgot about it, figuring there are some people you just stay pissed off at. Then I read Unlimited. It made me think back to people I couldn’t forgive.

I believe it’s very true that your interactions are a reflection of your inner conflicts. So when you flip a mirror around…

As silly as it sounds, I never forgave myself. When my life got bumpy — when the roommate thing happened, when my boyfriend and I broke up, and when I started sinking again into a depression — I was furious with myself for being so weak. Cue emotional eating, cue increasingly erratic behavior.

When I got to London I thought I’d magically feel better. But knowing I’d given up what I really wanted (New Zealand) for something more practical and sensible hit me way harder than it should have. Poor London, please don’t think I hated you. But cue emotional eating. Cue hating myself for gaining weight and cue again emotional eating to deal with my unhappiness.

My depression lifting was a wonderful weight leaving my shoulders. But as I’ve said before, antidepressants aren’t “happy pills.” They putter around in your neurological system and rattle things around. This ended my feeling of futility and my incessant apathetic grayness. It short-circuited my OCDness too. Yet Wellbutrin, as helpful as it is for me, is not a panancea, and nor did I ever see at as such.

I’ve been a lot happier these past few months. Yet there was still that insidious, festering anger at myself. The body responds well to acute stress, like sprinting. A short rush of self-anger can be effective: “Oh my God I can’t believe I forgot my friend’s birthday! Time to make amends!” That’s good. But lingering rage is useless. Even in biology, chronic stress leads to inflammation and a repressed immune system.

Watch Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street if you need a real-world example of why forgiveness can save you a lot of sanity.

So ends the last of my increasingly melodramatic postings on my headgames and hamster wheels. I was so very silly.

Looking back and wishing things were different is silly too. It could turn you into a pillar of salt!

When I got back to LA after Christmas, I puttered down to the gym with my iPad and had an awesome time just chilling out and watching Sherlock. I was working hard but it wasn’t a toil. I felt so friggin good afterward. Both physically and mentally.

I love Crossfit because it gives me more confidence in my physical abilities. Even if I’m not the fastest or the strongest I can get it done. But doing something on my own, with no cheerleader or encouraging coach, is something different.

Feels slightly more likely within the next year (...or year and a half)

Of course, when I say you can’t look back at the past and wish things were different, there’s no reason to never look back at all. Your past is a web, not a line, at least in my eyes. Everything connects to something else. Events are strong because of everything else surrounding them.

Being confident in myself and taking things one day at a time is close to my mindset when I started college. I’d gone from a size 14 to a 10 over the summer. Easily. I ate less and did  the elliptical and weights a few days a week. In and out in an hour tops. The hardest thing was turning down a slice of pizza. So my confidence was a cannonball into the school year.

I didn’t give a fuck how much weight I had to lose. I knew I’d get it done. I took it one day at a time and remembered everything counted.

Toward the end of the school year I was burnt out and disordered. But I definitely didn’t start out that way. I pushed myself too hard, for too long, with no breaks or more than 5 hours of sleep a night. No wonder I wound up a headcase.

This time I’m smarter. I know the necessity of taking breaks and resting. I know everything counts, but that I can easily compensate or work in an indulgence. Yet an intelligent approach is only part of the equation. For me, the confidence and goals are what push me from smart planning into smart acting.

This summer I’m going to Rome and Naples. I am not going to look unhealthy and propagate the stereotype Americans are all fat and lazy. I’m graduating in May. I don’t want my college graduation photo to be as chunky as my high school one.

Yeah, not going there without a swimsuit I feel sexy in.

Another comment Jillian made in Unlimited was that one needs tangible, precise goals. On The Biggest Loser, she wails on people who say “I want to be healthy!” as for why they want to lose weight. It’s never the main reason (I’m  counting “not die” and “live to see my grandkids as separate entities).

Agreed, my dear. Of course I want to be healthy. But for me, the more tangible desire is wanting a tight butt for my jeans, sleek shoulders for my tank tops, and a flat stomach that I’m happy to flaunt in a bikini. Or, as Jillian has said in a podcast, “We all just want to get laid and have sex with the lights on.” True words, dear one.

I had a real knock on the noggin in German class. I wound up sitting next to this gorgeous Russian. He was quite friendly and amused I knew about those weird and awesome Russian monarchs. A year ago I’d have felt totally confident in asking if he wanted to get coffee (or vodka, since I’m culture-sensitive). Today, hell no. I don’t delude myself. I’m charming and kind and thus people like me, but right now I’m not my hottest.

I didn’t let it get me down though. It’s basic biology. And it’s just further impetus to get serious and stop dicking around. I’m in better shape and a few pounds lighter from Crossfit, but I have a long-ass way to go, and it’s not going to get any shorter by lazing around and not putting some effort in.

That doesn’t equal “lose weight as fast as humanely possible.” For one, I’d look weird, sick, and flabby. Two, I’d shoot myself in the foot. It does mean consistency and a lack of second-guessing and quibbling over semantics.

I’ve set myself up some rewards as my weight drops and my clothes loosen. Nothing fancy. New workout clothes, new nail polish, etc. Nothing food related obviously. Jesus, I hate it when people set up binge-worthy dinners to celebrate a weight loss.  Way to reinforce positive life changes.

The other thing I really took to heart in Unlimited was that affirmations are powerful. Make tangible goals, but also tell yourself your making positive changes now. Instead of thinking “Urgh I’m tired I hope I get through this workout,” think “Fuck yeah I’m going balls-to-the-walls because I’m a badass.” Or something of that nature.

Thoughts are very powerful. Using them properly can be very empowering.

I would add to that — thoughts of gratitude help a lot too. I have so much to be grateful for. I have friends and parents who love me. I’m accomplished. My classes rock. I have great hair. I have 24-hour access to a decent gym, meaning there’s no reason I can’t work out. I have an iPad so cardio is enjoyable. Just running through that list makes me happier. When I’m feeling good, I do good things.

Of course mental changes aren’t always immediate. They take work. When I think back to last year, I do get cranky. But it’s not the palpitating pissiness I’ve felt before. I sometimes do get frickin’ pissed at myself. Yet I’ve been able to gently deflect it. Fat is just stored energy, as Jillian put it. Shame over how I let myself go is pointless. It’s not like I got an STD after a crazy weekend in Cozumel. I’d be sheepish over that.

Fat loss takes commitment. There’s no getting around that. But while it’s a focus during my semester, I’m keeping occupied by other things. I’m learning how to get really good at painting my nails, something I’ve never done. I’m studying German fastidiously. I should probably be frantically looking for a job, but I’ve got a couple of months before things get serious.

And there’s no reason getting healthy and having fun should be mutually exclusive. Today, for example, Sophia and I went for a hike to the Griffith Observatory. She skipped and bounded, I slogged and huffed. Even though I’m in better shape than I was, I’m still working on cardiovascular endurance. And lugging myself up a steep hill gets tiresome. But so what? I had tons of fun just hanging out with my girlie. LA was beautiful this morning, swathed in fog and raindrops. There’s nothing wrong with being slightly uncomfortable. It’s the best way to challenge yourself.

Awesome weather! I'm not being sarcastic.

I never noticed it but Griffith Observatory looks like a fantasy book citadel.

Afterward we went to Costco, then to Bricks & Scones for scones and a study date. Usually I hate scones. Dry, crumbly, stuffy things. These were awesome! They were like muffinish biscuits. Lovely and doughy. Ok, so now I’ve tried a scone I like besides Sophia’s.

I drink too much coffee. Oh well, one thing at a time.

Last Monday, my friend Mere and I went to Cafe Gratitude. I love this place. They put so much love and care into the food. Our waitress was kind of pokey, but it was a gorgeous day and we had fun catching up.

"I Am Humble" -- brown rice and quinoa with curried lentils, yams, roasted veggies, tamarind sauce, and mint chutney. Nom.

Oh, and Jason Schwartzman was sitting behind us. Teehee. No, I would not have snapped that pic if he was facing us.

Most people are way meaner to themselves than anyone else, or in more pain or insecurity than they dish out. That includes bullies. I say most because we’ve all encountered a little sociopath on the playground. As for me, I’m harsher on myself than anyone else. There’s no gold medal for that though.

Anyhoodle, I’m moving forward from here on out. I’ve gotten what I’ve needed from the past. Now it’s time to create the future. Oh, and it’s now time to make the elliptical my bitch.

Ground Beef Curry [Recipe]

I may have had a rocky time in England, but it was on no account of the people I met. Aisha, Jess, and Alison are all bloggers I had a rollicking good time with. I also saw my best friend from high school. But I met other people too, and they were some of London’s best for me. Joe, Caitlin, Pontus, Zen, Kristina, Mark, and the random Scottish dude who liked Texas and hung out with me at the Kamelot concert were all awesome people I saw, and whom it’s highly unlikely I’ll ever see again.

But it doesn’t really make me sad. Few things actually do. I make myself sad (though my claws have been well-sheathed of late), being ignored makes me beyond sad, and sometimes I come across a book, movie, tv show, or musical that makes me happily sad.

Instead, as cliche as it sounds, I treasure my memories. I’m so happy when I meet awesome people.

That said, I miss Indian food. The Indian food in England is very unique to anywhere else, even other Western countries. I remember the spice profiles though! I also brought something with me across the pond — a few jars of curry paste!

It was with fond nostalgia of my British buddies that I pulled together a mega yummy dinner. The chief irony is that only three of the people I mentioned would probably eat it.

This curry-inspired dish is simple but it’s hearty. London raised my spice level but it’s not packing too much heat. Feel free to dump in chilies.

