The Vegetarian Pendulum

I'm chasing my best running time. Even after incorporating sprinting, I still can't beat it. Today I managed my third best time. My best time was achieved last spring when I was in the height of IPA abuse and averaging 6 hours of sleep a night, so I'm at a loss as to how I scrounged up the energy to roadrunner through my neighborhood.

Monday I met my husband for lunch at Indian buffet. I hadn't eaten Indian buffet in ages, and it was nice to be in a restaurant with just as many vegetarian options as meat. I'm not vegetarian, although I probably should be because when I chew food and start thinking about the meat, and how it got to be in my mouth, well, my mouth fills up with saliva and my throat closes.

I only really like to eat hamburgers and hotdogs. Someone once told me these are the most common meats vegetarians eat when they decide to get back on meat because they don't resemble flesh. It seems stewed meats, like curries, would be desirable too since they don't really resemble body parts, and this is the case, if I were cooking it myself, but I find budget all-you-can-eat buffets too questionable in their quality of meat to dig in with gusto.

My husband asked, "Are you going to try the goat?"and I looked at him like do you know me at all, shook my head, and piled a second scoop of curry broccoli. Goat is something I can't get on board with because all I can think of is their psychotic looking eyeballs. Lambs have the same daemon eyes, so I pass on lamb too.

We ordered take out last week and Kiki took a piece of the lamb kebab. She kept asking questions,
"How do they get the fur off the lamb?" "Why is this lamb brown" "Would we turn brown if we were cooked." That is a very good question, I've wondered myself. Is human flesh red meat or white meat. I'm too scared Googling it could come back and haunt me. I'd get put on a watch list or it'd be brought up at any trail I might be a part of.

You see Alicia did commit the crime because she once Googled how to cook human flesh.
But I was only curious, I don't even like to eat meat! I'm innocent, dammit!!

Maybe were like chicken, and we have a bit of both. Anyways, she went on asking about the lamb, and I remained bipartisan on her meat questions, so she can figure it out for herself, and I didn't say, "Kiki, people don't talk about how the animal was slaughtered while they're eating it because it reminds them of the animal being alive, and possibly living in inhumane conditions, and with industrial farming and slaughtering, the images are so horrific it can be soul crushing.

I answered her questions, swallowing my last bite of chicken, and deciding pita and hummus would be enough for the night. I then ate a stack of pita that looked like a Denny's LumberJack breakfast as we talked some more about food, steering our conversation toward hummus and garbanzo beans.

After Indian buffet, I dropped my husband back off at work, went to the gym and ran four miles. Surprising to me, since I expected the two plates of food to slow me down, and that I'd spend the time power walking while watching the TV screens. It must have been the carbs, rice and bread covered in all the different sauces.
The IPA carbs last spring were probably what gave me the added juice for my best run time. After I finally decide to just be vegetarian, and spare myself the questionable meal times, I'll probably be ingesting carbs like I work a farm all day, putting me right where I want to be to beat this Best Time. It's haunting me, like sheep's eyes.

Tough, Like A Camel's Toe

A real tough guy

Way to go Fu Yuanhui for dropping the news that flow came to town the day before diving into the pool for the Olympics 100m. Periods never seem to fit nicely into people's schedules, putting a damper on tropical vacations, a really unfortunate pin in consummation, and depleting pro-athletes of stored energy.

The couple days at the start are often exhausting, and it takes its tool in other ways than physical strength. And I'm not talking run-of-the-mill PMS mood swings, what I refer to as my time of clarity, but I mean mind rattling anxiety. The day before I submitted summer grades, I was plagued by a student's ridiculous email after poor attendance and failing the final, that "we could work something out" so she could pass and fulfill her scholarship requirements to keep playing her beloved sport. I knew the email was like a cut and paste con game from an African Prince looking to quadruple my money, but I felt so troubled by the exchange that I wasn't able to think of much else. When my anxiety was peaking, and I began to think maybe I can't deal with some personalities in this teaching game, my period came, and with that so did peace of mind that this student didn't pass the class because she chose not to.

