Yesterday, I was leaving the gym when I saw It. It has more scruff now but I could tell just by glancing at It that It's still an asshole.
I knew it would be trouble and I was right. I saw It, looked past It and did not register any recognition whatsoever. It totally stared at me with those deceptive little eyes. The blackest eyes. The devil's eyes.
I got in my car and drove home, a bit shaken but mostly just irritated that It's going to my gym now. That's my gym, fucker. Go to LA Fitness with the rest of the hooligans.
Sure enough, It texted me later. A shiver went down my spine. What does It want??? Can't It leave me alone? We had a horrendous, rageful, ridiculous run. Once I finally untangled myself from It, I was free and light. 160 well toned, muscular pounds lighter. Took me a long time to have It removed.
"Why don't you ever call me anymore?" It wanted to know.
It should have been asking, "Why did you spare my life?" or "What in God's name did you ever see in me?"
I thought for a while; I came up with some clever responses. I also thought I would take the high road and just ignore It, deleting Its text into outer space. Instead, I decided to tell It the truth.
"Because I stopped drinking."
Silence.
Perfect.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Open Letter to Some Bullies
Dear bitches:
You may have noticed that there is a lot of news focused on bullying these days. Tragically, some children are taking their own lives because of the way other kids are treating them. It’s terrible, isn’t it? This has made many of us think back to our childhood days, when we may have been bullied or have been the bully ourselves. You may be standing in your fantastic kitchen, watching Oprah and thinking to yourself, “I don’t think I ever bullied anyone....” But you did. You bullied me.
When I reflect on my bullying experience, I quickly recall My First Bullies, Amy Rosenbaum and Jacqui Eicholt, relentlessly pursuing me in the hallways of our elementary school to let me know that you thought I was fat and ugly. Amy, with your short stature and puckered little brace-face; Jacqui with your tall, willowy frame and pinched, harsh features. I’m pretty sure it all started when your little brother, Jacqui, was being a dick and I told him so. That really set you off. Had I known how sensitive you were about your brother, perhaps I would have chosen a softer descriptive, like “jerk” or “insensitive person.” But who knows, that still may have triggered such a harsh response. As we later came to understand, you were having some food issues that hadn’t yet manifested themselves. I really should have been more compassionate.
Make no mistake, you two weren’t the only assholes I encountered in my formative years. I went on to the horrors of junior high, where Amanda Arnold called my house every day and screamed a string of insults at me before hanging up. Poor Amanda Arnold. As a 12 year old, I didn’t fully grasp the urgency of your situation. Back then, it was difficult to be white trash in Golden Valley. Golden Valley, while neither golden nor a valley, was pretty middle to upper-middle class and as I recall, your family fell far beyond the acceptable parameters. I realize now that your aggression towards me had more to do with your own feelings of inadequacy and fear that you might end up on the pole some day. Times were tough for you.
By the time I got to my first high school, I was used to the fat jokes and the racist undertones of my white classmate’s comments. Meh; I found friends that liked me for who I was and I understood that high school was but a bump in the road. Tony Johnson, you screaming “fat ass” at me down the hallway barely fazed me. After all, I know now that your own metabolism was slowly coming to a halt and all those years of eating your feelings chased you like the echoes of “fat ass” down the Armstrong hallway and wow...they caught you. You also felt the need to grow a sad little mustache, which, if we’re being honest, isn’t the best choice for your face shape....
Truth be told, by many standards, I didn’t face that much bullying. I went to college, did a lot of things I’m very proud of and have many people in my life who love me. So, overall, not a big deal. But...I’m a realist. What does that mean? It means that when I run into you and you go, “Oh my GOD, Dresden Jones?! Wow, it’s been SO LONG since I’ve seen you! How ARE you?!?!?!” chances are my response won’t be, “Holy shit, Amanda Arnold! It’s SO GOOD to see you! What are you up to these days?!?!?!” First of all, I won’t have any idea who you are. I may be the only brown girl you went to school with but I’ve been surrounded by white folks my whole life and y’all start to look the same after a while. So you’ll likely get a blank stare, followed by rapid blinking and, “I’m sorry...do I know you?”
Then when you squeal, “It’s Amanda McCooter! Well, that’s my MARRIED name; you’d remember me as Amanda ARNOLD. We went to junior high together!” don’t be surprised if I raise an eyebrow. If you persist, don't be offended when I remind you that you were pretty much sucked balls when we knew each other.
Now, when discussing the hot topic of bullying with other adults, people have said, “That was years ago. None of that matters anymore. Besides, didn’t you ever bully anyone?”
- Absolutely, it was in fact years ago. But I’m not a liar. If you were an asshole, even if it was a hundred years ago, that’s what you are to me. I’m not going to pretend we were friends and that I ever liked you. Why are you doing that? Don't you think that's weird? Is it out of guilt or are you just really fucking stupid?
- Nope, I never did. I beat up a kid once for making fun of my sister. But I didn’t stalk him and call him names. I went to the playground, asked him if he was the little shit who was being mean to my sister and then I kicked him in the nuts. That was the end of it. To “bully” means to be habitually cruel and demeaning to a specific target or targets. I never did that to anyone.
Do I want apologies from my bullies? No; this isn't a romantic comedy. Would I change my experiences? No; we all grow and learn from our experiences and we come out the other end better, hopefully. But as you former bullies reflect on this topic of bullying, admit your mistakes to yourself don’t waste time feeling bad because you were a little shit; there are far more important things to do. Like loving the children in your lives and teaching them not to hate. Just because you were a throbbing little asshole doesn’t mean your spawn have to be.
Hope to never run into you at Panera,
D
Friday, October 15, 2010
My Hairs
God bless my poor, white, flat haired mother. It probably never occurred to her that marrying a black man would result in children with piles of curly hair. Her first child, my brother, came out with some soft, bouncy curls. Plus, he’s a boy, so it’s never been anything but short. Then came the girl children, with rolling hills of curly, kinky, often dry, growing all over the place hair.
My hair has been through many phases. Most hair has one, two maybe three phases. Mine has had at least 6.