Ground Beef Curry

Serves 3-4

Ingredients

• 1 pound ground beef (I used an 80/20 grassfed)
• 1/2 sweet-ish onion
• 1 red bell pepper
• 2 tsp butter
• 1 can chopped/diced tomatoes
• ~2-3 tsp Indian spice blend or assorted individual spices (whatever you fancy)
• 1 tbsp green curry paste or laksa curry paste
• 1 tbsp tamarind relish or to taste (tamarind paste works too but you’ll have to adjust the amount based on taste)
• 1 tsp red curry paste
• 1/2 cup full-fat coconut milk
• Salt and Pepper to taste

1. Heat butter in a pot on med-high heat. Start browning your beef, using your spatula to crumble it. Add some spices.
2. As that’s browning, hack and slash your onion and red pepper.
3. Once the meat is browned, remove and set aside. There should be enough juices in the pan that you do not need any more cooking fat. If it is too dry, use a spray or more butter.
4. Add in onions and peppers and let them cook on medium heat. Add in some spices.
5. Once the onions and peppers are soft, add in the tomatoes. For the tomatoes, drain the juices beforehand if you want a drier curry. Keep the juices if you want a soupier curry.
6. Give it a good stir then add in the coconut milk, tamarind, and curry pastes. Stir again to dissolve the pastes and get everything mixed up.
7. Return the meat to the pot and turn heat down to low.  Taste and adjust spices as you see fit.
8. Now, you can either let it simmer for 15-25 minutes to bamf up the flavors, or you can it as is. You can also do what I did, which is save for tomorrow’s lunch or dinner. Sticking it in the fridge overnight really kicks up the flavor. Whenever you choose to chow down, serve it with rice, cauliflower rice, or spaghetti squash. Or break out the naan. I had it with spaghetti squash.

Nom!

Operation Recalled to Life

Yeah, I’ve been a neglectful blogger. Luckily I don’t owe my blog child support. Backsies?

When I let myself go, I really let myself go. I ride that pony until it dies. I fall off the wagon, set it on fire, and shoot at all the escaping chickens. When I go south, I go with the fervor of a depressed lemming. I don’t know why I get so many self-destructive tendencies. But from destruction comes creation and life goes on, as do my crappy metaphors.

It’s great being back in LA. I love my new roommate. She the combination of all the things I’ve missed from my last semester. She’s clean but not obsessive, she’s super friendly, she’s not batshit crazy, and I can carry on a complex conversation with her in English.

I have something else that’s put a pep in my step — responsibilities. All play and no work make Mimi a depressed, bored, and self-destructive girl. Now I have an internship with TLC that’s enjoyable so far. It’s interesting to be plunged into the world of publicity, as it’s truly the other side of the fence. I think back to when I was ordering screeners, cursing slow-ass publicists and butting heads with some of their ridiculous terms (“She can only see you for 15 minutes.” “Fine we’re not interested.”). Now I wonder if my afternoon-as-opposed-to-morning delivery was just because some new intern didn’t know how to use the UPS site. But if you’re curious about my job, here are a few things I do as a publicity intern:

• Find media outlets to pitch our shows to
• Screen shows for promo material
• Send shows to journalists and media outlets for coverage
• Write press releases
• Update our press site
• Soak in how a television network operates

This guy sometimes pops by the office

I wish this girl would pop by. *girl crush*

I think I am bound by professional fondness to say, “Check out Hoarding, My Strange Addiction, Freaky Eaters, LA Ink, and Toddlers & Tiaras!” 

You don't want to piss Mackenzie off.

But getting back to getting back on track. It’s hard. It’s frustrating. I despise going down to the gym and lifting wussy weights. Being that, it’s hard to admit it hurts. It hurts if I decide to start doing plyometrics. My wrists give me hell if I start doing pushups. It’s a real suck fest knowing no one is checking me out. Or that my clothes are stupid and matronly. Or that stupid, ridiculous excuses pop into my mind like “well if they are offering to let me order whatever drink I want when I make an office coffee run then surely I should treat myself.”

You can probably see why my blog posts have been less than bloggy. I’m ashamed. Not “omg people will hate me!” — I just feel silly with an About page depicting an epic transformation and don’t have the heart to add the anecdote “btw, yeah, I got teh fatz again.” And of course it’s a real ball of suckitude that this will be last year of my life where it will be easier to meet people, sleep around, keep ridiculous hours, and not be fully responsible for my incoming finances.

But sometimes when life gives you razorblades, you have to hit life back with a baseball bat studded with them.

It’s hard. But I’m determined to get back on track. What terrifies me is when I think back to the first time I lost weight. How it took me a school year to lose it even though I was working out for hours every day and eating very restricted calories. As I never plateaued, I don’t think I ever metabolically adapted, which means it was probably pretty linear. Which means another year of super suck.

What I’m hoping is that I can hack it through my superior knowledge. I can hope that I can lose at somewhat the same rate while eating better and not killing myself with overtraining. It’s hard too, balancing the desire to lose weight at a pace I can maintain it with the scathing hatred I have every time I look in the mirror.

Yeah, it creeps in. Sometimes I want to take a sledgehammer to my mirror. The task is working past that.

And we all know how that ended...

I fucked up. It’s my fault. There’s nothing to fight against because it won’t do a damn lick of good.

I should have taken better care of myself. Let’s take it back to last winter. I was still, the wuss I can sometimes be, really shaken from my housing experience. I have no idea what rocked me so badly about that. I guess it was the passive-aggressiveness, the enemy I couldn’t fight that I still, deep down, wanted to like me.

To take it even further back, perhaps I cycled myself off my antidepressants too quickly. The psychiatrist warned me. He handed me a prescription “just in case.” I didn’t listen. At that point, before last summer, I was on top of the world. I was in fucking amazing shape, had a great boyfriend, and had an awesome internship to look forward too. Of course I felt good. Then what life dealt me a slap, it cracked me to the core. Not so tough and triumphant after all.

Then there’s my problem with making choices that I make out of practicality and not desire. I don’t think there is a problem with making practical choices when you want to. But here’s where I royally screwed up.

I picked London.

Shit, I can hear all the amazing British peeps I met taking a breath. Please darlings, understand, you were the best part of London for me and I don’t regret a second of that. London is an amazing city.

I'm not saying don't go here. Go here.

But I didn’t choose London because it was an amazing city. I chose London because it was a study abroad option that gave me credits and got me back to the States in time to get an internship. To secure my future and all that proactive shit.

What future? The future is a fun-house mirror of your dreams and desires. It’s a maya, an illusion. Or possibly a projection. But it’s sure as hell not set in stone.

I wanted to go to New Zealand. But Kiwi land wouldn’t get me back to America until July….waaaaaay too late to start a new internship. Or so I thought. A friend of mine who went to London with me is just now starting an internship. And I so beautifully forgot that there are schools on the quarter system just now getting out.

How the hell could I have passed on this?

I didn’t want a cold city that exacerbated my seasonal affective disorder. I wanted the outdoors. I wanted a place where I knew virtually no one (unlike the herd that went to London), where I took the time to take a fucking break, get my shit together, and enjoy developing myself. Did I want to run away? Yeah, but I always had the intention of coming back. I wanted a chance to really explore the outdoors, to hike through crazy territory, take a spring break trip to Asia, and discover a new world. Yet I settled for something that would do me some hazy, possible good years down the line. That choice led to meeting many awesome people and seeing interesting things…but ultimately, it wasn’t the path I wanted.

A city I will never see...

I am such a dumbass.

This will be the most cliche thing I ever say on this blog. Listen to your goddamn heart. Or else you might get fat and depressed. I sure as hell did.

Am I blaming my plight on a rooming fuckup and a mishandled study abroad? No. When my mom one time suggested I go back on antidepressants, was my first thought “oh my God yes.” Um…yeah. I’m not on anything beyond a tyrosine supplement. More because I’d have to tell my dad and I’m not so psyched about that.

Right now I think I’ve hit a spot where I’m more stable. Not exclusively happy, but stable.

Stable enough to take my life back.

Daenerys Targaryen style. Rawr.

That, on the flipside of my hippie speech earlier, requires a little logic.

First, diet.

I need to create a caloric deficit that keeps me nourished (and restores some of the knocking I took back when I was eating way too much junk). I do not want to closely track calories, at least not until I find out I can’t lose weight otherwise. So something filling and satiating. I also find it easier to cut stuff out then obsess over having “just a teeny amount.” I need to get over my sugar addiction, which can reach heights so disgusting I want to puke gummy bears.

The answer? I’ve taken up a Paleo/Primal eating plan. I eat plenty of protein, healthy fats, non-grain starches, and lots and lots of vegetables. I am including some dairy (which makes it more Primal), but ix nay on the grains and legumes (I feign ignorance on a bit of peanut butter). Some Paleo folk like rice. I’m trying to create a deficit so my starches are more in the lower calorie variety like kabocha, but it’s a good option if I have to eat out.

It’s not a religious fixation for me. Sophia and I still dine out and I don’t bother to stick to it if something looks really good. When Sophia goes out of her way to make me brownies, you betcha I have some. But at home 90% of the time, it’s a Paleo pantry. Luckily the food is really good. And I still get plenty of use out of my vegan cookbooks. Just not the tofu parts.

A diet is all you need to lose fat, technically. But exercise makes you healthy. It also increases metabolism and burn…something I desperately need in my state of unfitness and a desk job.

-sigh- Not me anymore.

Know thyself. I’m externally motivated. I also like to feel like a special snowflake. And I’m educated enough in fitness to roll my eyes when I see people doing shoulder presses on a bosu ball.

So what did I do?

I signed up for a Crossfit intro class. 

You may remember I tried it in London. I had fun but it was at a horrible time for me. And I was a bit put off by my class being comprised of dudes carved from Grecian marble. My self-confidence was at an all-time low at that point so I backed off to wallow in self pity.

Screw that. I was terrified going to my Crossfit intro class last Wednesday. I am so unfit right now it’s not even funny. In my most masochistic of mindsets I envisioned myself getting laughed out of the box. But Sophia sassed me and I sucked it up.

Thank God.

My intro class was amazing. I did more physical stuff with more intensity than I’ve done in…too long a time to admit. After showing me the moves my coach put me through a basic workout. A timed 500 meter row, 50 step-ups, 40 squats, 30 situps, 20 pushups, and 5 assisted pullups, with no rest. He guessed I’d finish in between 13 and 15 minutes. I finished in 11.

I feel ya.

Not to say I rocked it. I had to scrape every ounce of self pity, rage, and vitriol to fight back and get myself healthy again. I had to scrape it all into a mad blast of “I’m getting through this fucking workout.”

Stopping? Like that Nightwish song, seven days to the wolves.

Then I found out the monthly fee and felt defeat sink in again. It’s expensive. But as he tends to be, my dad’s an angel. As long as I swore on my future grave I’d stick to it, I could sign up. I’m taking the free introductory week offered, but if I’m sold, I’m signing up faster than you can say Rabdo.

As some may know, Paleo and Crossfit are bosom buddies. Extra incentive and support — I’m not complaining.

Goals. I haz them.

