Day 248: Emily Taught Me How to Cook.

For many years, I lived at the tip of a cul-de-sac in the Hollywood foothills, and Emily was my next-door neighbor. I resided in a two-bedroom apartment in a 50s-style building (think "Melrose Place" but smaller, and without the pool); Emily and her husband James lived in a regal little house built higher up and into the hill. They were dashing and elegant and forever throwing dinner parties, and I thought of them as the king and queen of the sac.

I didn't get to know them until the 1994 earthquake, when everyone in the sac huddled outside for several hours, nervous to go back inside. But once we connected, that was it. It was the first time I'd been close friends with a married couple, and the three of us got along beautifully. Emily was a chef who catered to movie stars and hollywood moguls, and between her sincere love of cooking and her stunning presentation, her meals were something to behold. For three years that I will always treasure, Emily, James and I spent a great deal of time together. I ate dinner at their house several nights a week, we talked endlessly about everything, we shopped, we watched movies, we tried new restaurants (she delighted in being mistaken for Emma Thompson, whom she strongly resembled, and given a prime table), and I became a staple at their large and frequent dinner parties.

In the process, I learned how to cook.

Emily taught me all kinds of things - how to choose food at the market, the order in which to prep and cook when throwing a dinner party, how to chop and present foods in new and interesting ways, how to turn everyday stuff in the kitchen into gourmet meals, and, perhaps most importantly, how to manipulate heat. Emily would change the oven or flame temperature constantly as she cooked, a master at making the outside crisp and the inside tender and succulent.

If only Emily had been as happy inside as her lifestyle implied. Behind the charming hostess front there swirled a mass of insecurities, which would have made her just like the rest of us except for the fact that she was emotionally fragile. She had a wonderful, generous heart, she was funny and quick-witted and she had an interesting mind, but she wasn't strong.

Emily's life took a turn for the worse when she took a job on a movie set, working as the private chef for a legendary actor who was both star and director. She was one of two on-set chefs, and the other was a whack-job who (among other things) dealt with the job's intense pressure and long hours by slamming endless amounts of cocaine up her nose. Emily, whose inner frailty rose to the surface under the job's stress, began to join her.

Over the many months it took to complete the film, I watched my friend crumble. She became loopy and disconnected, repeating herself constantly and asking questions that were either childlike or had nothing to do with the conversation. I was watching a train wreck in progress, but every time I tried to broach the subject, she would insist that everything was fine.

I became so concerned that finally, I took James aside and asked if he had noticed the changes in his wife's behavior. He was visibly relieved to talk about it and spilled his anguish. It was a painful conversation. A few nights later, when he and Emily were fighting, he said something like, "It's not just me who sees what's happening to you - why don't you ask Karen about it?" Emily came storming down to my apartment the next day, ripped me a new one for betraying her, and ended our friendship.

I was devastated, but my greater emotion was worry. Over the next year, I watched from a distance as Emily cycled through rehab (more than once), as her father died, as she began drinking constantly (this was confirmed when she drove her car into the cul-de-sac lamp post), and as James finally left her for another woman.

At one point, Emily reached out to me and wanted to resume our friendship, but I refused. I said it was because she wouldn't deal with her drinking, but I'm embarrassed to admit that the truth was far more selfish: It hurt too much to see what she'd become, and I didn't want to be around her. I wanted the old Emily back. I guess I figured there was time, and that eventually, she'd work it out and we'd reconnect.

I was wrong. Time ran out when Emily drank herself to death in 2004. She was 41 years old.

I was blindsided. I didn't think it was possible to go from casual drinker to death from liver poisoning in just five years. I felt both overwhelming grief and terrible guilt - I'd abandoned someone I loved when she needed me most. I cried at the memorial in quiet, wrenching waves, and when her sister read Emily's all-time favorite poem (Isabel, by Ogden Nash), the irony of a strong, fearless little girl slaying all was so pervasive I thought I was going to lose it. For many months thereafter, I thought about Emily on a daily basis.

After Emily's memorial, her sisters held an estate sale. I went to help, and was urged to take something to remember her by. I chose the old, cracked shelf that had hung over her stove, along with the white porcelain salt and pepper shakers that always sat on the top left (they'd belonged to her grandmother). The shelf now hangs in my kitchen.

I thought about Emily a lot last night when I threw my dinner party. I missed her, I wished desperately that she was still alive, and I tried not to beat myself up for failing her. I wish she had known how much I loved her.