The Original Hair Given to Me By Jesus
I imagine my hair grew in as all baby’s hair does: weird. Patchy and weird. But eventually, according to my Mother, it was glorious mounds of curls, which she promptly pulled back into ponytails or braids. Weekly, my mother would make me sit on the floor between her feet and she’d comb my hair. And I would scream. Scream. She didn’t understand that it was inappropriate to try and rip the comb through my hair as she did on her own head. Yes, I can totally blame her for this because I have proof that it was her inability to understand my hair: there are pictures of me sleeping peacefully while my black aunt gently and lovingly combs my hair. So there.
When I was 5, my mother decided she’d had enough and took me to the hairdresser. All of my original Jesus hair was chopped away, leaving a short little afro. Like Arnold on Diff’rent Strokes.
Arnold on Diff’rent Strokes
Suddenly, I was a boy. Despite my rapidly growing breasts and angelic feminine face, my short hair made me male. Other kids made fun of me, which was nothing new but shit—give a girl a break, white people. Also, my mother had two serious rules about my and my sister’s hair:
1. No playing in sand. Sand got trapped in our hair and honest to baby Jesus, my mother took a vacuum cleaner to my sister’s head more than once upon us returning from the park.
2. Don’t get your hair wet. Chlorine, specifically, is black hair kryptonite. Dries it right up. For days afterwards you have straw head.
The Arnold years were actually good because it allowed me to craft a very professional business plan at 8 years old about why I should be allowed to get my ears pierced.
Let Your Soul Glow
Ahhh the Jheri Curl. Laugh all you want, my white friends, but the Jheri Curl gave black folks that wet, loose look we all desperately wanted. To obtain this look, you must go to the hair salon where they put a softener on your hair to loosen the curls. Then they roll your hair with tiny little rods and put a solution on it to hold the loose curl in place. Yep—dumb.
I had a Jheri Curl in junior high and I thought it was fantastic. I mean, you had to spray about 10 ounces of Curl Activator on your head every morning. You also had to keep a bottle in your locker at school. A dry Jheri Curl isn’t loose and doesn’t move, which is what you want. Curl Activator smells like oil and bad, cheap perfume. It also ruins every shirt you own. Remember the scene in Coming to America when all the black folks get up from the couch and leave big oily stains where their heads were? I left big, wet, greasy marks on the school bus windows.
Ain’t Nothin’ Relaxing About a Relaxer
Eventually, we tired of having to keep our hair saturated with Activator. So we decided to get relaxers. A relaxer is a chemical process which literally damages your hair in order to eliminate as much of the curl as possible. These days, there are many types of relaxers. Back then, the most common type was a relaxer that contained lye, which is what they use to make lutefisk. It’s a very harsh chemical that can do a lot of damage. Thus, relaxers need to be “controlled.”
It starts with your hairdresser rooting through your hair to see how much growth you’ve had since your last relaxer. Then, she puts on gloves, gets a tongue depressor and starts smearing something that smells like swimming pool cleaner on your hair. It begins to tingle immediately but you ignore it: the goal is straight hair, goddammit.
Then you are left to sit while the relaxer literally cooks your hair—and your scalp. There are degrees of discomfort:
Then the neutralizer is rinsed out and your hair is painstakingly set in curlers. I have 7800 pounds of hair. This took forever. Then you are placed under a dryer. By this time, your butt is asleep, you’re starving and all you want to do is shave your head.
The end result is bouncy and curly. It swings and hangs like white girl hair and you leave feeling like a hair model. But Jesus Christ, do not go near water. If your hair gets wet, you are totally and completely fucked. Get caught in a rainstorm? Screwed. Someone throws you in the pool? Kill them. Have you ever seen a black woman whose hair gets wet? You’ve never heard so much shrieking and cursing, and for good reason.
A relaxer may also leave you with some chemical burns. No need to panic; your Mom will apply ointment to them and they’ll heal, dry up and flake off.
The Braid Parade
In high school, I decided that the white devil had conned me into thinking my hair was unruly, so I wasn’t going to get relaxers anymore. Fight the Power. With braids.
I got my first set of braids done by two morons at The Hair Police, Minneapolis’s only place for the best white people dreads, Manic Panic application and (allegedly) braids. The two white girls who braided my hair spent most of the 8 hours I was there discussing how hung over they were. In the end, one side of my head was braided in a completely different manner than the other side. I borrowed $200 from my father to look like a fucking idiot.
After that, I sought out the Africans. Braid Parade (not its real name but let’s protect the shady) offered quality braids done by real African women for a lot of money. Braid Parade was run by a man we’ll call Ray-Ray. Ray-Ray was smooth and charming and was always wearing a white Hanes undershirt, long baggy shorts, white athletic socks and Adidas shower shoes. There was no fanfare at Braid Parade; it was honestly a front room with nothing in it and a back room full of African women who didn’t speak any English and chairs. These ladies were very fast and very nice, even though they could have been telling me to go to hell for all I knew. But I paid Ray-Ray and Ray-Ray only took cash. I started to wonder if the women doing the actual work saw any of that money.
I never made any friends at Braid Parade. The other clients would come in with dry, extremely damaged over-processed hair that was all different lengths and on the edge of falling out. These women brought hair with them to be braided into what little hair they had. They would eye me, suspicious. And they would ask, “Is that all your hair?” I would say yes and they would instantly hate me.
I rocked the hell out of some braids for years. But when it came time to undo my braids and go back to Braid Parade, it took days and days for me to unbraid. I’d sit in front of the TV with a comb and painstakingly unbraid my mountain of hair. I hated it.
Oh, I Rode The Pony
After deciding I was exceedingly lazy, I went natural. But only via ponytail. I never wore my hair out. I slapped some Aveda Brilliant on my head and pulled that shit back. If I had a boyfriend, I even slept in a ponytail—God forbid he should find out that my hair is crazy. People were always asking me why I didn’t wear my hair down. I would occasionally and this is what would happen:
“OMG, I loooooooooooove your hair! Can I touch it?”
“How the hell do you get your hair so curly?! That’s amazing!”