So here I stand. I’m knocked around, I’m struggling. But I have to let the anger go. Cuz when I want to take a sledgehammer to a mirror, my usual second reaction is to cry and fly to Yogurtland.

That’s not anger with a purpose. That’s dawdling suicide.

As hard as it is for me not to rail against myself, it’s something I have to master. Martha Beck was spot on when she said weight loss was impossible unless the body and mind are in agreement.

And yeah, it’s not just about the weight. It’s never just about the weight, just like it’s never just about food.

Within those cardboard confines is a frozen block of psychological drama. Writhing behind ribbons of corn syrup.

It’s time to live again.

 

London, I Love You

Or perhaps London, main tumko pyaar karta hoon; wo ai ni; ik houd van jou; minä rakastan sinua; je t’aime; ich liebe Dich; amo-te; aš tave myliu; or mai tumse pyar karathi hun.

I heard all these languages while tromping around the City of Fog. Houston and LA have diverse populations but they have nothing on cities like London. Old cities. Cities with real history that have seen centuries of blood, death, work, and love.

Sometimes, walking through South Ken, I’d picture Victorian London. Then in another part of the city I’d spot a Roman wall and remember those classy Victorians were just a breath before my time.

Little do they know the Playstation is just around the corner...

Enough with the metaphysical. London is a kickass city. Standing in line to see Thor, I realized just how prettier people sounded there, Cockney accents and all. Of course, London’s just like most big cities. Plenty of people are fat, overworked, stressed, and gripe about everything from politics to potato prices. But London is a magnificent city. A few things I’m already missing…

• Feeling completely safe walking home alone at 2am
• 20 kinds of potatoes to choose from
• Being able to get anywhere with public transportation…in a timely fashion
• Being able to walk to most places
• Great turns of phrase like “proper [insert whatever],” “Bob’s your uncle,” and “alight for [insert destinations]“.
• Pretty accents
• A real respect for just chilling in a cafe to read
• Amazing Indian food
• People with good fashion sense
• Snakebites
• Jeremy Kyle, the more badass version of Maury.
• Endless theatre options with cheap tickets
• Being only a few hours from my BFF from high school
• Delicious weather

The last one may make some people pause. Guess what? The stories about London being a city of fog and rain are bull. It rains more than in Los Angeles…but LA is a freakin’ desert. As I’m from Houston, I was surprised it didn’t rain more. The cold was not nearly as bad I feared either. Any city in the Northeast is far colder. Unfortunately I acclimated. Houston’s taking some getting used to. As I’m rather a porker now, the heat’s a bit fiercer. 

Most of all I miss my London peeps! I had way more fun hanging out with Aisha, Caitlin, Jess, and Alison than some of the folks I came with.

That said, I’m being harsh to my schoolmates. I couldn’t have been the most interesting person to hang out with, given my bouts of depression and moodiness that plagued me for a good chunk of the time. I probably would have done far more otherwise, but wallowing in self pity and non-menstrual PMS has a funny way of cutting into fun time and making you about as adventurous as a WASP-righteous granny. 

I wish I looked half that good when I get the blues.

Anyway, back to London. Here are a few things I’ve noticed are not true about London:

Not the plat du jour..but where the hell are the peas?!

• Everyone eats fish ‘n’ chips, all the time. No, people I ran into seemed to eat curry and hummus all the time.
• London food sucks. No more than any other country. If you go to crappy restaurants you get crappy food. I had some lovely fish ‘n’ chips, pies, and haggis. For good food in London, check out Chris Pople and Malcolm Eggs‘ blogs.
• English people always have tea and scones. Nah, biscuits — aka cookies — are the more common choice. Smart Brits, given my dislike of scones (which I had proper incarnations of and still disliked).
• English people have bad teeth. Eh, some do. But plenty of Americans do too, we just slap our kids in braces quicker, as mine did. As a Weston A. Price supporter, I think a lot of it comes down to London having similar eating habits as America. Genetic momentum ftw.
• Crappy weather. Naw! It’s sunny a great deal of the time. And when it’s overcast, it’s still rather pretty. It was cold when I got there but nothing crazy. I never saw any notorious fog either. Which made me sad, as I’d love to pretend I was in a Gothic Victorian romance novel.

My last few days in London were spent with my dad and stepmom. Well, first Aisha and fetching James saved my butt by helping me drag my suitcases from my flat to my hotel on the other side of London. Then Aisha and I roamed South Kensington, popped through some fun shops, and had a hug-filled goodbye on the bus.

Then I beat it up to my dad’s room and half beat the door down. I’m a daddy’s girl, after all these years of fights, rows, and bad report cards. Thing is, my dad’s seen London. Multiple times. So I had the task of finding places he had not been to. First stop was Borough Market, one of my favorite places in London. We shared a half-pint of raw milk, snacked on cheese, and sussed out sugar-free chocolate. It was nice just visiting my favorite places one last time.

Can't believe I got this shot at a curry house.

Not my dad's choice of eats. But he was a good sport.

My dad also succeeded in dragging me to Mass at the Church of the Immaculate Heart of Mary.  An exceedingly rare event, but I was willing on account of the history and beautiful interior. The Mass was in pretty Latin and the priest had a nice accent. He was pretty adamant we were stupid sheep, which I don’t argue with. I still feel no compulsion in religious situations but I can respect it. Anyway, we headed to Simpson’s right after, and dined on solid proof that English food can be delicious. It was a lovely few days.

So without ado, a few of my favorite spots in London…

• Exmouth Market (particularly Clerkenwell Tales bookshop)
• Borough Market
• Hyde Park
• Soho
• Natural History Museum

The Natural History Museum has some verrry interesting exhibits. This was part of the Sexy Animals exhibit.

And as this blog still clings by a thread to its food roots, here’s a shortlist of my favorite restaurants:

• Tayyabs — authentic Pakistani food
• Cinnamon Tree — delicious London Indian food
• Moro — glorious food based on the 15th-century fusion of Spanish and Moorish culture
  
  

  Roast kid!

• Caravan– creative general menu and fantastic coffee
  

  Coconut French toast with rhubarb!

• Inspiral Lounge– yummy vegan food and great atmosphere. Even my carnivorous dad loved it
  

  Right at home in pot-ridden Camden

  

  That ice cream is badass

• Byron– these hamburgers kick ass. My stepmom was in love with the courgette fries
  

  There's a fun old-school vibe.

  

  I need to replicate that caper sauce.

  

  Corgette fries, aka zuchinni fries. I dislike most fried stuff, but England has a few fried things I like. I'd love to make these in my oven with coconut oil.

• The Icecreamists — best ice cream in London. Yes, they were the shop with the Baby Gaga ice cream. I recommend their Sex Bomb flavor. I promise you won’t start raping pigeons.
  

  Right behind the Adelphi Theatre

  

  Nomnomnom

  

  Cute service!

  

  A chocolate-covered sex bomb? *note to self: do not make a joke that might be considered racist*

• Amorino — yummy gelato. Get the Nutella one
• Simpson’s in the Strand — for kickass English food when you want to feel luxurious
• Aisha’s House — ok, this place is strictly invitation only, but it’s the best Indian food in town!

Was London as exotic as I wanted my study abroad destination to be? Not quite. I did want to go to New Zealand. But London offers something different. It’s a great bridge to an older, more cultured world, and a gateway to the rest of Europe. Anyone with a respect for history should hit it up.

Finally, I end with a small list of stuff you absolutely have to do if you ever go to London…at least the off-the-beaten-path random stuff.

• High Tea at The Orangery. If you want High Tea but don’t want to get all dressed up, hit up this lovely place at Kensington Palace. No reservations and it’s very casual — but still an awesome afternoon tea.
• Get out of the city and visit Bath, Brighton, or even Scotland. The UK’s a vast land.
• Score free food at London’s many food expos. Natural food, allergy-free food, gourmet food — food shows are everywhere. Get on the press list and you can get in for free. It’s a fun way to try new products and get a free meal’s worth of goodies.
• Visit a farmers market. The Islington Farmer’s Market is lovely and not too touristy. It’s great just to visit and get a feel for older times. It just feels different than an American farmers market, but still familiar.
• Try Indian food! Most of it isn’t authentic Indian…but London Indian food is in itself unique.
• Explore the theatre scene. London has the best collection of theatre in the world. Yes, better than Broadway.
• …and hit up the Stage Door afterward. Most actors are lovely people and are more than happy to chat for a second. Even actors who are normally walking down red carpets.

John Owen-Jones and I, outside Her Majesty's Theatre. He is an awesome Phantom!

Yeah, London’s awesome. I think, just to be an annoying ponce, I’m going to keep my fries and chips and my chips as crisps. Unless it would screw up a restaurant order.

High School Melodramatics

It’s my last night in London. There will be an epic recap to come, so stay tuned. In the meantime, to procrastinate from packing (as it reinforces my loathed departure from this glorious city), I’ve been reading, watching Jeremy Kyle, and perusing ancient computer files.

I consider myself a decent writer. What I do not consider myself is a skilled poet. Earlier I just happened to come across these humorous gems. In high school we had to do a unit of poetry as part of a creative writing course. Suffice to say, a few of these gave me a chuckle. I was such a melodramatic teenager.

I thought I’d put these up for a laugh. Tell me, what makes you most rueful about your high school years? Did you have interests you no longer possess? Have you crafted anything you’d feel sheepish to see today?

Without further ado, a smattering of emo!Mimi poetry, circa 2007.

And as for good poetry, a few of my favorite poems are W. H. Auden’s “As I Walked Out One Evening;” T. S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” and “The Hollow Men;” Wallace Steven‘s “The Emperor of Ice-Cream;” Andrew Marvell’s “To His Coy Mistress;” Neil Gaiman’s “Baywolf;” and John Milton’s Paradise Lost.

Last question for the peanut gallery: what are your favorite poems?

RED IN THE FOREST

Red riding over the ground,

Whispering over leaves

As mud-stained paws stalk behind

“Perhaps one day you’ll walk with me.”

No answer of course,

Trudging through the muck

While dew-gleaming limbs settle into a trot.

“Come take a moment to play; the woods are so dull.”

More cruel silence,

Cursing unheard over a decrepit grandmother

When a reeking tongue lolls from a hanging mouth.

“Why do you keep so silent; do you not hear the birds?”