Two weeks after starting is the yin to the yang, balancing out for the wear of PMS, and there is a two or three day stretch where I'm the finest form of myself. Again, this is not just physically, although it's likely the day supermodels book their photo shoots, but mentally, and it projects as a powerful confidence. So when I'm walking around in the world, I feel like I'm a lady in a commercial everyone stops to look at as she goes by and the background music plays Oh Baby She's Got It. At least in my head that's how it plays out, and that's all I see, so that's all that matters!

This is the day I call Egg-Droppin Day, and it would be exceptional if I could put every important meeting of my life on this day of the cycle. I'd always be considered a great match/candidate/performer/all-around-go-getter/personality-plus/people-person/queen-bee.

I watched the movie Weather Man a hundred years ago, and I didn't remember anything about the story except for one teeny bit, but that teeny bit is tattooed on my brain because I think it's the most delightful line in a movie. Nick Cage's daughter is being teased at school for having a camel's toe, and when her grandfather talks to her about it she was oblivious to being bullied for her pants being crammed too far up her vag, rather she thought her classmates were complimenting her for being tough, like a camel's toe. I sort of adopted the line as a personal slogan. When I like to brag about being a bad ass, I casually say, "It's cus I'm tough, like a camel's toe," in an Italian accent. I drop the mic, and strut out of the room like Danny Zuko.

I start my fall term this Saturday. Happily, I'm not running into Fu's luck for my first day. I'm going to be in top form on the second week of the term, and that's my chance to really capture the crowd. In the past I talked about how I like to drag it up for class, and dress to unimpress as a way to maintain a wall between my students, but I've decided I'm going to quit dressing like I got lost in men's wear at Salvation Army and just be myself. Germaine Greer might think of my dressing like a butch mad scientist as a defense mechanism, a way to draw myself out of the gaze, so I can be taken seriously rather than mind fucked, and I would most likely agree with her.

My sister gave me a bunch of clothes when I was leaving Philly. She was going to give me some really nice shit, but I told her to keep it because I can't wear them to work. I laughed my ass off after she gave me an all-knowing nod and said, "Oh, the too pretty problem." A problem anyone faces who gets all dressed up, and then walks into a grocery store and feels like everyone is staring at her, and unless it's Egg-Droppin time of the cycle I am not equipped with the confidence for that kind of attention.

I know that clothing doesn't matter because attractiveness really does radiate from within, but when people initially see me and I look like a brain dead valley girl, then I have a bit of an upward battle with trying to make them take me seriously as I explain to them that I don't fall for email schemes where a semester of absences and failed exams can be fixed by completing a packet of miscellaneous handouts the last week of class. I'd be inundated with them.

This is all perception though, and it isn't really tough to think about what people think about me. But then again, how else does one become a tough guy without making people think she's tough and therefore caring what people think. Holy crap, where am I going with this? Goodnight, from a Camel's toe, a reluctantly pretty one.

It Is What It Is

The beginning of our two hours at a museum (with a lunch break in between)

I've heard this saying a lot lately, "It is what it it." Usually I hear it after someone describes a sad state of affairs or being, and then in an expression of acceptance of the undesirable they utter, "It is what it is." Even though it's not meant to be sad, but rather, bleak optimism.
I heard it from my mom a couple times last week, my sister this week, and even the lady who sat next to me on the plane when I flew to Philadelphia for the beginning of our family vacation.
We kicked off our trip by eating a Philly Cheesesteak at 1:00am after getting picked up at the airport. A decision that took four Evolution Green Juices to get me right again. After a couple days in Philly we went to New York City and spent two nights which I realized is hardly enough time to give my relatives a hug before having to leave town, so next time, we'll make it a week.
New York is the best. I'm not sure my kids would agree since they acted like they were lost in the Sahara, desperately seeking shelter and air conditioning, minutes after we'd start on our ten mile days.
Compared to their cousins, who everyday walk five miles on the Highline, obediently holding the sides of their baby sister's stroller, admiring the greenery and tourists without a peep of indignation, my kids looked like a couple of softies.
I see why no one is fat in New York, fucking walk your ass off all day. Waiting in a 30 minute line at Starbucks, something that would cause toe tapping annoyance elsewhere, is actually relaxing.