“I would kill someone for hair like that. I hate my hair. I want your hair.”
“Did you get a perm?”
I went through a weird phase where I got my hair blow-dried straight every single week. But that got expensive and tedious. So I reverted to the ponytail. But this time I added a headband. Hot.
Now, I just don’t give a damn. I’m old and I pay taxes and my hair is my hair and I’m done trying to make it someone else’s hair. It’s big, it’s curly, it’s soft and it looks INSANE when I wake up in the morning. It clogs drains, it gets stuck everywhere. Old roommates have told me that my hair lived in the apartment long after I’d moved out. If you’ve ever hung out with me, you’ve probably taken some of my hair home with you. And isn’t a pile of dead, curly cells the greatest gift of all?
My hair has been through many phases. Most hair has one, two maybe three phases. Mine has had at least 6.
The Original Hair Given to Me By Jesus
I imagine my hair grew in as all baby’s hair does: weird. Patchy and weird. But eventually, according to my Mother, it was glorious mounds of curls, which she promptly pulled back into ponytails or braids. Weekly, my mother would make me sit on the floor between her feet and she’d comb my hair. And I would scream. Scream. She didn’t understand that it was inappropriate to try and rip the comb through my hair as she did on her own head. Yes, I can totally blame her for this because I have proof that it was her inability to understand my hair: there are pictures of me sleeping peacefully while my black aunt gently and lovingly combs my hair. So there.
When I was 5, my mother decided she’d had enough and took me to the hairdresser. All of my original Jesus hair was chopped away, leaving a short little afro. Like Arnold on Diff’rent Strokes.
Arnold on Diff’rent Strokes
Suddenly, I was a boy. Despite my rapidly growing breasts and angelic feminine face, my short hair made me male. Other kids made fun of me, which was nothing new but shit—give a girl a break, white people. Also, my mother had two serious rules about my and my sister’s hair:
1. No playing in sand. Sand got trapped in our hair and honest to baby Jesus, my mother took a vacuum cleaner to my sister’s head more than once upon us returning from the park.
2. Don’t get your hair wet. Chlorine, specifically, is black hair kryptonite. Dries it right up. For days afterwards you have straw head.
The Arnold years were actually good because it allowed me to craft a very professional business plan at 8 years old about why I should be allowed to get my ears pierced.
Let Your Soul Glow
Ahhh the Jheri Curl. Laugh all you want, my white friends, but the Jheri Curl gave black folks that wet, loose look we all desperately wanted. To obtain this look, you must go to the hair salon where they put a softener on your hair to loosen the curls. Then they roll your hair with tiny little rods and put a solution on it to hold the loose curl in place. Yep—dumb.
I had a Jheri Curl in junior high and I thought it was fantastic. I mean, you had to spray about 10 ounces of Curl Activator on your head every morning. You also had to keep a bottle in your locker at school. A dry Jheri Curl isn’t loose and doesn’t move, which is what you want. Curl Activator smells like oil and bad, cheap perfume. It also ruins every shirt you own. Remember the scene in Coming to America when all the black folks get up from the couch and leave big oily stains where their heads were? I left big, wet, greasy marks on the school bus windows.
Ain’t Nothin’ Relaxing About a Relaxer
Eventually, we tired of having to keep our hair saturated with Activator. So we decided to get relaxers. A relaxer is a chemical process which literally damages your hair in order to eliminate as much of the curl as possible. These days, there are many types of relaxers. Back then, the most common type was a relaxer that contained lye, which is what they use to make lutefisk. It’s a very harsh chemical that can do a lot of damage. Thus, relaxers need to be “controlled.”
It starts with your hairdresser rooting through your hair to see how much growth you’ve had since your last relaxer. Then, she puts on gloves, gets a tongue depressor and starts smearing something that smells like swimming pool cleaner on your hair. It begins to tingle immediately but you ignore it: the goal is straight hair, goddammit.
Then you are left to sit while the relaxer literally cooks your hair—and your scalp. There are degrees of discomfort:
- Tingling: No problem. A decent article in People Magazine will distract you.
- Burning, Stage I: Tingling turns painful. But not so painful that you’re going to tell anyone about it.
- Burning, Stage II: Ok, it’s starting to hurt. It’s a weird kind of sensation, like peppermint fire.
- Burning, Stage III: You’re squirming now and also sweating. Your hairdresser comes over to rinse you out and you say, “It’s ok, I can wait few more minutes.
- You’re Head is on Fire: You really shouldn’t ever let it come to this. This happened to me once when an idiot who had just learned to do relaxers put the maximum strength one on my hair and took so long to put it on that I was at Burning Stage III in about 5 minutes.
Then the neutralizer is rinsed out and your hair is painstakingly set in curlers. I have 7800 pounds of hair. This took forever. Then you are placed under a dryer. By this time, your butt is asleep, you’re starving and all you want to do is shave your head.
The end result is bouncy and curly. It swings and hangs like white girl hair and you leave feeling like a hair model. But Jesus Christ, do not go near water. If your hair gets wet, you are totally and completely fucked. Get caught in a rainstorm? Screwed. Someone throws you in the pool? Kill them. Have you ever seen a black woman whose hair gets wet? You’ve never heard so much shrieking and cursing, and for good reason.
A relaxer may also leave you with some chemical burns. No need to panic; your Mom will apply ointment to them and they’ll heal, dry up and flake off.
The Braid Parade
In high school, I decided that the white devil had conned me into thinking my hair was unruly, so I wasn’t going to get relaxers anymore. Fight the Power. With braids.
I got my first set of braids done by two morons at The Hair Police, Minneapolis’s only place for the best white people dreads, Manic Panic application and (allegedly) braids. The two white girls who braided my hair spent most of the 8 hours I was there discussing how hung over they were. In the end, one side of my head was braided in a completely different manner than the other side. I borrowed $200 from my father to look like a fucking idiot.