A red hood jerks back

Catching on a jutting branch

And tar lips pull back over bone-chipped fangs

“You wound me, cruel girl!”

A stumble and a sullen pause

Despising this long-winded, pointless errand

As haunches gather for a back-crunching leap,

“Selfish brat, I’ll settle for a meal!”

WALTZ OF THE KANGAROOS

Come waltz with the kangaroos

Sidestep, turn, waltz on and on.

What else could pass the time

Than a waltz with a kangaroo?

They might be unwilling partners

Stumbling to sidestep, tripping a turn

While the melody plays on and on,

The waltz of the kangaroos.

So little else to do, really,

With widening rivers, crumbling forests,

While an ivory tower turns to ash

And everything settles before a crescendo.

A silence would settle over the ballroom

With no light to sidestep, twirl or turn.

The melody shudders on and on

And the only thing that remains

Would be the waltz of the sloe-eyed kangaroos.

THEME FOR ENGLISH CLASS

Scurrying like a mall-rat, except I hate the mall.

Jumping into a room, but a sudden stumble—

And pitch.

And I’m smacked across the face, by a book to dwarf Les Miserables.

~~~~

“Sitteth down and read aloud!”

Uh-oh, this guy sounds adamant…and British.

“Tush! never tell me; I take it much unkindly

That thou, Iago, who hast had my purse

As if the strings were thine, shouldst know of this.”

Tush? Pish? Posh? Poppycock?

On a page or on a screen…

“To die,–to sleep;–

To sleep! perchance to dream.”

Weaving words and quipped quotations.

Shakespeare is finally happy, ready to return to England.

“And ne’er forgetteth, thou hast an essay.”

No Shakespeare, I won’t. By the way, you wouldn’t happen to know a Marlow would you? I mean, you all aren’t the slightest alike—

Oops, too late. That chapter’s over.

~~~~

“Thou must have my book read by next week.”

Wait, what? It sounds English, it sounds American, it sounds like a weird linguistic lovechild.

“Ah, but let her cover the mark as she will, the pang of it will be always in her heart.”

Pang? I am panged! Ouch! Burn! Cover the mark sweet Hester, we’re only thirty-four pages in!

My deepest sorrow for your troubles with overreacting men…

“But this had been a sin of passion, not of principle, nor even purpose.”

Drowning in pools of elongated, expressive adjectives with pretty, ebullient, ethereal bubbles that spin towards the surface.

Hawthorne has had enough for the day. Plus, it’s too hot. And the lack of sin-related tension is making him a bit buggy.

“Forget not, your grade depends on the writing of a report.”

Yes yes, my grade is of importance. Fear not though, it has not committed adultery. And one more thing, this story wouldn’t happen to be autobiographical, would it?

Bah, he’s gone, leaving behind only a trail of discarded parentheticals.

~~~~

“It’s time for a lesson.”

Is that a Southern drawl I hear?

“‘Ransomed? What’s that?’

‘I don’t know. But that’s what they do. I’ve seen it in books; and so of course that’s what we’ve got to do.’

‘But how can we do it if we don’t know what it is?’

‘Why blame it all, we’ve got to do it. Don’t I tell you it’s in the books? Do you want to go to doing different from what’s in the books, and get things all muddled up?’”

Stupid boys! Idiot little ruffians! And I thought I lived in a fantasy world.

While the pages of a book are never a limit…

“Your newspapers call you a brave people so much that you think you are braver than any other people – whereas you’re just as brave, and no braver.”

As dialect mingles and twirls under muggy Southern skies.

Twain is tired of class. I am tired of Huck Finn.

“I am glad to see slavery has ended…and don’t forget the discussion tomorrow.”

How could I forget? Those accents are unmistakable. Oh, and I almost forgot to mention—Twain, you owned Hemmingway.

~~~~

A bell chimes at the end.

Except there are no bells anymore.

I sit in a slight daze, recovering from the smack to the noggin.

The emptying classrooms drone beyond the door.

I rise, contemplating verse and wit.

Until I remember the stack of unbending, never-ending homework.

A mirage of essays, logs, and reports. But methinks it was worth it.

WHEN FISH SWIM BACKWARD

What happens when fish swim backwards?

An apocalypse, a revolution, a waltz?

From the fires below laughs Beelzebub,

Who decides on a lark to end the world.

Such a lark! Snappings of bones, crawling chaos,

As horns and wings and devil tails sweep towards heaven,

But soon swing down, flying for a fight.

In a place of tyranny rises a peasant prince,

Catching the eyes of those trawling in the dirt.

Charisma sets his jaw, the day he thinks one or a hundred may follow.

“Ye shall be as kings!” A laugh, a banner, a nag-turned-charger,

And a rousing rabble marches towards the castle.

Death swings in a waltz, swathed in black,

The music far sweeter than a danse macabre

So close to life! Swirling to the rhythm, a scythe discarded,

So far into a haze that he forgets,

Deaf to the cries of “Take me now!” and “Summon the headsman.”

But joys never last beyond an hour or eon,

And Beelzebub has called off the demon hordes,

And the peasant prince’s army bleeds upon the walls,

And Death has ceased his waltzing.

After an seemingly gleeful return to torturing the condemned.

Lucifer hisses, “Not yet,”

And Beelzebub knows she’s done for.

Brave to the last, they say, as the Peasant Prince falls,

A legend cruelly ending at the castle gates,

No one seeing the fleeing form vanish over the hills.

More nudges off cliffs, more poison-filled wine glasses

And Death lets out a sigh, a whisper through a rotting cloak.

Death, such a dull monotony.

Curse you fish, never swim backwards!

Nose to Tail

After my last self-servicing epic, it’s time to get back to the main reason I blog. To share cool stuff and spread my cultural imperialism.

You want to know what sends me into a twitchy, cranky bitch storm?

Wasting food.

I’m not talking about force-cleaning your plate (aka Shitty Parenting Skill #1). Or people who get bombarded with  unwanted doughnuts from co-workers and wind up tossing them.  I’m talking about people who chuck bananas when they are barely black and grocery stores that dump hundreds of thousands of pounds of perfectly good food each year. Africa isn’t starving because the world lacks food.

The fact we live with so much waste makes me even more irritated when people claim they cannot afford healthy food. Correction: you can’t afford grass-fed/organic/Whole Foods every week.

The ultimate tough-love reply is “Pay the farmer or pay the doctor.” But as a student, I understand tight budgets. While my father has worked hard to give me security, not all of my family is nearly as well-off. Trust me, I remember days where the Dollar Menu was the choice by financial default.

That said, there are so many ways to eat healthy without a sugar daddy to take you to Erewhon. A chief way is living nose to tail. Classically, this expression refers to using all parts of an animal like the organs and bones. But veggies can totally get in on the act.

Here are some ways to live nose to tail and high on the health hog.

Whole Chickens

The humble chicken, much like the goat or sheep, is a blessing to man. If you own chickens you can reap the eggs. But even dead, those cluckers are useful.

First, skip the expensive individually-wrapped chicken breasts. Besides protein and low calories, there’s very little value to a plain chicken breast. Buy a whole chicken and revel in all the free add-ins.

Chicken ceases to be boring when paired with mango pickle chutney and carrot fries.

The easiest way to cook a whole chicken is to roast it. My favorite method is to let the chicken chill on the counter to bring it to room temperature. Baptize it with spices, including a generous amount of salt. Make sure to put herbs and spices both in the cavity and under the skin, as well as some butter or oil. A lemon, orange, or onion up the butt is tasty too. The trick is to be sure the skin stays dry. You don’t need to do anything fancy like truss it. Pop the chicken into an oven pan (a roasting rack is prefrerred for good skin) and blast it with 425° Fahrenheit for about an hour. Simple.

It's not burned. It's crunchy.

Once you’ve had your homey chicken dinner, your chicken is worth far more than leftovers. Take the carcass and turn it into stock!

Chicken stock is super nutritious. People have revered animal broths for their healing qualities for thousands of years, as they are incredibly nutrient dense. The collagen, gelatin, and glucosamine are especially good for you.

MSG-riddled store-bought stock? Don't be a pussy.

To make the stock, plunk the carcass into a big ol’ pot of water. Get it up to almost a boil then reduce to a simmer. Add some chopped veggies like onion, celery, and carrot (aka a mirepoix for you hipsters), or any random stuff you have lying around. Herbs and spices are groovy. Adding a little vinegar extracts more nutrients. Let the stock simmer for severak hours. When done, strain or pull out all the chunky bits and add salt to taste.

To prevent possible bacteria growth, put your stockpot in a sink filled with very cold water. Once it’s cooled, put into tupperware. In the freezer it lasts forever, in the fridge it stays about a week. After a few hours the fat will solidify at the surface. For chicken stock, remove this fat, as it’s high in Omega 6s you don’t need. For other animals like cow, you can leave it in if desired.

Now you have a yummy stock to make soup and a million other dishes with. Or just drink it, especially if you think you’re getting a cold.

But for all veggies who are squirming at the thought of drinking animals as well as eating them, here’s a non-animal way to live nose to tail.

Squash Seeds

Everyone complains that nuts are too expensive and that sunflower seeds suck. But do any veggies out there like kabocha or butternut squash?

This kabocha doesn't need to be de-seeded. It needs a C-section.

Voila, seeds, free of charge.

The fun thing about squash seeds is that you can roast them with whatever spices you like.

Don’t be afraid to use oil. A big reason it’s better to buy dry-toasted or raw nuts because most seeds are roasted with crappy soybean and vegetable oils. Coconut, olive oil, and ghee are much better choices. And they taste good. Elise with Simply Recipes has a great method to get you started. The trick to crunchy nuts is to boil them beforehand.

In the last batch of seeds I made, I mixed half with cocoa powder, vanilla, and stevia, and the second with cinnamon, mesquite, and nooch. Both were roasted with ghee.

I'm not nutty. I'm seedy.

Here are a few others ways to live nose-to-tail:

- Save your bacon fat. After baking or pan-frying your bacon, strain the fat and save it. It’s delicious with eggs or on salad. And before I get people gagging, no, saturated fat will not kill you. Forget the 80s; you need saturated fat for proper cell function. Let Drew @ How to Cook Like Your Grandmother teach you how to render it. All you need is a bowl and paper towels.

- Get vegetables with “tops” on and use the greens for sauteeing or green smoothies. Beets are a great example.