Isabel
Isabel met an enormous bear,
Isabel, Isabel, didn't care;
The bear was hungry, the bear was ravenous,
The bear's big mouth was cruel and cavernous.
The bear said, Isabel, glad to meet you,
How do, Isabel, now I'll eat you!
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry.
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She washed her hands and she straightened her hair up,
Then Isabel quietly ate the bear up.
Once in a night as black as pitch
Isabel met a wicked old witch.
The witch's face was cross and wrinkled,
The witch's gums with teeth were sprinkled.
Ho, ho, Isabel! the old witch crowed,
I'll turn you into an ugly toad!
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,
Isabel didn't scream or scurry,
She showed no rage and she showed no rancor,
But she turned the witch into milk and drank her.
Isabel met a hideous giant,
Isabel continued self reliant.
The giant was hairy, the giant was horrid,
He had one eye in the middle of his forhead.
Good morning, Isabel, the giant said,
I'll grind your bones to make my bread.
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She nibled the zwieback that she always fed off,
And when it was gone, she cut the giant's head off.
Isabel met a troublesome doctor,
He punched and he poked till he really shocked her.
The doctor's talk was of coughs and chills
And the doctor's satchel bulged with pills.
The doctor said unto Isabel,
Swallow this, it will make you well.
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She took those pills from the pill concocter,
And Isabel calmly cured the doctor.

- Ogden Nash

Day 246: Day of Rest.

Blue, Grey and Cloudy - 2006

Day 242: A Cold Splash of Reality.

There are 123 days left in this experiment. That's roughly 17 weeks. Even if I were to lose 2 pounds in every single remaining week (not likely), I'd miss my goal by several pounds.

This realization (which came to me earlier today) was not at all heartening. In fact, it made me feel kind of queasy ... and I'm not feeling much better six hours later.

I'm well aware that I've totally slacked 0n the diet end of this experiment. Yes, I've lost 32 pounds (36 if you go by the Whiny Disclaimer on the right), but there have been way too many lame weeks in there to count (well, okay, I could go back
and count them, but I don't want to).

So, the question before me now is, "What do I do about this?"

Here are my options as I see them:

1. Liposuction.

2. Smoke a lot of crack.

3. Find a cause I believe in and go on a hunger strike.

4. Buy an antique torture rack and stretch myself until I'm 5'9".

5. Wire my jaw shut.

6. Pop Dexatrim three times a day.

7. Travel to Mexico, drink lots of water, return with a parasite.

8. Rob a bank and go on the run (literally, with no stopping).

9. Cut off my head (and maybe one arm - would that equal 25 pounds?)

I will admit to being rather intrigued by option #4 - and option #7 might actually work - but I suppose that in the final analysis, I can't wholeheartedly embrace any of them.

No, I guess I'm stuck with the following (and far more mundane, I might add) options:

1. Keep going, try harder, exercise more, and do whatever I have to do to make my deadline (can a person survive on nothing but leeks for two weeks?).

2. Extend my deadline until the entire 75 pounds are off. That would mean no pot until my weight dropped below 145.

3. Come Nov. 25th, be satisfied no matter what the results.

My head is swimming. I guess I need to think about this. In the meantime, well ...

I still like the whole "stretch me on a rack" idea.

Day 239: Day of Rest.

Scofflaw - 2006

Day 231: Ninety Minutes I'll Never Get Back.

Well, you can throw another lame date on the woodpile.

To be honest, my expectations for this one were low from the get-go. I probably shouldn't have even gone, but I told myself (as I tend to do in these situations) that I needed to give it a chance. Make sure I wasn't being judgmental. Keep an open mind.

When am I going to learn? Trust the force, Karen ... trust the force.

The reasons why the date bombed aren't even that important (her sloppy, ill-fitting T-shirt and decidedly unwashed hair was the least of it). After about 90 minutes, I couldn't stand any more. I managed a graceful exit, and that was that.

This latest yawner does have me thinking, however, about the pros and cons of internet dating.

Clearly, the best way to meet someone is through friends, or through a place you have in common (work, class, your apartment building, your church/temple/mosque/cult ...)

But if those places aren't yielding very many options (and trust me, if you're a girl dating girls, the pickings get a whole lot slimmer), you have two primary options: clubs and the internet.

I realize this may come as something of a shock, but I'm so not a club girl. Not only are they too loud for good conversation, basing initial attraction on appearance - especially in a setting like that - has its own set of problems.

I suppose, in the interest of fairness, I should add that I'm also not a fan of clubs because I'm not the type who ever gets noticed in a place like that. No, I need a language-driven, one-on-one stage in order for my spells to work.

With internet dating, the gamble goes the opposite way. You get overly invested in someone based on everything but physical chemistry, and more often than not, that's what's missing when you finally decide to meet.