After that, I sought out the Africans. Braid Parade (not its real name but let’s protect the shady) offered quality braids done by real African women for a lot of money. Braid Parade was run by a man we’ll call Ray-Ray. Ray-Ray was smooth and charming and was always wearing a white Hanes undershirt, long baggy shorts, white athletic socks and Adidas shower shoes. There was no fanfare at Braid Parade; it was honestly a front room with nothing in it and a back room full of African women who didn’t speak any English and chairs. These ladies were very fast and very nice, even though they could have been telling me to go to hell for all I knew. But I paid Ray-Ray and Ray-Ray only took cash. I started to wonder if the women doing the actual work saw any of that money.
I never made any friends at Braid Parade. The other clients would come in with dry, extremely damaged over-processed hair that was all different lengths and on the edge of falling out. These women brought hair with them to be braided into what little hair they had. They would eye me, suspicious. And they would ask, “Is that all your hair?” I would say yes and they would instantly hate me.
I rocked the hell out of some braids for years. But when it came time to undo my braids and go back to Braid Parade, it took days and days for me to unbraid. I’d sit in front of the TV with a comb and painstakingly unbraid my mountain of hair. I hated it.
Oh, I Rode The Pony
After deciding I was exceedingly lazy, I went natural. But only via ponytail. I never wore my hair out. I slapped some Aveda Brilliant on my head and pulled that shit back. If I had a boyfriend, I even slept in a ponytail—God forbid he should find out that my hair is crazy. People were always asking me why I didn’t wear my hair down. I would occasionally and this is what would happen:
“OMG, I loooooooooooove your hair! Can I touch it?”
“How the hell do you get your hair so curly?! That’s amazing!”
“I would kill someone for hair like that. I hate my hair. I want your hair.”
“Did you get a perm?”
I went through a weird phase where I got my hair blow-dried straight every single week. But that got expensive and tedious. So I reverted to the ponytail. But this time I added a headband. Hot.
Now, I just don’t give a damn. I’m old and I pay taxes and my hair is my hair and I’m done trying to make it someone else’s hair. It’s big, it’s curly, it’s soft and it looks INSANE when I wake up in the morning. It clogs drains, it gets stuck everywhere. Old roommates have told me that my hair lived in the apartment long after I’d moved out. If you’ve ever hung out with me, you’ve probably taken some of my hair home with you. And isn’t a pile of dead, curly cells the greatest gift of all?
Friday, October 8, 2010
Turns out mustard IS a food.
Because I am a woman and have had many women friends, I have known several anorexics in my time. And I don't mean girls like Stacey Follis, my BFF in 3rd grade who was only eating disordered in front of other people and only for attention. I mean real, hardcore anorexics. And...before we go any further...I have nothing but respect for the A Squad. I know that eating disorders are very real, very difficult and not a joke. I was a member of the B Squad for a few months, on and off, here and there. But then I got bored.
I am also aware (thank you) that eating disorders are not about not eating or vomiting after meals. It's a patterned, disordered obsession with control. For years, we all believed that "bulimia" was an after-school special and "anorexia" was a Lifetime movie. Most of us now understand that it's a big fat continuum of messy psychology involving food, control, fear and past trauma. Great. Now that I've convinced you that I'm not an asshole, let's get to the point.
Mustard is a condiment, no? In the past I have reserved mustard for hot dogs and the occasional warm pretzel. As a child, bologna and cheese sandwiches tasted great with cheap, yellow mustard. It also works on a turkey sandwich or a hamburger. But that's pretty much where it ends. Unless we get into fancy mustard sauces but we don't have time for that.
One of my anorexic friends used to eat bowls of mustard, sometimes with celery sticks and sometimes just with a spoon. At the time, I didn't know she was anorexic; I just thought she was weird.
"Why are you eating mustard?"
"Mmm, I love mustard."
Yeah, nobody loves mustard that much.
As I got older and wanted to explore some of my own food issues, I turned to books because they contain a lot of information about things. Many of the books I read about eating disorders had a distinct mustard theme:
At dinner, I made it look like I was eating Mom's meatloaf but really, I was dipping the same piece in mustard over and over and licking it off.
"What have you eaten today?" My doctor asked.
"I had a cup of mustard for lunch. And 3 and a half grapes."
When David opened the fridge, he became enraged: the 47 bottles of yellow mustard were proof that I was up to my old tricks.
I remember thinking how weird it would be to get excited about mustard. It's not food, it's a condiment.
Then I started No Food for You, my lovely food program that contains very little actual food. That's not true; I eat all the time. I just don't sit down with a pan of lasagna and fork to watch Grey's Anatomy anymore. I am very faithful to No Food for You and it's been ok. An adjustment for sure but a necessary one.
The ladies at NFFY gave me a book with acceptable foods to eat when I am allowed (twice a day) to prepare my own food. Scanning the list of condiments, I was irritated that I couldn't drown my baked chicken breasts in salsa or ketchup and mayonnaise. I mean, I knew that going in but still. Suddenly, something caught my eye:
Mustard, yellow or Dijon: 1 tbsp or 3 packets
I can have three packets of mustard???? HELL YES. I put mustard on everything. I mix it with my two tablespoons of low fat, low calorie salad dressing and dump it on my salad. I have automatically increased the quantity--and taste--of my salad dressing. Genius. I put it on my bread-less veggie burger patties, my skinless, boneless, tasteless chicken breasts; I made a mustard sauce with herbs and spices and dipped my pan seared scallops in it; I even drizzled mustard on my asparagus the other night. Why? Because I can.
I finally get it. Mustard (and Market Pantry sugar-free calorie-free drink mix--Target's Crystal Light) is now a food group. Luckily, I've never been a honey mustard fan because No Food for You strictly forbids it. Apparently, you'll turn to dust, like a vampire that's just been staked through the heart. Or a scone you tried to heat up in the microwave.
I am also aware (thank you) that eating disorders are not about not eating or vomiting after meals. It's a patterned, disordered obsession with control. For years, we all believed that "bulimia" was an after-school special and "anorexia" was a Lifetime movie. Most of us now understand that it's a big fat continuum of messy psychology involving food, control, fear and past trauma. Great. Now that I've convinced you that I'm not an asshole, let's get to the point.