- Buy full-fat coocnut milk and add two cans of water. Voila, you have three cans of light coconut milk. Or use HEAB’s coconut milk trick.

You are about to defy physics by a factor of three.

- Save your yolks. I totally get mixing whole eggs with egg whites to make a lighter omelet. However, yolks are super nutritious and have a lot of uses. If you’re not using liquid egg whites (which are costly anyway), save the egg yolks for custard, ice cream, hollandaise sauce, mashed potatoes, or hair treatment.

- Shop in your pantry. Let’s play a game. You can only buy fresh veggies or fresh meat from the store. Otherwise, you must make do with ingredients in your pantry. Everyone has a can of beans that haven’t seen daylight in five months. Get creative and save yourself a trip to the store. Averie @ Love Veggies and Yoga has tons of great recipes that suit a pantry clean-out.

If you’re a brave soul like my friends in Edinburgh, you can also take up skipping. That has some tasty results.

Bless freezer breakdowns.

That said, when living sans waste, I feel no obligation to treat low-quality junk food with the same standard. If you wind up with a ton of extra Easter candy that’s just going to make you pick at it, give it away.

Don’t feel the need to play with your junk food.

I had a paper due and was bored. I take no responsibility for my hypocrisy

Memorative Dissonance

What is the most vivid aspect of a memory? Emotion, images, sound? Do you ever wonder if that one aspect colors your entire feeling of that memory?

I remember physical feelings. If I’m in piss-poor weather, my recollections easily take on a pissy tint. This isn’t always true. When I went to Catalina Island it was freezing cold. Yet all the partying, socializing, and, ahem, recreational activities made it one of the best weekends of my life.

But lately I’ve been reading an interesting book by Martha Beck, The 4-Day Win. The book focuses on cognitive patterns. One of the most interesting chapters focuses on challenging your thoughts. When an assumption flares up in your mind, ask yourself, is that true? It’s a great tool for self-doomsayers like me; we moody prats who love to sink into a Raskolnikov-esque brooding hissy fit. It also comes in handy for when you pass a bakery and your inner Wild Child howls “I need cookiez!”

Quick sketch of my personified Wild Child

It’s made me think about my past too.

Usually, when I think back on my time in San Francisco, my first thought is “ugh, the cold.” Like those overcast skies that made me burrow under an ill-fitting coat, my memories often carry a swath of gray.

Travel guides lie. San Francisco 3 days out of the year.

As many of you know, I lost a ton of weight my freshman year. I was also studying hard to get into USC, not sleeping enough, and cursing the weather.

But that’s not entirely true.

A lot of my disordered eating habits began at USF, but only toward the end of the school year.

According to a person close to me, I “starved myself and exercised like a fiend.” But was she there? We barely spoke that year anyway, as our relationship wasn’t in the best of places. As for myself, I often looked at my weight loss as the triumph of masochism — I was pissed at not getting into USC, pissed at being lazy and ignored because of my weight, and I was damned sure going to do something about it. Hence a year of grinding myself down every day, flagellating myself through exercise, fasting in repentence for my sins, and marching on to some chance at redemption.

Wait, wtf? Even if that’s a “feeling” I can get when I think of USF, that’s pretty retarded.

Because even if I was cognizant of certain flaws in my personality, I don’t have the masochistic drive to sustain myself for nine plus months. Willpower is also a bogus argument. Willpower is scientifically proven to decrease with time and stress. My “willpower,” aka cray-cray, only got stronger as the year went on.

My calories were too low for my activity level. But even still, considering I only burn around 1900 calories on an active day (I’m not tall and my frame is very slender), it wasn’t a horrendous deficit. It was also very nutrient dense. The problem stemmed from it becoming an extended deficit and never taking diet breaks, which are temporary returns to maintenance to restore hormones and reverse metabolic adaptation. I don’t think I ever did have metabolic adaption, as my weight-loss was linear, but by the end of the year my hormones were jacked. There are also the side effects of fat loss linked to the sheer fact one is running in a deficient state. Paranoia, sleep changes, headaches, decreases in libido, muscle softness…the list goes on.

It was not a simple case of dieting woes. Stress does more damage to a body than a deficit, and by the end of the year, my stress was reaching kamikaze thresholds, from things that had nothing to do with food.

I was busting my ass studying and destroying my sleep to make it happen, but I hadn’t heard back from USC, even though other people had. Was my year of hard work for naught?

Admissions Peeps: Too busy watching our badass football team to read apps?

I was going home soon…but not to my home.  When I returned home, I would be returning to an apartment and not my house because of some family problems. But no fancy manse could change the fact I was thrown out of my house.

Then, my summer internship. I had jumped on board what I thought was a fashion magazine, only to discover that it was a pretty but also pretty worthless rag. It was unpaid too, which added a sting to the tight budget I knew I’d have.

In was in that time that my habits became far more compulsive, far more rigid.

A classic “I am disordered!” habit is weighing food. I do not think this is necessarily a disordered habit. For people counting calories (and this is a technique that works for some), it is as precise as you can get. And to some, that’s all it is — a precise, scientific tool. Where it becomes disordered is the mindset. A compulsion, dependence, and Gollum-like obsession with the scale is where it becomes whack-job territory.

"It's just 3.5 ounces, Precious!"

When I first acquired a food scale it was out of sheer curiosity to see if I was guessing portions correctly. I saw one for sale at a ridiculous discount and bought it. It was interesting, and a great tool for learning what 4 oz. actually looks like (I never really got the hand measurements at all). Where things went off the deep end was late in April, where no cucumber entered my salad unweighed. That was whack-jobbery.

I could list more compulsions and screwiness, but you can probably imagine a few of them.

When summer finally came and I was away from my gym, my cafeteria packed full of salad and steamed veggies, my disordered habits magnified. I also sunk neck-deep into depression. When I arrived home and my mother dragged me to a doctor, I weighed 116 pounds. By the end of summer, I weighed 108, even though I was finally starting to feel better.

Luckily, I pulled myself — and was pulled — out of it. A combination of friends, family, and Wellbutrin got me back on my feet and my sophomore year was a blast.

But to say I flew from the evil halls of USF and into the land of Trojan unicorns is an injustice to the school. It’s an injustice to my whole year.

As I said, I was unraveling there, but only at the tail-end, and at the convergence of many factors.

Before then? I was happy.

I had a purpose and goals. To get into USC and lose weight. That got me going. But it was my school that kept me going.

At USF I had an amazing group of weird-but-awesome friends. I had a roommate who I adored. I loved my teachers and enjoyed my classes far more than at USC. As much as I love being a Trojan, I miss the small class size, quirky professors, and intellectual discussions.

I miss my Greek & Roman Lit class, where we got to watch Rome and had the most amazing discussions of Thucydides. I loved how my Ancient Philosophy class left my mind buzzing with new ideas each time I left the room. My reward for placing into the highest writing class was a teacher who didn’t give a damn about grades and only wanted us to master our writing skills.

I loved my gym, too. I never dragged myself, except at the very end of the school year when I was spent in body and soul.

The trainers and class teachers were amazing people who were always there to answer my questions, correct my form, and show me that even a fat chick could become strong and fit. Or we simply caught up on film. The awesome Trinidad lady who taught the strength classes also gave me my first respect for muscular women. The Eminem-lookalike guy who taught a bootcamp class made me realize I was capable of pushups and burpees. The ladies who taught spin showed me how satisfying quick bursts of full-on effort could be. Even steady-state cardio, for me, was a good way to de-stress and catch up on podcasts, magazines, and film. Yes, some days I was totally that slow-ass person who perused Cosmo on the elliptical.

Don't think I ever had spin class in a nightclub though.

I did begin to isolate myself at the end of the year, but before that I loved running around San Francisco with my friends. My favorite places were Haight Street and Japantown.  Hanging out at Japantown was fun enough without the crepes and tempura — I was happy to have a sushi roll, some miso soup, and a nice dessert of Hello Kitty fro-yo (yes, it exists). I avoided alcohol both for a dislike in taste and a dislike of calories, but it was never a reason for me to back out of social situations, since everyone smoked pot more than drank.

The pot made for some damn fine school newspaper articles too!

To top it off, I had some freelance on the side to make me feel like a special snowflake.

I do not regret my choice to transfer. I made so many new friends, have had so many wonderful moments, and have professional resources I never would have had otherwise. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel wistful sometimes. And I suspect one of my friends still has my copy of House of Leaves. Grr.

My fondly-remembered Jesuit Land.

I was stimulated mentally, emotionally, socially, and physically. I felt like I was doing stuff. I became very interested in health and fitness…but I’m OCD about everything. That’s nothing new.

Eventually it did smash together and turn into something ugly. But those were converging factors and my own idiocy at refusing to slow down and ignoring signs that my body needed breaks and rest.

It frustrates me to no end why I can’t rein in my sugar-noshing and exercise regularly. Why I can’t just lose weight like last time. I’m under no false hope that I magically developed gluten intolerance, hypothyroid, or PCOS. It’s simply a fact I’m eating too much and not moving enough.

It’s silly from a factual standpoint. I know more than I did. I know how to smartly create a deficit, workout without overtraining, and how to use breaks to fix and hormonal hijinks.

But it’s obvious from a thoughtful standpoint. Later in The 4-Day Win, Beck makes a face-smashing obvious point. The only way to lose weight and keep it off is when your mind and body trust and accept each other.

This is something that sledgehammered me in the face when I read it. I was unhappy with past failures, but I accepted where I was. There was no “better” to get back to. I needed to lose weight. I needed to study hard. My body shrugged and said “Let’s do it.”

High Five kitteh!

The bitter truth is that it wasn’t a struggle for me to eat less. There were no tragic nights where hunger gnawed at my belly. No injured lumbering on the treadmill. No sadness at saying “no thanks” when offered a cookie. If I was at party I ate what I wanted. But what I wanted was only enough to enjoy the experience and sample my freinds’ cooking skills. I didn’t have any primal urges to inhale a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, though my roommate often had a carton in our freezer. Even stoned off my ass I was happy to nosh on grapes while my friends devoured ice cream and nutella.

It's a scoop of ice cream. Not a tantric sex session.

It was only at the tail-end of the year, after nine months of relentless pushing, that I gained a twisted satisfaction at refusing treats, instead of a non-emotional “Eh, I’m good.” That I branded foods as from heaven or hell, and that  Agon is the Greek word for struggle.  Orgē is the word for anger. I might have struggled to become fitter and less of a procrastinator. But there was no anger there, except the initial frustration at my own weaknesses.

