When all was said and done we went sledding.

I'm back. Returned from my unintentional, but much needed blogging hiatus. 

When my grandmother became sick and then suddenly passed, one of the first orders of business was to call Father Boyle, a priest who had a tremendous impact on my Grandparents--who had long called them friends, had married many of the children, and baptized even more of the grandchildren. He was not to be found. Vacationing in Florida, they said. When my Grandfather finally reached him, he said it was like telling one of his own children that Peggy had passed. He wept and lamented the fact that he had obligations within the church for the weekend and would thus be unable to attend the funeral. He called the next morning. Friday morning--the morning of the funeral. He had a ride to the cemetery. He would meet us there. But my grandmother had chosen to be cremated. No cemetery would there be. More discussion. And then at 9:30, an hour and a half before the funeral, my brother jumped in his rent-a-car-to-the-rescue (with my mom in tow as a gauge for his driving--he already had a GPS--what he needed was a speed measuring device with some humanity--after all he was to be carrying precious cargo) and sped off to Yonkers to pick up Father Boyle. We knew the funeral would be delayed. We alerted the priests. The funeral director. And so we waited. Twenty minutes. Forty. My Uncle Bill Sahnd turned to me and said, "It doesn't matter if everyone else leaves. It doesn't matter if we're the only ones left. Today is our day and we get to do what we want. If we have to wait hours, we will. We will wait. Because this is what your grandfather wants. And this is what he will have." And he was right. And so we waited. And when the mass ended Father Boyle, just about the most Irish man you could ever hope to meet, stood and spoke of how this week we welcomed in the nation's first family. But not too long ago in Riverdale, New York, the church of St. Gabriel's had their own first family: Charlie and Peggy and their six children--Chalres Jr., Stephen, Arlene, Patti, Jean, and Kevin. And so this week Peggy joined the true first family--the one above. It was a perfect speech in sentiment, structure, and length. And it meant the world to all of us. My Aunt Patti, who by God's good graces and the powers of fate had been visiting Pops and Peggy the weekend before, said that a child should never have to tell a parent that their spouse of sixty-one years is not coming home. Watching my grandfather as the casket was taken away was heartbreaking. Truly. But he's so strong. In a family where sentiments are swept under the carpet like breadcrumbs, he spent the week facing them head on. Opting for honesty and truth at all times. And while he may not know how to use the microwave just yet, he will. 

Just as we waited for Father Boyle, and put our needs before anyone else's--so too this week, did I. I allowed the sadness to fill me, wash over me, change me--take it's course so that soon enough it would change its form. And yesterday, after returning to bed (in part due to this ghastly cold going round) I woke slightly mended and ready to begin again.

I believe in an afterlife. The evidence to support it, is just too strong. And I believe that after a lifelong fear of traveling, my grandmother got to take the greatest trip--the greatest flight of all. When cousin Katie's plane, en route to Connecticut, reached its cruising altitude and the wings kissed the clouds, she turned to Aunt Sherri and said, "Oh Mom, it's so beautiful. Grandma's gonna love it up here." And I believe she does. I believe she does. 

It was so much harder than I ever imagined. But I wish I could remember everything. Every comment or story. Every glimpse into the past. So now while I try to gather up all those perfect and poignant memories, I'll leave you with these images...and the promise that the greatest images of this week could never have been captured on film...

1.

2.

3.

4.

The only thing you need to know so far: my grandparents had six children who then yielded many a grandchild. In total there's 30 of us (many with repeating names) so it gets confusing, but just in case you're curious:

1. the first night we got the slide projector rolling. most of the photos were of my father, the first born (sometimes that's how it works, isn't it)--he was an odd looking child, with an awfully big head; and you'll be glad to know the inability to take a straight-faced-photo had begun even then

2. my cousin mike (son of Stephen--child #2 of 6) and uncle bill (husband of Jean--child #5 of 6)

3. myself and my mother checking aunt mary beth's (wife of Stephen) head for her one gray hair; two cousin kevins (the older is the son of Patty (child #4 of 6) and the little one is son of kevin (child #6 0f 6)

4. my brother Connor, Popops and myself; and then John, son of Arlene (#3 of 6), Aunt Patty, and Connor

I'm in Connecticut...

...with my family...reveling in the love of all those people that bear a certain resemblance and similarity in traits. My grandmother passed away suddenly following a stroke on Monday. I'm gathering my thoughts and will blog when I return.