Mustard is a condiment, no? In the past I have reserved mustard for hot dogs and the occasional warm pretzel. As a child, bologna and cheese sandwiches tasted great with cheap, yellow mustard. It also works on a turkey sandwich or a hamburger. But that's pretty much where it ends. Unless we get into fancy mustard sauces but we don't have time for that.
One of my anorexic friends used to eat bowls of mustard, sometimes with celery sticks and sometimes just with a spoon. At the time, I didn't know she was anorexic; I just thought she was weird.
"Why are you eating mustard?"
"Mmm, I love mustard."
Yeah, nobody loves mustard that much.
As I got older and wanted to explore some of my own food issues, I turned to books because they contain a lot of information about things. Many of the books I read about eating disorders had a distinct mustard theme:
At dinner, I made it look like I was eating Mom's meatloaf but really, I was dipping the same piece in mustard over and over and licking it off.
"What have you eaten today?" My doctor asked.
"I had a cup of mustard for lunch. And 3 and a half grapes."
When David opened the fridge, he became enraged: the 47 bottles of yellow mustard were proof that I was up to my old tricks.
I remember thinking how weird it would be to get excited about mustard. It's not food, it's a condiment.
Then I started No Food for You, my lovely food program that contains very little actual food. That's not true; I eat all the time. I just don't sit down with a pan of lasagna and fork to watch Grey's Anatomy anymore. I am very faithful to No Food for You and it's been ok. An adjustment for sure but a necessary one.
The ladies at NFFY gave me a book with acceptable foods to eat when I am allowed (twice a day) to prepare my own food. Scanning the list of condiments, I was irritated that I couldn't drown my baked chicken breasts in salsa or ketchup and mayonnaise. I mean, I knew that going in but still. Suddenly, something caught my eye:
Mustard, yellow or Dijon: 1 tbsp or 3 packets
I can have three packets of mustard???? HELL YES. I put mustard on everything. I mix it with my two tablespoons of low fat, low calorie salad dressing and dump it on my salad. I have automatically increased the quantity--and taste--of my salad dressing. Genius. I put it on my bread-less veggie burger patties, my skinless, boneless, tasteless chicken breasts; I made a mustard sauce with herbs and spices and dipped my pan seared scallops in it; I even drizzled mustard on my asparagus the other night. Why? Because I can.
I finally get it. Mustard (and Market Pantry sugar-free calorie-free drink mix--Target's Crystal Light) is now a food group. Luckily, I've never been a honey mustard fan because No Food for You strictly forbids it. Apparently, you'll turn to dust, like a vampire that's just been staked through the heart. Or a scone you tried to heat up in the microwave.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Black Men and the Power of Noodle Roni
Remember when Pasta Roni was called Noodle Roni? Yes, it was before the Pasta Revolution of 1996, which changed everything. "Noodle", while fun to say, is considered low class. But back when I was a freshman at The University of Dirty Hippies, "noodle" was perfectly acceptable.
As a freshman, I stuck to a steady vegetarian diet of crap. No meat because meat is murder. But piles and piles of ramen, grilled cheese sandwiches, kettle chips, white rice with butter and cheese and other nutritionally vapid food. I got so sick of ramen that one day, while preparing yet another bowl, I started crying and screaming about how I didn't think I could handle anymore ramen. To this day, when I smell it, I get nauseous.
Noodle Roni, however, was a goddamn treat. If we had the money to buy milk, we could enjoy a creamy bowl of saucy noodles with our buttery grilled cheese. Because that's a healthy combination. What did we know? We were 18 and the "Carbs will kill you" thing was still years off. Plus, when you're high, you're not thinking that you should probably eat a low-carb, low-fat, sugar-free yogurt.
After arriving at UDH (and after being issued my rape whistle), I attended the first meeting of the Black Learners Association for Quality Unifying Education, or, BLAQUE. This is where I learned that dirty hippies and black folks don't mix. There were 4 people there. Including me. I never went to another meeting and I saw so few black people on campus, it was just like being in Minnesota. But I'm mixed, which means I can hang with the whites too. So it was all good. (Don't worry, this is all going somewhere.)
I had this friend--we'll call her Donna. I don't feel right using her real name because I am no longer in contact with her. So Donna it is. Donna was the most peculiar person I have ever met. She was tall--like 6 feet tall--and painfully skinny with paper-thin, pale, sensitive skin. Her hair was jet black and her eyes were a brilliant green. She moved like a cat--very quiet and graceful. Donna introduced me to Sebadoh and undiagnosed mental illness. Here's a good way to sum up Donna: if you were tripping on acid, you'd totally want to be at Donna's house.
The dangerous part about the UDH was that people who did drugs thought everyone wanted to do drugs with them. I was definitely a pot smoker but I stayed far away from anything else at the time, especially hallucinogenics. The idea of seeing shit that wasn't there or my friend's face suddenly melting off her skull while I was talking to her did not appeal to me at all. Friends would always say, "It's like opening another dimension in your mind. You should totally try it." No thanks, I'd say. And I stuck to my guns. Until one faithful night.
A friend of mine--we'll call him Ted--made a batch of pot brownies. Brownies? Delicious. Pot? Absolutely. Thus, I cut myself a big old piece and scarfed it down. A short while later, I started to feel...weird. One entire wall in my bedroom was covered with rave flyers from all the raves I did and didn't go to from 1992-1994. They sort of started...coming at me...especially the Halloween themed flyer, which was making me...uneasy. So I went to Ted's room.
"Hey Ted?"
"Yeah?"
"What did you put in those pot brownies?"
"Pot."
"Ok. Anything else?"
"No. Well...I mean, there are mushrooms in there too."
Great, thanks Ted. I would have freaked out but Stephanie, my faithful sidekick was there and when I looked at her, she grinned and said, "Let's go to Donna's house."
Donna lived in a house in the woods. It wasn't a random house in the woods, although that would make the story much better, wouldn't it? The University of Dirty Hippies offered several different types of housing. Steph and I lived in an apartment. Donna lived in a Mod, which was short for Modular Housing. The legend was, there was a failed attempt to make modular housing a thing in San Fransisco. When it didn't work, UDH bought up all the short, sound structures and used them as student housing. That's where Donna lived.