Away with you, Spaghetti Monster!

I don’t know why I’m so moody now. Heh, certainly no recreational activities to wonder if my birth control goofed up. I have little to complain about that I haven’t brought on myself. But my mind and body are definitely not working together, and the times I’m happy are strongly connected to events rather than a general good mood.

That said, I have had a lot of happy moments. Take Easter, when Aisha invited me to her house. Her family is Muslim so it was not “Easter,” but rather her family’s Sunday brunch. It was a blast to meet such a kind family, try really amazing Indian food, and make cupcakes.

When London's salivating over these awesome cupcakes, I can laugh and say I tried them first.

Take my trip to Edinburgh, the Kamelot concert, going to plays with my friends. Most recently, seeing Flare Path, where I got to meet Sienna Miller and James Purefoy.

Holy crap I got to shake hands with Marc Anthony!!!

Or making my inner Animal Planet girl happy with a trip to the Natural History Museum. Or the swell of happiness I feel when I think about my dad getting here in a week to visit me. Or even watching awesome TV like Game of Thrones, The Borgias, and BBC’s Sherlock.

A.k.a, Sexlock

I don’t know. I muse. I don’t answer.

But I do need to find a purpose again. As easy as it would be, it can’t be purely my career. That’s too unstable. And given my likely career path, it’s not always kind. I’m thinking about creative writing again. It used to be I was too burned out from journalism and freelance pursuits, but maybe my writing muscles have strengthened. If again I look back at my memories, my greatest stress relievers seem to be writing, video games, massage therapy, and exercise. And I can answer Ms. Beck, “yup, that is true.”

Even if this realization is ugly-dog obvious, it really took me a long time to see it. And it makes me pissier than ever that as much as I crave happiness know, I friggin had it and let it slide past. I seem to have a habit of it. Or maybe The Epic of Gilgamesh had a point, what with the damned flower-chomping snake and all.

Them's some deep words in that there stone tablet.

I complain to myself I can’t get a boyfriend…but that’s not true. I have the opportunity for dates but tend to back out and beat a hasty retreat. I like to decry people who lie and lead others on, but that’s also a peccadillo on my part. I’ve totally led people on. Not out of malice but usually uncertainty and a dislike of hurting feelings. Yeah, I’m guilty. I seem to recall a line from my favorite musical…

“See your razor gleam, Sweeney! See how well it fits! As it floats across the throats of hypocrites.” 

Heh. But the point of questioning thoughts and thought patterns isn’t to wallow in guilt or enter melodramatic monologues (again, guilty). Rather, it’s identifying, accepting, and not flying off the handle when one goes by. It’s easy to create our own backstories. Some take the form of epics, others of Greek tragedy. But if one’s history involves a flying Pegasus, it’s probably best to question that.

My husband in a past life, I defy you to say different

I suppose we are all shaped by our histories. But that makes it equally important to question them. Perception is reality, but perception can change if you let it. 

Across the Highlands

Muahaha, I managed to sneak in a Kamelot reference. But I was in Scotland! Granted, I went to Edinburgh, which is in the lower-lands of Scotland. But there were still a ton of hills.

But first, I want to thank all of my readers. Each and every one of you who put up with my pseudo-intellectual shtick, encourage me when I’m being an emo preteen, look past my cultural imperialism, and smile and nod at my obscure pop-culture references.

A while back, I entered my blog in USC’s Webfest 2011. Sophia won it last year, so I thought “what the hell” and entered mine. My dear friend and I sometimes have oddly parallel lives — I won “Best Column” at the Daily Trojan one semester and she won it the next, for example.  Well, a few mornings ago, as the coffee fumes percolated in my brain, I opened my email to find I’d won $1,000 and that my blog was voted more badass than 21 others.

Without sounding too much like a beauty pageant entry, this blog is only possible because of you guys. I don’t really market myself. I don’t whore around for high traffic, largely because I’m lazy and know I don’t contribute much to the blogging world. But I don’t like talking to walls either (at least not online). Readers, each and every precious one of you, are why I blog. Thank you.

And while it’s on my mind, is there anything y’all would like to see more of? I have ideas for a lot of things but it’s hard to get to all of them. I am rather curious as to what makes you lovelies still read my little blog.

Anyway, back to my highland adventures.

They were rife with vistas

Strange but true: I hate the film Braveheart. Mel Gibson irritates me and the story is horrifically inaccurate. It glosses over the douchebaggery William Wallace was capable of. Just like in Gibson’s other English-hating film, The Patriot, where they conveniently leave out that Gibson’s character was inspired by Francis Marion who, while valuable during the Revolution, also had the rollicking hobbies of hunting Native Americans and raping slaves.

Put in a bunch of peasants screaming "Why, William Wallace?!" and you've got a better historical picture.

But what I did like about Braveheart was the setting. Scotland’s such a gogeous land of myth and mystery. It’s haunted but earthly, and the frequent rain and wind make the days of sun and warmth even more glorious. I wasn’t here just to pay hommage to my non-existant Scottish ancestors though.

I came to visit my best friend from high school, Maddy. We were always odd ducks together, along with our coterie. I don’t make close friends easily. At all. So our friendship is something I treasure more than anything.

Maddy and I aren’t entirely alike. She’s an intellectual hippie scientist, atheistic, and a savvy liberal. I’m an intellectual non-hippie journalist, apathetic, and a snarky fiscal conservative. It makes for wonderful debate. But we  have a lot more in common. Literary and pop culture geekery, an affinity for the bohemian, a dislike toward waste, a love of good food, and an ADD approach to conversation and stream of thought.

Basically, why Maddy and I are friends: we can passionately discuss Shakespeare one minute, then giggle over Stephen Colbert’s “Friday” the next. We are almost white hipsters. But not quite. Because white hipsters can’t recite the Prologue to Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales in Middle English.

“Whan that aprill with his shoures soote
The droghte of march hath perced to the roote,
And bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour…”

I arrived in Edinburgh on Monday. Picture a hound on the trail for cookies, and that was me sweeping the train station.

Maddy and I hadn’t seen each other since my freshman year in college. We were housemates during my freshman-sophomore summer, but my depression put a a downer on what should have been lovely arrangement.

People do change over time. Certain traits fade, others grow, and some people seem to change altogether. When we last met, we were younger, virginal, and less worldly. I was also in desperate need of happy pills. But while our lives have gone in different directions, our reunion was a wonderful one.

“Hey,” said an all-too-familiar voice. It was everything I could do not to glomp her. Thank goodness for my rolley-carryon.

Chez mon amie, I toured her lovely Bohemian flat, complete with her flatmates. I had a bit of freelance to do (and Game of Thrones and The Borgias to hunt down online), so I worked and we caught up. Dinner was an awesome homemade stew of peanut butter and sweet potato, as well as a fun meetup with her friends and boyfriend. The boyfriend definitely gets my seal of approval. He has to be the only white boy I’ve met who can handle dreads.

The next day, I explored Edinburgh.

Edinburgh is a gorgeous city. The weather was perfect. The architecture is glorious.

Cherry trees in blossom

Beautiful streets

Neat nooks

And wonderful old buildings

First stop: Edinburgh Castle

Would you kindly move your bus out of my shot?

Though the area has had people since 900 BC, Edinburgh’s castle was largely rebuilt in the 1570s. One of the chapels has been around since the 13th century.

There are a bunch of mini-museums. Like about this dude who carried his baby in a knapsack into battle.

There are many cool little ledges and buildings to climb on.

I like my Scottish history with a side of America! Ahem, it's obvious who was a POW behind this door -- check out the flag.

Then we hit up Edinburgh’s coolest musuem: Camera Obscura. It’s a museum dedicated to optical illusions.

Unfortunately Maddy did not survive the visit

A hobby of Maddy and her friends is skipping. Not the schoolyard kind. Skipping, aka diving in America, is hitting up grocery store dumpsters after hours. This sounds horrific and hoboish but hear me out: grocery stores typically dump vast quantities of perfectly good food out each day. Overstocks, busted twin-packs where one item survives, etc. It’s huge waste of perfectly good food. And the stuff is sealed up after all. Apparently it’s big in LA.

I got my first taste of skipping that night. One of the flatemates walked in with two pots of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream.

“Yeah, there’s two bin bags of it just down the street.”

Picture three yipping wolves tearing down the stairs and out onto the street. Replace wolves with girls.

I could get used to this skipping thing

Impromptu ice cream party? Oh yes. Our 20 pints of ice cream were delicious. We theorize the store’s freezer broke and since they could not break the seals to properly refreeze it, they just chucked it. A wee bit of ice crystals does not ruin that quality of ice cream.

If you want to raise mostly-melted Caramel Chew Chew or Baked Alaskan to orgasmic levels, add amaretto

And when you've skipped a case of Coke the day before and have ridiculously high-quality vanilla...well, you get it

Remember the wolf simile? Still applies.

For my final full day in Edinburgh, I went to a place everyone recommended. The Chocolate Tree.

Part chocolate cafe, part sugar addict's Valhalla

With exotic chocolate

And the best mocha to ever pass my lips

I also hit up a jewelry store, the National Gallery, and the Museum of Scotland. Lunch came from the Gallery restaurant.

Haggis, Neeps, and Tatties: an offal-and-grain concoction with mashed potatoes and turnips.

And a buttermilk scone

It’s official. I don’t like scones. Sometimes I find a decent, freshly-baked doughy warm one that holds together better, but most are too crumbly and induce dry-mouth. Even with a side of tea, coffee, or cider. You know what else is crumbly? Old tombs. And I’m not a necrophiliac. 

Even if I do like graveyards

Did I mention how awesome the weather was? It was perfect for sun-basking (like sun bathing but with no intention of tanning).

I do sometimes think my friend is a reincarnated tabby cat.

I could get used to having this down the street

We were going to climb Arthur’s Seat…but we were a bit knackered. Later, we went to Maddy’s favorite Indian restaurant, Mother India. It was amazing. The best pershwari naan  and saag paneer I’ve ever had! With light still out afterward, it was the perfect chance for a roll in the…

Petals.

But I still can't paint with all the colors of the wind.