Admittedly, when it comes to ferreting out cool people, I've had pretty decent luck. I've got a good gut (it helps to listen to it) and I screen well. I've definitely met my share of duds, but no one dangerous, evil or otherwise frightening.

Still, after dates like this one, I definitely feel down on the whole idea.

Maybe I should give the clubs another shot after all.

Day 228: When Slow and Steady Grinds to a Halt.

There's this great website called www.thinkexist.com that has a gazillion quotes organized and cross-referenced every which way, and every day, I receive their Quote of the Day in my mailbox. They're almost always interesting. (I also really like the interactive 'design a t-shirt with your favorite quote' link - there are tons of colors and shirt styles and you can make any shirt you want for as little as $14.99 plus shipping. I haven't ordered one yet, but eventually, I know I will.)

Today's quote was from Confucius, and it read: "It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop."

To be sure, I've gone very slowly with this weight loss. A veritable crawl, if we're being honest. I'm 35 pounds down from my absolute heaviest, and that's something to be proud of, but I'm well aware of how much better I could be doing if I had more discipline.

Still, I can live with slow and steady ... I guess.

What I can't live with is my more recent tendency to stop really trying altogether. For the last few weeks, I've taken Succeed and Slacken to an all-time high.

The sad truth is that I just haven't cared about losing weight. I've been having fun and feeling good, and the combination has left me indifferent toward my larger goals. I haven't been doing the weights program at all, and because I'm tutoring in the early mornings, I haven't even been walking. I'm not gaining weight, but I'm certainly not losing, either.

So ... what to do? How can I kick myself in the ass in a productive way?

I'm not sure what the answer is, but I have to stop this slide into apathy, and I have to stop it soon.

Day 227: Dog Beach Daze.

Beach + Puppy = Awwwww.

Dogs and beaches are a no-brainer. Never have I seen my dogs (or most anyone else's, for that matter) happier than when they're romping at the beach.

The fact that dogs are only legally allowed off-leash at one Southern California beach never ceases to annoy me. The fact that the beach in question is an hour from my house annoys me even more. (I've heard rumors about a second beach that's a mere 45 minutes away, but refuse to get my hopes up.)

And so, it was with great excitement that I set off for Huntington Dog Beach at 7:30 this morning with my Ex and three exuberant hounds (Denny, Sydney and Callie). A wonderful time was had by all: Denny chased the ball into the ocean until he became so exhausted he was delusional, Sydney barked at Denny chasing the ball until she was hoarse, and Callie alternated between following the other dogs around and wandering in somewhat aimless circles (hey, whatever makes you happy).

Denny in his element:


Sydney shadows Denny ...

Callie radiates beatific contentment.


As much as I love watching my own dogs digging life at the beach, though, it's just as much fun to watch all the other dogs. The array this morning was dizzing.

Believe it or not, the Great Dane is just playing.

Having four legs is overrated; pink is the new black.

Stick, plank ... What's the difference?

A chocolate lab can't bury his ball deep enough.


Finally, even Desi was ready to call it a day. We began the journey home, a trip that always includes a stop at the renowned Los Angeles institution King Taco. With a towering sign that beckons hungry drivers from the 5 Expressway Freeway, King Taco is impossible to resist. (Between King Taco today and a terrific dinner out on Friday with George, Jackie ands Teresa, my diet is pretty much shot this week - but tonight's not the night to beat that drum).

Five minutes after taking this picture, these particular King Tacos were history.

If Dog Beach were closer, I'd be there all the time (though I'd definitely have to curb the King Taco routine). Not only is Dog Beach free, it makes everyone who steps foot on it happy.

How many places can you say that about?

Every post deserves Cute Puppy bookends!

Day 226: The Day I Murdered Horatio.

If you turned the green horse into a pink and white elephant - and turned the prissy little girl into a headstrong little tomboy - well, you get the picture. Sort of.

There's a family photograph I've seen a hundred times, one taken back in the mid-'70s when we used to visit my great-grandfather in Cuernavaca, Mexico. In this picture I'm blindfolded, I'm wearing a colorful poncho my great-grandfather's Mexican housekeeper knitted for me, and I'm using a very big stick to beat a small elephant to death.

The elephant's name was Horatio, he had been my best friend for almost a week, and I killed him for his candy.

Being a lily-white kid from the East coast, I'd never even seen a pinata before that trip. When I met Horatio I was delighted. He was almost three feet tall, stood on his hind legs, and wore a pink tuxedo. Since I was the only kid on the trip (as an only child with no cousins, things often tended to work out that way), I promptly named my new friend, and we proceeded to have an adventure-filled week. Horatio slept in my room, sat by the pool while I swam, and rode in the back seat with me when we left the villa. I talked to him, I told him stories, and I wished desperately that he would talk back.