Stephanie and I arrived at Donna's house and immediately told her we'd accidentally eaten mushrooms. Donna grinned, her heavy eyelids half covering her green eyes. "Cool", she said softly. "Come on in."
I sat in a chair at Donna's kitchen table, wringing my hands. I was not good at drugs. When I was 12, I read a Sweet Valley High book about a girl who did one line of coke and immediately died. It scared the shit out of me. I was convinced that I would also die, suddenly and without warning, if I did anything harder than marijuana. Kudos, Francine Pascal.
Donna turned on the television. I stared at it but I couldn't tell you what was on it. Steph asked if I was ok. I said yes but it felt like a bunch of little tiny hands were pushing on me.
"Go to the bathroom", Donna said lightly. "It's, like, a whole other world in there."
Steph and I took her advice and went into the bathroom. I don't know what fascinated us but we were in there for a good 20 minutes. When we came out, I had a renewed sense of calm about the mushrooms. It was fun. My whole body was tingly and I could hear everything. There was a hum of electricity that ran through me and it wasn't scary; it was exhilarating.
"You guys want some Noodle Roni?"
It was a quietly asked question; just an afterthought, like, "Gee, maybe they're hungry."
Steph and I both reared up and said, "YES" with such ferocity that we might have been responsible for a tsunami that occurred some 3,000 miles away several days later.
Donna started making the Noodle Roni. I don't remember what flavor it was but it smelled like all Noodle Roni smells: creamy, buttery and carb-y.
"Hey", Donna said, lazily. "I dare you guys to go outside and scream 'whoever wants Noodle Roni, come to Mod 12.'"
Stephanie raced for the door, threw it open and screamed at the top of her lungs:
"WHOEVER WANTS NOODLE RONI, COME TO MOD 12!!!!!!!"
Then she came back inside and we laughed like it was the funniest goddamn thing that had ever happened anywhere in the world.
30 seconds after she did that, there was a furious pounding on the door. We all froze, our eyes wide with surprise. Our Noodle Roni friends had arrived.
Donna opened the door. Standing outside was a group of black men. I don't remember how many; could have been 3 or 27. As soon as she opened the door, one of them said, "Noodle Roni?!"
Now, had I not been on mushrooms, this would have been strange. Like I said, there were FOUR black people TOTAL at UDH. Where this group of black men came from is a total mystery. But because I was in an altered state, this was some spooky, spooky shit. I collapsed on the floor laughing, gasping for air. Donna politely explained that we only had one box of Noodle Roni. That displeased them; they grumbled about "people yelling they have Noodle Roni when they don't have Noodle Roni." After they left, I went and stood on the front porch, looking for any sign of them. Nothing. I never saw them again, ever. They were like unicorns. Hungry, black unicorns.
We ate our Noodle Roni and some other stuff happened but nothing as intense as the Noodle Roni incident. It's a story I try to tell people but I can never fully convey the absolute bizarreness of that moment. Maybe it didn't really happen.
Later, Donna became very addicted to meth and then heroin, which effectively ended our friendship. The last time I went to Donna's house, it was like an episode of Hoarders. I cleaned her kitchen and left and we never spoke again. I often wondered what happened to Donna. Stephanie apparently ran into her in New York City around 2000, where she was working as a bartender. She was off drugs and dealing with some mental health issues. Steph said she was really happy and that's all I can ask for.
Occasionally, I purchase a box of Pasta Roni, with its shiny new name, and I always think of Donna and Steph and that strange night. It still tastes good, only now I have it with a side of steak.
As a freshman, I stuck to a steady vegetarian diet of crap. No meat because meat is murder. But piles and piles of ramen, grilled cheese sandwiches, kettle chips, white rice with butter and cheese and other nutritionally vapid food. I got so sick of ramen that one day, while preparing yet another bowl, I started crying and screaming about how I didn't think I could handle anymore ramen. To this day, when I smell it, I get nauseous.
Noodle Roni, however, was a goddamn treat. If we had the money to buy milk, we could enjoy a creamy bowl of saucy noodles with our buttery grilled cheese. Because that's a healthy combination. What did we know? We were 18 and the "Carbs will kill you" thing was still years off. Plus, when you're high, you're not thinking that you should probably eat a low-carb, low-fat, sugar-free yogurt.
After arriving at UDH (and after being issued my rape whistle), I attended the first meeting of the Black Learners Association for Quality Unifying Education, or, BLAQUE. This is where I learned that dirty hippies and black folks don't mix. There were 4 people there. Including me. I never went to another meeting and I saw so few black people on campus, it was just like being in Minnesota. But I'm mixed, which means I can hang with the whites too. So it was all good. (Don't worry, this is all going somewhere.)
I had this friend--we'll call her Donna. I don't feel right using her real name because I am no longer in contact with her. So Donna it is. Donna was the most peculiar person I have ever met. She was tall--like 6 feet tall--and painfully skinny with paper-thin, pale, sensitive skin. Her hair was jet black and her eyes were a brilliant green. She moved like a cat--very quiet and graceful. Donna introduced me to Sebadoh and undiagnosed mental illness. Here's a good way to sum up Donna: if you were tripping on acid, you'd totally want to be at Donna's house.
The dangerous part about the UDH was that people who did drugs thought everyone wanted to do drugs with them. I was definitely a pot smoker but I stayed far away from anything else at the time, especially hallucinogenics. The idea of seeing shit that wasn't there or my friend's face suddenly melting off her skull while I was talking to her did not appeal to me at all. Friends would always say, "It's like opening another dimension in your mind. You should totally try it." No thanks, I'd say. And I stuck to my guns. Until one faithful night.
A friend of mine--we'll call him Ted--made a batch of pot brownies. Brownies? Delicious. Pot? Absolutely. Thus, I cut myself a big old piece and scarfed it down. A short while later, I started to feel...weird. One entire wall in my bedroom was covered with rave flyers from all the raves I did and didn't go to from 1992-1994. They sort of started...coming at me...especially the Halloween themed flyer, which was making me...uneasy. So I went to Ted's room.