If Jesus turned female and took to rolling in cherry petals, he would be my friend's flatmate

But alas, all good things come to an end. The next day I was bound back for London.

I had so much fun in Edinburgh. Hell, I was reminded just what fun is, as I’ve been having little of it lately. As a train carried me off, I felt a pang of, not jealousy, but longing. Of course my friend and her mates have their stresses and hardships, but I crave the friendship they have. My USC posse here (read, anywhere) is far from that, except for a precious few people. I need more opportunities to roll in the petals.

I had little time once back in London to sink into a mood. Because I had to skedaddle to a Kamelot concert. Kamelot is my absolute favorite band, and I’d heard tell that Roy Khan, the amazing lead singer, was leaving.

I went alone because no one at my flat shares my eclectic taste in music. I considered taking a shower first but then it hit me…I was going to a metal concert. Slightly greased tresses are a hallmark.

Kamelot had two preceding bands, Amaranth and Evergray. Amaranth is good but Evergray bores the hell out of me. Luckily, I had a hilarious Scottish guy to talk to. But first he had to break my heart.

“Eh? Khan already left. The singer from Rhapsody of Fire— Fabio Lione — is filling in.”

I guess he noticed my face, torn by anguish, spackled in rage, and two seconds from booking it out of there.

“No, trust me, he’s really good.”

Turns out it’s a small world. My Scottish friend, while in a small metal band himself, is also a geologist who regularly travels to Houston for work. He’d just gotten back that day. I added I’d just gotten back from Scotland. It was fun chatting with him, and there might have been a Snakebite involved. Then it was time for Kamelot.

Fabio Lione is no Roy Khan, but he is a very good singer. Where Khan’s voice swings between crooning angelic and rougher mortality, Lione is an exotic wolf with a slight predilection to howl. Not that howling is bad when you’ve got good pipes and it’s a metal concert. His voice sometimes had a reedy quality in its diction though, perhaps affected by his accent.

A neat suprise was the backup vocalist, Tommy Karevik, who got to sing “Center of the Universe.” Wow! I was lusting. He could be the new singer and I wouldn’t complain. Any Kamelot fans, check him out:

A second suprise was Epica’s singer, Simone Simons, popping by for one of Kamelot’s catchiest songs, “The Haunting.”

I have a total girl-crush on Simone. She is an example for redheads everywhere.

Even though there are better Kamelot songs, I have a very soft spot for “The Haunting,” as it’s the song that introduced me to Kamelot. You never forget your first .

Casey Grillo also had an awesome drum solo. I can only describe his look as adorably satanic, but it works. And he always has the cutest smiles for the audience.

Though I missed Khan, it was an awesome concert. As I squeezed past all the drunks and said bye to my (also drunk by this point) Scottish friend, I realized I’d had a pretty good last few days.

Of course, once home, I fired up the Google to find out why Roy Khan was not there. It’s probably for the best, as I always have the urge to throw myself at my screen and make out with him, so I don’t know how I would have contained myself seeing him live. His wife might have killed me. But I still wanted to find out.

Poor baby. He left because of total burnout, anxiety attacks, and depression. Something to do with religion too, but mostly stress. But I’m glad he had the sense to back off before he had a total breakdown.

After Steve Barton’s tragic death, I get chilled when I hear about troubled artists. It’s so much of a cliché — the emotionally unstable artist — that I believe real artists who are going through a lot of pain get ignored or made into media mockeries. It has nothing to do with the “pain of pursuing art” or some bullshit romantic notion. Like the same idiotic notion of dumbasses who say Heath Ledger died because he played the Joker. Creating art is not like going through labor…some pretty bad writers block excepting . There are so many non-artistic factors, like the exhausting experience of touring, or completely unrelated personal problems. Meh, sorry for the tangent.

I’m sad Khan’s gone, but he’ll be back eventually. Probably not with Kamelot, but he’s too talented to retire. As for the new singer…ooh la la, I wait with baited breath. Change isn’t bad. As long as the core remains, change is cosmetic.

Thing is, Kamelot’s last CD, Poetry for the Poisoned, while technically brilliant, was not up to their normal emotionally-arresting standard. When change is ready to happen, there is no stopping it. Another funny thing…Fabio Lione’s best songs were all from their last CD.

Farewell dear one...

Yes yes, I saw the Royal Wedding. It was cute. But news-created highlights will give you a better sense of it than I ever could. Now I need to work on my journalism project. It should be interesting, as the interview my whole project hinged on just fell through. The game is on?

Coffee, Chocolate, and Realpolitik

First, here’s a final addendum to my Phantom of the Opera tirade…uh, discussion. Most movie versions of Phantom I dislike. But there is one I do like: the 1989 Phantom of the Opera. It’s not a musical. In fact, it’s a quasi-horror film. It also comes loaded with the 80s’ silly, dramatic death throes. Who plays the Phantom? Robert Englund. That’s right, Freddie Krueger. It’s silly. It’s campy. It rocks! Robert Englund is all kinds of crazy, brutal, and surprisingly adorable in certain scenes. And he has sexy boots and a whip. If you check out the trailer below and wonder why he doesn’t look too deformed…pay attention to the “ghosts do not skin their victims” part.  :-P

Now, back to our scheduled London programming.

Last week, Aisha and I barnstormed the London culinary scene. We attended the Chocolate and Coffee festivals. 

Call me a snotty journalist, but the Chocolate Festival was a wee bit of a plebeian affair. Samples were nice, but they were scant, and the chocolate was still crazy expensive. It was still super fun to see all the artisan chocolates!We were also joined by Aisha’s work friend, a badass one-legged pirate who loves chocolate. I am not joking.

I was finally convinced fudge could be kinda tasty.

Sea-salt caramel-filled chocolate lollipops? Ysir!

Afterward, we headed to the Coffee Festival on Brick Lane. Being a fellow mercenary, Aisha awesomely got us on the press list. We got to go in way before citizens, and for free. Ergo, as we were official press people, the coffeemongers were falling over themselves to offer samples and freebies.

Coffee tastes best in serene surroundings.

Yeah, we may have had a few shots

But the hot chocolate was droolworthy.

Starbucks rocked the freebie house; have you wondered what that new Petite Line tastes like? I got to try all of them! The almond lollicakepop, caramel pecan slice, and white chocolate sponge cake were the best, but I don’t plan on buying any in the future.

I also put some of the best espresso I’d ever tasted to my lips: Drury Tea and Coffee Company’s. A few more shout-outs:

- Innocent, with their delicious Kiwi Apple smoothie
- Pomegreat, for their pomegranite juice that pwns POM Wonderful’s.
- Kokoa Collection, for the best, most nuanced, flavorful, and all-natural hot chocolate I’ve ever tasted!

Afterward, we decided to get some real food.  You’d think, being on Brick Lane, delicious Indian food would be abundant. Not quite. The Indian food on Brick Lane is very “touristized.” So Aisha took me to a place just off Brick Lane — an authentic Indian restaurant!

Call me a snob. I like to know I’ve tasted “the real thing.” It’s just like my glee when Sophia and her housemate took me to Happy Garden, or when my roommate Holly took me to the Newport Tan Cang Seafood Restaurant.

I could tell the moment I walked inside this was not your takeaway curry house. Tayyabs is a humble restaurant with dishes that aim to pile-drive your tastebuds with awesome. Let’s see how they did.

A Mango Lassi to keep things from getting too hot under the collar.

Yummy spiced paneer

Karahi Daal Ghost: nicely-spiced lamb with lentils

More lentils! Aisha said they were like her mums. I want to meet Aishas mum.

I also got to try a pratha, which is sort of a tortilla on steroids. Buttery steroids.

It was so much fun just to talk, laugh, and enjoy great food. Truly, these kinds of moments in London have meant more to me than anything else. 

Full and happy, we hit the tube and parted ways. But Aisha had a parting shot: a delicious stew she’d made! I was kind of scared it was going to burn my mouth off or something, but the moment I chewed, I realized I had a huge bowl of warm comfort.

I’ve also been having a rocking time at the theatre. My designated theatre buddy and I saw The Children’s Hour last night. It stars Keira Knightley, Elisabeth Moss, Carol Kane, Ellen Burstyn, and Tobias Menzies. To be honest, I was most eager to see Menzies. He played Brutus on Rome, one of my favorite TV shows.

The play itself was quite good. Basically, a disgusting little brat of a child tells a naughty lie about her two hot female teachers. Small-town closeminded hijinks ensue. The strength of the cast really stood out. I hate it when people lump gorgeous young actresses as “pretty chicks who can’t really act.” That may be true of Cameron Diaz, but it’s very untrue of Knightley. She was wonderful. Moss was brilliant as well…hell, the whole cast was. I wanted to grab a stick and beat that evil child to death, then toss it away and finish the job with my bare hands. She was that good.

Of course this merited a trip to the stage door. Knightley actually came out to sign autographs, before getting blitzed by the paparazzi and ducking into a suave SUV. Also, up close, Knightly is indeed as gorgeous close up as in her movies.

But honestly, I wanted to meet Toby! And I did! He was the last to come out. But he was so kind. My friend and I gave a shoutout to his awesomeness in Rome. He was so cool and laid back.

Now, why realpolitik? ‘Cuz I gots a new show I like! The Borgias by Showtime.

Is it totally accurate? No. But it captures the feel of the time period really well, in the vein of Rome rather than the silly Tudors.

What I like about it is the faithfulness to the cruelty of the time. Renaissance Italy was glorious, but it was a glory splashed in blood. You think Leonardo da Vinci was just a charming old vegetarian painter? He was also Cesare Borgia’s war engineer.

Da Vinci may not have eaten animals...but he sure encouraged them to spread carnage and mayhem.

History does exaggerate the amount of poisoning the Borgias performed on their enemies. But they were still a family that clawed their way to the top, and, for a time, had the chance to revel in it.

"Giulia, running the Papacys given me a massive headache. Hug please?"

As for the show, François Arnaud makes a lovely, smoking hot Cesare. He’s like a wolf following his alpha but still wanting to break away. He stays, however, to protect his pack and honor his family. Jeremy Irons is charismatic and quietly ferocious — definitely reminds me a bit of his Scar days. Lotte Verbeek brings honor to the red-headed clan as the Pope’s stunning mistress, Giulia Farnese. We actually have quite similar builds. Inspire me Lotte, to get my ass to the gym more often!