I wanted to take him home with me, but my mother made it clear that there was no way a rather large pinata was making the trip back to the United States with us.

Only one fact helped me accept this cruel reality: Horatio had a secret.

He was filled with candy.

My grandmother and great-grandfather had made this very clear from the start, and every time I felt sad about losing him, the thought of all that candy somehow balanced me out.

Finally, Christmas day arrived - the day Horatio would reveal his inner-most secrets to me (provided I attacked him with a stick). I said my final goodbyes, and when the hour arrived, Horatio was strung up on the patio while I was blindfolded and given the stick. With terrible conflict raging inside, I hesitated for several moments before finally giving in to the encouraging cheers of those on hand to watch.

My initial hits did nothing. The crowd yelled for me to hit harder ... harder! Finally, I smashed my pachyderm friend with all my might and heard his poor body crack open. I ripped my blindfold off, anxious to see the candy spill out ...

But he was empty.

Apparently, my grandmother and great-grandfather had failed to realize that Horatio was a "fill-it-yourself" pinata. There he lay, torn and broken, his death completely meaningless. (Question: Did no one notice that I'd been able to carry him around effortlessly for an entire week? Did they think the candy inside was silent and weightless?)

To say that I cried would be an understatement. Even at the age of nine, I knew there was a lesson in what had happened, and I knew it was a terrible lesson, indeed.

The memory of Horatio came flooding back to me earlier today when I was driving home from class and passed a neighborhood birthday party. A small child was gleefully beating a Llama pinata, one that somehow reminded me of Horatio.

I called my mother in hopes of securing the original picture of Horatio and I, but was told that old family photos are currently kept in boxes out in the garage. (The garage? You're killing me here, Mom ...)

Even though I can see the image quite clearly in my mind's eye, I'd give anything to see it for real right now. I'd love to study the little girl for signs that she was feeling mixed emotions; I wish I could see Horatio's happy face and curved trunk again.

Not surprisingly, I've haven't gone near a pinata since that fateful day in Mexico. I've just never had the heart.

Day 221: Meet My Crazy Uncle.

The "centerfold" of the 22-page booklet I received from my uncle today. He used blue string to literally weave a binding.

I began to realize my uncle was nuts when he started wearing his clothes inside out ("I don't like the way seams feel"), stopped cutting his hair, beard and mustache ("I want to live a completely natural life"), and proudly declared that while he loved sucking women's toes, his lifelong ambition was self-fellatio.

That was 30 years ago, and he's only gotten crazier (he's been talked into two or three beard trims in all this time, and recently claimed to have, uhm, achieved his ambition). His manifesto of sorts, which came in the mail today, is one of the strangest, funniest and most disturbing documents I have ever received.

Snippets from the booklet I received today. My uncle changed his name to "Magic Rat Boon" (M.R. Boon for short) when he was in his 20s.

I haven't seen my uncle since 1988, when I attended my grandfather's memorial down in Virginia. My grandmother had died several years earlier, so there was no one left there except my uncle - and it's not like I could have visited him even if I'd wanted to. After living in my grandmother's basement until she died and then my grandfather's basement until he died, he proceeded to bounce from one strange living situation to another. He was in a tent in someone's back yard until he was kicked out, then lived in a trailer with two obese lesbians until they kicked him out. I'm not sure exactly where he lives now.

My uncle hates to travel and doesn't like leaving Virginia, which is a good thing, because he hasn't been allowed to visit my family's house since 1984. Over the course of that fateful 5-day stay, he got caught sawing several huge limbs off a prize elm tree ("I wanted to dry my hair by burning freshly cut wood"), constantly smoked pot in the attic (which wouldn't have been so bad except for the fact that he inisted on extinguishing his joints by repeatedly spitting on them), hit on one of my friends in an unseemly fashion, bathed in the pool with soap, shampoo, and conditioner, and unscrewed the brass globes on either side of the fireplace screen and proceeded to "bowl" in the room that held my mother's antique asian vases and other irreplaceable valuables.

He once made noises about visiting me in California, but blessedly, it's too far for him to consider (let alone afford). He would, however, want to move here permanently if I had a basement for him to move into (again, quite blessedly, I don't).