"Hey Ted?"
"Yeah?"
"What did you put in those pot brownies?"
"Pot."
"Ok. Anything else?"
"No. Well...I mean, there are mushrooms in there too."
Great, thanks Ted. I would have freaked out but Stephanie, my faithful sidekick was there and when I looked at her, she grinned and said, "Let's go to Donna's house."
Donna lived in a house in the woods. It wasn't a random house in the woods, although that would make the story much better, wouldn't it? The University of Dirty Hippies offered several different types of housing. Steph and I lived in an apartment. Donna lived in a Mod, which was short for Modular Housing. The legend was, there was a failed attempt to make modular housing a thing in San Fransisco. When it didn't work, UDH bought up all the short, sound structures and used them as student housing. That's where Donna lived.
Stephanie and I arrived at Donna's house and immediately told her we'd accidentally eaten mushrooms. Donna grinned, her heavy eyelids half covering her green eyes. "Cool", she said softly. "Come on in."
I sat in a chair at Donna's kitchen table, wringing my hands. I was not good at drugs. When I was 12, I read a Sweet Valley High book about a girl who did one line of coke and immediately died. It scared the shit out of me. I was convinced that I would also die, suddenly and without warning, if I did anything harder than marijuana. Kudos, Francine Pascal.
Donna turned on the television. I stared at it but I couldn't tell you what was on it. Steph asked if I was ok. I said yes but it felt like a bunch of little tiny hands were pushing on me.
"Go to the bathroom", Donna said lightly. "It's, like, a whole other world in there."
Steph and I took her advice and went into the bathroom. I don't know what fascinated us but we were in there for a good 20 minutes. When we came out, I had a renewed sense of calm about the mushrooms. It was fun. My whole body was tingly and I could hear everything. There was a hum of electricity that ran through me and it wasn't scary; it was exhilarating.
"You guys want some Noodle Roni?"
It was a quietly asked question; just an afterthought, like, "Gee, maybe they're hungry."
Steph and I both reared up and said, "YES" with such ferocity that we might have been responsible for a tsunami that occurred some 3,000 miles away several days later.
Donna started making the Noodle Roni. I don't remember what flavor it was but it smelled like all Noodle Roni smells: creamy, buttery and carb-y.
"Hey", Donna said, lazily. "I dare you guys to go outside and scream 'whoever wants Noodle Roni, come to Mod 12.'"
Stephanie raced for the door, threw it open and screamed at the top of her lungs:
"WHOEVER WANTS NOODLE RONI, COME TO MOD 12!!!!!!!"
Then she came back inside and we laughed like it was the funniest goddamn thing that had ever happened anywhere in the world.
30 seconds after she did that, there was a furious pounding on the door. We all froze, our eyes wide with surprise. Our Noodle Roni friends had arrived.
Donna opened the door. Standing outside was a group of black men. I don't remember how many; could have been 3 or 27. As soon as she opened the door, one of them said, "Noodle Roni?!"
Now, had I not been on mushrooms, this would have been strange. Like I said, there were FOUR black people TOTAL at UDH. Where this group of black men came from is a total mystery. But because I was in an altered state, this was some spooky, spooky shit. I collapsed on the floor laughing, gasping for air. Donna politely explained that we only had one box of Noodle Roni. That displeased them; they grumbled about "people yelling they have Noodle Roni when they don't have Noodle Roni." After they left, I went and stood on the front porch, looking for any sign of them. Nothing. I never saw them again, ever. They were like unicorns. Hungry, black unicorns.
We ate our Noodle Roni and some other stuff happened but nothing as intense as the Noodle Roni incident. It's a story I try to tell people but I can never fully convey the absolute bizarreness of that moment. Maybe it didn't really happen.
Later, Donna became very addicted to meth and then heroin, which effectively ended our friendship. The last time I went to Donna's house, it was like an episode of Hoarders. I cleaned her kitchen and left and we never spoke again. I often wondered what happened to Donna. Stephanie apparently ran into her in New York City around 2000, where she was working as a bartender. She was off drugs and dealing with some mental health issues. Steph said she was really happy and that's all I can ask for.
Occasionally, I purchase a box of Pasta Roni, with its shiny new name, and I always think of Donna and Steph and that strange night. It still tastes good, only now I have it with a side of steak.
The DSM IV Should Add "Celebrity" to Their List of Personality Disorders.
After reading the 400th Facebook status re: "50 Cent told gay men to kill themselves", I got tired. I'm not even going to go into the fact that he wasn't actually telling gay men to commit suicide. I know it's something that is on everyone's mind right now but take a breath. Also: here is the larger point: why do you give a fuck about anything 50 Cent has to say????
Born Curtis James Jackson III, the man better known as 50 Cent has spent most of his 35 years getting arrested, getting shot and generally being a douchebag. I know we love it when black men go from thug to millionaire but Jay Z did the same thing and has never made a public comment about eating pussy. That's called inappropriate behavior and instead of patting him on the head and moving on, we turn it into a National Emergency. Everyone has a friend that is totally clueless; just a tool to end all tools. We'll call him Dwayne. When Dwayne says stupid shit, what do you do? You ignore him because he's a tool. Selling lots of records doesn't mean you know shit about shit.
"Osama Bin Laden is the only one who knows what I’m going through", said R. Kelly one fine afternoon. You may or may not remember that but it really didn't get that much attention. Why? Because R. Kelly has made a career out of craziness. Have you seen that Trapped in a Closet shit he did? It's insane. It is literally a psychological study in nuttiness.
People lost their minds when John Mayer said some whack-a-doodle stuff in an interview with Playboy. John Mayer. John. Mayer. A man with no taste whatsoever. All he has is a guitar and some sensitive lyrics about moms and daughters and wonderlands. People flipped out. They were so offended that John Mayer used the word nigger in an interview with Playboy. Remember Dwayne? Remember how we ignore whatever Dwayne says because he's a tool? The same strategy applies here. I don't like the word nigger either but it came out of John Mayer's mouth, which means it's got about as much worth as a used tampon.