This is our first true "family vacation" since the kids were born and aside from the nonstop complaints about walking, there hasn't been chaotic meltdowns that cause my head to explode in public, where I end the day cleaning my brains off the wall, ashamed for loosing my cool. Things are only getting better from here, next year perhaps we can venture to the Italian coast, and the year after, Mount Fuji. I will shed tears of joy when we can roam though a museum spending four straight hours admiring the halls.

Tomorrow is our last day on the East Coast and were heading to Lancaster to gawk at the Amish.  My sister, who has taken us on a culinary expedition of the city, says we should save ourselves for Amish butter as well as their version of root beer, birch beer. We've eaten everything in Philadelphia with four or more stars on Yelp, and tonight I am so uncomfortably full, falling asleep seems like it might be a difficult task. I did a bad job "saving myself" for fresh churned butter.

Ten years ago a trip like this, Philly to NYC, would have ended with me on an airplane hungover with a bag of souvenirs I bought after spending those "museum hours" at a beer garden chain smoking and glowing in conviviality. I'd have read three mystery novels, slept in till noon everyday and made 17 new Facebook friends I would look at in my timeline ten years later and think, Who the hell is that dude. Instead, I'm leaving with a more sophisticated palate, further enlightened to the added health benefits of living in a walkable city, and I was able to squeeze in two hours at a museum, with a lunch break in between and four trips to the bathroom.

So family vacations get me closer to my goal of meaningful museum visits because were committed to doing cultural activities rather than self indulgent. Its for the better, and even if it isn't, it is what it is.

My Diamond Straps Are Pinching

Today I'm packing a suitcase with 14 days worth of clothes for me and the two little ones. George only has four pairs of shorts he will even consider wearing, where an elastic waistband is a must, and Kingsley has enough clothes for a couple four year olds.
I remember when she was a baby and I complained that I wasn't able to buy her clothes because we received so many clothes as gifts. I know. The audacity.
She was the first grandchild out of 11 kids, so when everyone heard she was coming they did what most excited people do, they went shopping.
When my little sister had her daughter, and I gave her Kiki's baby clothes, four enormous moving boxes, she was in shock as she pulled out clothes still with tags on them. We received much more clothes than she could even wear.
So I felt I didn't get the opportunity to represent my personal style with my kid because we were given all her clothes. Now that she's not the only grandkid, we've started buying her clothes, and I realized how stupid it was to complain about all the free clothes we got.
I also figured out that even if my kid let me project my fashion sense onto her, it would lack flair since I am too committed to the K.I.S.S. principle and her entire wardrobe would be $5 H&M little girls sundresses.
She starts school in the fall, and we bought her school uniforms last night. She became so excited in the store, she threw the biggest baby fit I'd seen her throw in a year, while trying to take her pants off because "it was too hot for pants" so she could put on the new school dress.

I've been thinking about how were going to handle this cross country flight, especially with George because he is a juggernaut and 6 hours in a seat will have its challenges. Luckily there is TV, and I bought fruit snacks, a fuck ton of fruit snacks, and not even the organic kind. Straight baby crack I can use during a moment of hysteria.
We are going to Philadelphia to see my sister, and then to Manhattan to see my brother, and ride the fish carousel. It's going to be so much fun. So complaining about George maybe acting like a monster is not necessary. It's like when someone complains how they have to pick up their house before the cleaning lady shows up, so the woman doesn't need to tiptoe over their dirty chonies before she scrubs the doodoo out of their potty.

It's an adventure, and on a micro level there will be some ups and downs, but on a macro level its heading in a positive direction, so it's all good, and I'll try not to complain as the diamond straps on my sandals are pinching, or when George does George on an airplane. Maybe there is a German word for complaints from the ebbs and flows of an awesome upswing, like how the humidity in the Caribbean makes my hair look like The Predators, or when I'm up three or four times a night taking kids to the bathroom. These are such great problems to have, they shouldn't even be considered problems.

George's insistence on elastic waistband pants reflects his positive outlook. He always wants to be prepared when life throws him a feast to get fat on, or fruit snacks.