Thats me/Giulia behind Jeremy Irons, being all pretty. Shes forgiven for having no muscle because I dont think theyd invented LA Fitness yet.

Of course, the show I’ve been waiting for since high school is finally premiering — Game of Thrones. Watch it, and you’ll never think of the phrase “The things I do for love” in the same way again.

And finally, I’ve been taking advantage of London’s beautiful weather. Not too long ago, my roomie and I went to Hyde Park.

It is gorgeous.

In all of its swany glory.

After, we went to Harrods, a really bad-ass department store. It too motivates me to get to the gym more.

It has a famous Egyptian staircase.

And an awesome toy department.

Phantoms Inside My Mind

Guess most of my readers aren’t film or book fans. Sorry to dissapoint, but all ye foodies will have to wait a little while before you see what I’m stuffing in my craw. I was going to post about the epic Chocolate and Coffee festivals last weekend that Aisha and I attended. But I don’t think linearly, so I’m not bothering to post that way either.

The other night I saw the musical Phantom of the Opera.

I have a love-hate relationship with this musical. To the extreme. To the sibling rivalry, Marmite, David Lynch level of love-hate. But I’ve never  told anyone precisely why.

But first, the actual performance. The reason I agreed to go was because a friend wanted to see it. Also, John Owen-Jones is playing the Phantom. You can see why this would excite me:

And now you can hear why:

Garoooowwl.

Of course, because this is my kind of luck, we arrive at the theatre only to find that the roles of the Phantom and Christine will be played by their standbys.

“That ok?” my friend asked.

I blame Aunt Flo… I felt like crying. But my buddy really wanted to see it. So we got our tickets, had dinner, and made it back to the auditorium.

Phantom is a show that has to be really, really well-acted for me to like it. Otherwise I’m snickering at the melodrama, cringing at the weak characterizations, rolling my eyes at some of the trite lyrics, and in general being a cranky bitch.

I had my first surprise: the Christine was good! Played by Tabitha Webb, this Christine actually made me care about her. That’s saying something.

In the libretto and book, Christine’s a terribly written, vapid character. Part of it is because Andrew Lloyd Webber was inspired by Sarah Brightman (his wife and the original Christine) when he created the musical. Brightman is an amazing singer, but her expressions are limited to Happy Chipmunk and Slightly Miffed Chipmunk. Ergo, not much complex writing in her part.

Though I'd be a happy chipmunk too if I got to hold hands with sexy Steve Barton (RIP).

But the beauty of musical theatre is that a talented actress can add subtlety through body language, inflection, and expression. A lot of Christines just don’t put anything extra into it, making her just a step above Twilight‘s colorless Bella. I say step above because the musical Christine was based on a good character in the original Phantom novel by Gaston Leroux, and she has some good musical moments.

Tabitha Webb rocked it. First during her first solo, where Christine sings her opera debut. In some of her songs, Webb gives the character a quality I can only described as joyfully manic and glazed over.. She digs into Christine’s emotions, namely fear: she cries and squirms away after the Phantom goes bonkers on her, she scrabbles and sobs at Raoul when he basically asks her to risk her entire future to help them capture her stalker. And at the end, when she does grow a spine, she’s still terrified…but with enough steel to stand between her man and the dude who just slaughtered an opera singer and dragged her down to his lair.

I met Webb at the stage door and she was adorable. And a total pixie! Such a big voice came out of that tiny girl. She rocks!

But don't mind me Tabitha if I steal that dress off you.

Now, onto the character everyone (especially preteens) goes nuts over. The Phantom. I was pretty pissed I wasn’t going to see John Owen-Jones. Then I heard Scott Davies‘ first line: “Brava…brava…bravissima…” Holy shit! It was slightly raspy and kinda creepy.

The Phantom is a complex character. On the one hand, he’s a middle-aged, hideously deformed psycho who’s traveled the world, built torture chambers, and garroted people for fun. He’s also a musical genius and a master architect with all the emotional development of a 14-year old. And he’s obsessed with his young ingénue.

A lot of Phantoms focus way too much on the childish aspect. A lot of them defang the Phantom and make the audience wonder why Raoul doesn’t give him a haymaker and haul Christine back to his castle. Others, however, make him too slinky and sexy and forget that the character is so broken and unsocialized. Even then, there are a ton of ways to play the Phantom. Some go more elegant, others go more crazy, others go high-functioning autistic.

Personally, I like my Phantoms on the creepy and pissy side. It moves me more. I also find them more attractive. Yeah, I’m sick.

So I got excited when Scott Davies first spoke. When “Phantom of the Opera” started, I was smiling. When it got to “Music of the Night” … EEEE!!!

“Music of the Night” is supposed to be the Phantom’s vocal seduction of and passion for Christine, but through the blocking, it also reflects his own insecurity. The way actors like the original Michael Crawford have sung it puts me to sleep. It’s pretty, but if I’m being seduced, I shouldn’t be falling asleep. Davies was the perfect blend of seductive, creepy, and  insecure.  He really knows how to use his hands…no, not in the guttery way. More in the “Gah my idealized love is in my arms I have no idea what on God’s green earth to do with her” way. Yum.

"Let your darker side give in"? Mhmkk!

Gary Mauer, who I saw onstage a loooong time ago, also gives a fantastic “Music of the Night”:

I also loved how Davies handled the final scene. A fantastic, compelling mix of madness, fury, and a deeply broken soul. The show was really well done. The ensemble had a great amount of interaction, even with the orchestra. Afterwards, I popped by the stage door. Davies was so kind in person. I love meeting cool actors.

Now, despite this long diversion, I will explain a bit my love-hate relationship with the show. As for the stage musical, well, that’s the musical theatre snob in me being picky. Some of the pyrotechnics haven’t aged well. It could be stronger lyrically, and have better character development. It needs a really good cast to offset the melodrama.

But the movie is where I get cranky. I’m not against “alternative” interpretations. I am against shallow interpretations that barf all over the original work. And I mean the original original: Le Fantôme de l’Opéra, par Gaston Leroux. Here’s a few things about the book Erik:

- Yes, he has a name. It’s Erik.
- He’s over 50 years old.
- He has a hideous deformity
- He’s traveled the world and has endured decades of cruelty.
- He’s as much of a gentleman as his madness will allow.
- As much as he wants control over Christine, he’s pretty dang freaked out by her.

These get toned down to some degree in the musical, but they’re there. It’s the skill of the actor that unlocks the depth of them.

How does that equate with this?

I guess the Phantom got stage fright and asked his buddy Zorro to fill in?

When director Joel Schumacher looked at the story, I feel like he didn’t see a tale of obsession and tortured love; he just saw something he could make young and sexy, and seemed not to realize that sensual does not always equal sexual.

Way hotter anyway.

The film was pretty, but coldly so. I’m no fan of Emmy Rossum, who played Christine. I  love Gerard Butler to pieces, but I felt the direction was so bastardized even he couldn’t make it work. While I liked his voice, I disliked it in the context of the musical. Christine really does think the Phantom’s a celestial angel sent by her father. If I heard that voice coming out of my mirror, I’d either call 911 or ask it to coffee…not sit there quasi-hypnotized and take music lessons.

But you guys know me. I consider adaptations seperate from each other. My “hate” segment of the love-hate bit goes back a bit further. I’m OCD, I get on kicks, and I live vicariously through events because I feel like I barely live. Back in high school, when I was more into the musical than I am now, and the film was coming out, yeah I was way too OCD. I’d slack off from homework to browse forums; I’d photoshop wallpapers during class; and you’d probably expect to find some Hey Arnold-esque shrine in my closet. So when the movie came out and I disliked it, I was pretty bummed.

But the silly swatted dreams of a fangirl don’t cover everything. Another aspect of Phantom that riles me are many of the fans. Quote from a YouTube vid: “I wish I could share the Phantom’s pain! Christine’s so ungrateful!”

Ungrateful for not desiring a psychotic stalker who screams at her and has a life-sized Christine doll in his house? I don’t get the Christine hate.

Another: “I would have picked him over Raul any day, even if he did kill peole. He doesn’t know any better after all. He’s just lonely.” I’m not even gonna touch that one.

I see exactly why people sympathize with the Phantom. I do too. We’ve all been there — feeling unloved and unvalued. And, to a young girl, being ignored is just as painful as being rejected. But the naive silliness of preteen phangirls annoys me. Not wanting someone who wants you isn’t a crime. I’ve been on both sides of that shtick, and it’s a raw deal either way.

I also get miffed at the random hate towards Raoul, Christine’s lover. I see him constantly referred to as a pussy. Why? He braves a freezing underground lake for her and, when about to be strangled to death, begs Christine to let him die so she won’t have to marry a psycho. Yeah, total pussy. Poor Raoul, whose biggest flaw is lame-ass character development…even Andrew Lloyd Webber picks on him in the sequel, Love Never Dies.

But the biggest reason, the one I get a bit squirmy even mentioning, is that the story hits a few raw spots for me.

We’ve all felt rejected at some point. Story of my life. But what rubs me worse are the obsession and self-destructiveness of Christine and the Phantom. Those hit a little too close to home. When it’s performed right, the song “Wandering Child” sends chills down my spine, even though most consider it romantic.

Basically, Ms. Daddy-Issues Christine has gone to her father’s grave to sing about needing to move on. The Phantom appears atop the mausoleum (not hiding out like in the film) and sings to her. Christine begins looking blissfully possessed and walks toward her crazed, lovelorn stalker, until Raoul gatecrashes.

People tell me I think too much. I know I think too much. But when I don’t think, I tend to do stupid, self-destructive things. Blech. “Wildly my mind beats against you…” “You resist but the soul obeys.” Gah, shaddup.

But the line near the end that always gets me is this: “This haunted face holds no horror for me now. It’s in your soul that the true distortion lies.” Ouch Christine, that hurts. Melodramatic, hells yes, but I’ve always had the feeling there’s something about me that eventually pushes most people away. It’s there, regardless of all else, and I have no friggin clue what it is.

When I see a lot of people leave a good drama, they appear tired and emotionally spent. I’m not. I’m bouncing down the street. What a relief when someone else deals with all the drama going on in my head for once. Catharsis — screw child psychologists who dismiss it.

If tickets are cheap, I might see the crappy-looking sequel, Love Never Dies. Just so I can properly rant about it.

Anyway, coffee and choccies soon. And really yummy lentil stews.