I'm certainly not saying that we should look the other way when celebrities say racist, homophobic, sexist, terrible, horrible, no good, very bad things. But instead of spending all our energy creating Facebook pages to boycott 50 Cent, we need to remember that 50 Cent is a moron: he isn't being paid to make intelligent, unifying statements. He's being paid to be a stereotype, make horrible music and give white kids in the suburbs the illusion that they have street cred. And please don't use the "role model" defense because it's bullshit. If your kids tell you their role models are 50 Cent or Britney Spears or John Mayer, then you have failed as a parent. Yeah, I said it. Seriously. Does your kid ever open a book?
Born Curtis James Jackson III, the man better known as 50 Cent has spent most of his 35 years getting arrested, getting shot and generally being a douchebag. I know we love it when black men go from thug to millionaire but Jay Z did the same thing and has never made a public comment about eating pussy. That's called inappropriate behavior and instead of patting him on the head and moving on, we turn it into a National Emergency. Everyone has a friend that is totally clueless; just a tool to end all tools. We'll call him Dwayne. When Dwayne says stupid shit, what do you do? You ignore him because he's a tool. Selling lots of records doesn't mean you know shit about shit.
"Osama Bin Laden is the only one who knows what I’m going through", said R. Kelly one fine afternoon. You may or may not remember that but it really didn't get that much attention. Why? Because R. Kelly has made a career out of craziness. Have you seen that Trapped in a Closet shit he did? It's insane. It is literally a psychological study in nuttiness.
People lost their minds when John Mayer said some whack-a-doodle stuff in an interview with Playboy. John Mayer. John. Mayer. A man with no taste whatsoever. All he has is a guitar and some sensitive lyrics about moms and daughters and wonderlands. People flipped out. They were so offended that John Mayer used the word nigger in an interview with Playboy. Remember Dwayne? Remember how we ignore whatever Dwayne says because he's a tool? The same strategy applies here. I don't like the word nigger either but it came out of John Mayer's mouth, which means it's got about as much worth as a used tampon.
I'm certainly not saying that we should look the other way when celebrities say racist, homophobic, sexist, terrible, horrible, no good, very bad things. But instead of spending all our energy creating Facebook pages to boycott 50 Cent, we need to remember that 50 Cent is a moron: he isn't being paid to make intelligent, unifying statements. He's being paid to be a stereotype, make horrible music and give white kids in the suburbs the illusion that they have street cred. And please don't use the "role model" defense because it's bullshit. If your kids tell you their role models are 50 Cent or Britney Spears or John Mayer, then you have failed as a parent. Yeah, I said it. Seriously. Does your kid ever open a book?
Friday, October 1, 2010
I will pee all over your fire, my friend.
Many people in my life have told me that when they first met me, they were "intimidated." I never understood this. Is it because I'm tall? A person of color in a land of Scandinavians? No. I learned around Junior year of college that it's because I often lack the ability to censor myself. If someone is telling me something that I think is stupid, I would often say (in my younger years), "Well that's just stupid." Now, I also had the ability to tell them why it was stupid, so it's not like I was just walking around peeing on everyone's fire. But I didn't hold much--if anything--back. As I've gotten older and wiser--no. That's a lie. It has nothing to do with age. I worked for ten years in non-profits. I emceed rallies at the state capitol on Violence Against Women Action Day. I had heated discussions with chemical dependency counselors who didn't--or wouldn't--understand AIDS. I've taken police officers and nurses to task about their shitty handling of sexual assault cases. For ten years, I got paid to get fired up and tell people they were wrong. Now I work in the corporate world. I have learned (because I've been told to learn) how to have poker face in meetings where the discussion is ridiculous. It's easy, you have the fleeting, "What the fuck..." thought. Then you nod, even if you vehemently DISAGREE with what's being said because, let's face it, you are no longer dealing with life-or-death issues; just corporate nonsense. Then you look down at your paper and doodle because if you don't look away, you will accidentally give someone "Are you crazy" face. Through this forced learning, I have actually begun to apply this to other parts of my life. This is a good skill to have on first dates or when meeting someone's significant other. Because, let's face it: I'm not going to feel better about myself if I say to my friend's boyfriend, "You know, I'm not really interested in NASCAR but you seem to have an unhealthy obsession with it, which leads me to believe that we probably can't have a conversation about anything significant." Here's a healthy example: a few months ago, I got into a ridiculous argument with some 23 year old idiot about dreadlocks at a bar. I don't know how or why it started but it was fueled by many beers and cocktails. Just as I was about to get all Me about it, I said, "You know what? I'm going to buy you a beer." And I did. And he said thank you. And I felt good about myself.
But all bets are off when you get all up in my life and start fucking things up.
Random bar guy? Whatevs. Friend's lame boyfriend? Not worth it. Someone who unfortunately becomes a significant part of my life? Totally different. I have two roads: the low road where I make you cry real tears of sorrow; and the high road where I simply freeze you out and pretend you don't exist. Here's the thing: when you go away, please stay away. There is a real, valid, serious reason why I haven't talked to you in over two years. There is nothing good that I will say to you. I'm trying really, really hard to be a better person, I swear to God. But nobody's perfect. So I will take the high road. I will pretend you don't exist in an effort to keep my space as uncomplicated as possible. But don't push it. Because if you do, I have no choice but the low road.
But all bets are off when you get all up in my life and start fucking things up.
Random bar guy? Whatevs. Friend's lame boyfriend? Not worth it. Someone who unfortunately becomes a significant part of my life? Totally different. I have two roads: the low road where I make you cry real tears of sorrow; and the high road where I simply freeze you out and pretend you don't exist. Here's the thing: when you go away, please stay away. There is a real, valid, serious reason why I haven't talked to you in over two years. There is nothing good that I will say to you. I'm trying really, really hard to be a better person, I swear to God. But nobody's perfect. So I will take the high road. I will pretend you don't exist in an effort to keep my space as uncomplicated as possible. But don't push it. Because if you do, I have no choice but the low road.
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