Even when I was 6 and he was 16, I knew my uncle was somehow, well ... different. He was smart, snarkily funny, and (back then) terrifically handsome, with long blonde hair, bright green eyes, and high cheekbones. But he was always a little bit "off." He angered easily, had problems functioning socially, and flunked out of even the cushiest junior colleges. My grandmother refused to admit that her only son was severely troubled, so instead of getting help, my uncle was coddled and protected until she died. There was only one instance in which he was observed by professionals, in 1986, and he was immediately diagnosed as a schizophrenic. He refused all help and went on his way.

I was surprised to receive something in the mail today. For 25 years, my uncle has only sent me things on Christmas and my birthday. He uses old food cartons as boxes (presents stuffed inside, say, an empty box of Saltines), and these days, the "presents" are either old family junk he's had squirreled away or off-brand sugar-free cookies he finds at the 99-cent store.

A sampling of the old family junk I've received over the years.

For many years he sent me the pot pipes he made (and was always trying to sell), but he stopped making them a while back, and that was that.

Just a few of the many pipes my uncle has made me over the years. My all time favorite, though, is the rhinoceros. My grandmother brought the carving back from Africa, and my uncle dug a bowl in its belly and bored a hole in its ass to fashion a pipe.

The gist of today's communique seems to be that he wants me to turn one of his ideas into a movie or TV show. If I do this, he says he will give me 50% of the riches it reaps. While I fully realize that my uncle is a character worthy of a story, book, TV show, or film, I think my take on why he's so interesting is a bit different than his.

Then again, his letter is sprinkled with self-awareness (amid the overall delusion), so who knows?

In the bottom corner he writes: "Poor Boon He's so Dilluded"

Interspersed with his basic plea to turn his ideas into Hollywood gold are various (and unrelated) musings and commentaries. Some are insane, some are kind of weirdly brilliant, and some are both.

I suppose every family has at least one oddball, be they a simple eccentric or someone with a severe mental illness. And there's no denying that my uncle's story is riddled with very funny details. But what guts me in the end isn't that he's a schizophrenic, it's that he's led such a lonely life. He hasn't seen me since 1988 - and we speak maybe three times a year - and yet I'm the one he sends his hopes and dreams.

Yeah, my uncle's story is pretty damn funny ...

Right up until the part where it breaks your heart.

Day 219: Training Day.

Do I have great form or what?
Yeah ... right. That's Sally, showing me how it's done.

The last time I worked with a personal trainer, it wound up getting very personal, indeed. Sophie (Day 78, Day 184) and I went on to become a couple for four years (she was my first girlfriend), and we keep in touch to this day.

There were no such fireworks when Sally came over on Thursday for the inaugural session of my new three-month weight training and exercise program (yes, she's hot, funny and smart ... but also straight and married).

No, there was just me and my mixed emotions - "mixed" because, as you all know by now, I absolutely loathe working out. I just can't stand it. Truth be told, I lay in bed for a half an hour Wednesday morning trying to come up with a plan to get the hell out of it (My wrists can't take it! I'm too busy! I don't want to!).

Unfortunately, it wasn't the trainer I'd have to face with my excuses - it was Grace. She's the one giving me this program, one that blends live monitoring sessions with remote webcam sessions. The idea is that after three months, you become self-sufficient and don't need a trainer at all.

Grace began the program about a month ago, and she's been thrilled with the results. When she suggested it as my birthday present, it sounded like a great idea (you know, in that way things sound great when they exist in some distant future you don't think will ever actually arrive).

Predictably, my enthusiasm began to wane as the day of the first session grew nearer. In the end, though, I knew I couldn't back out - not only would Grace kill me, I'd have to look in the mirror every day and know what a p#$%y I was.

(Have I mentioned that beneath all this fear and loathing I really appreciate the birthday present? Seriously. I do. Thank you, Grace.)

So, there I was on Thursday, trying not to embarrass myself as Sally cycled me through crunches, lunges, leg lifts, presses, and curls. There were weights and everything. I think I may have looked stupid. I tried not to care.

I cared.

After that nightmare was over (I mean, is there anything more painfully torturous than a lunge??), it was on to a stretching routine (which was actually kind of nice). In general, that's all to be followed by 20 minutes of cardio (which, in my case, means a walk up the Elysian trails or a prolonged ride on the Bongo Board. If you're laughing, well, you can just stop - that Bongo Board totally takes it out of you.)

Anyway, I did the entire workout alone for the first time yesterday, and I have to admit, it was a lot easier with Sally there telling me what to do (and making sure I did it). The idea that I have to do this four times a week is just a little bit daunting.

Okay, it's a lot daunting.

I don't know, maybe I'll start to like it. I mean, that is within the realm of possibility ...

Right?

George takes a ride on the Bongo Board.