Tell everyone you love, just that...I love you,
Meg

Mmmmmm.

When you're feeling low, there's nothing like a brunch with the girls to lift the spirits. 

Oh and the ushering in of a new president. That's okay too. 

But both together, at the same time. Hot diggity. 

PS: I so liked A Cup of Jo's New Year's resolution (to dress more like a French woman) that I wore my stripes with pride today (even if they aren't slimming)!

My room abuts the kitchen. And since my curtain of a door doesn't provide much of a noise barrier, I'm in bed listening the whirl and grrr and rattle of the dishwasher. And I must say it's enormously comforting. As if I'm seven all over again, sandwiched between my parents, and rolling in their blanket of safety.  

Sunday night is no longer girl's night.

We had so much fun with Brian last week, we just had to have him back.

Angela made pasta and chocolate cake (with apple sauce instead of oil) and I just about ate myself into oblivion. Yes...it was that good. And then we watched American Idol, a show I've never seen. And so let me say this...I am a convert. Body and soul. That shit is funny. Okay? Seriously, I can't stop laughing. Two girls performed a rap that involved the line, "why to trying to stealing my cookie from me?" And I thought, yes girls, yes.

So the lovely Sheilia of Hawaii commented (and I quote) "I sometimes fantasize about being single again through your blog..." and so I sat back, sighed, and then patted myself on the back. Yes, yes, I'm such a good--such a model single gal. And then I flashed back on Christmas  break and my mom's loudly-voiced concern that I don't date enough. And let's be honest, part of being single (one of the best parts) is dating. And I just don't do it. Ever (besides the storied blind-date). 

So I pose the following question: Am I really, truly a single gal AND am I really, truly doing single gals justice if I don't shop around?

Let's look at the evidence:

1. Angela and I stayed in Saturday night watched Pride and Prejudice (love, love, love me the Mr. Darcy in the updated version) followed by Sense and Sensibility. 

2. I then  attempted to make oatmeal cookies using only splenda, real oats,organic puree pumpkin paste, and coffee-mate. I got sick about five minutes after my first bite (yes, Angela, you tried to warn me). 

3. As for Friday night... (a)I was something of a third wheel with Vic and Rob. (b) I cringed when Erin tried to introduce me to a boy (a very cute boy). (c) And I never got up the courage to introduce myself to the other cute boy I was crushin' on.

Okay, so that's a rhetorical question...of course I'm a single gal. But I'm tired of being the single gal who doesn't date. So ladies, hide your men because I'm hittin' the town. The good news is...I've gotten a job...at a restaurant...and it has a revolving door. A revolving door where men may enter perhaps? Oh boy, I sound a little raunchy. My point is...never too late to add an addendum to that New Year's resolution. 

Recession Special

Can't afford to go skiing?

Stand outside in the snow. Allow said snow to fall on hair. Then bring wet hair to mouth. Inhale deeply.  Next take out carmex lip balm and inhale again. If that doesn't put you right there on the mountain (care of the good 'ol olfactory's link with memories) then I don't know what to tell you.

12 healthiest habits: number eleven (socialize). Check.

I braved the cold last night to spend time on 85th and second enjoying the company of good friends (Rob and Vic pictured). Had some wine, laughs, and enjoyed surprising our lovely friend Jaron for his birthday. His girlfriend Erin managed to actually surprise him (throwing the party three weeks in advance of his actual birthday) and was able to fly in his best friends from San Francisco and Minnesota. It was worth the trip crosstown just to see his reaction. On top of that Vic and I managed to get some ideas out for a bachelorette party we're planning...our friend is getting married and we couldn't be more excited (so much more to come on that)! 

Happy weekend...get out there and socialize...after all, it's good for you!

PS: I stole Naomi's headband and I loved it!

For clarity's sake, this is the story of how I came to know Ned.

I was normal in high school. Well, as normal as any sixteen year old really can be. 

I remember when my hips had the first surge of expansion. Suddenly a skirt I had worn two weeks ago was tight across my butt. Wait a second, suddenly I had a butt. Panic first took hold, and then a certain amount of pride. After all, I had nothing in the chest region, so a butt was a nice kind of supplement. 

I remember in my Junior and Senior year I wanted to lose some weight. After all I was weighing in at a whopping 145 for my 5 foot, ten inch frame. What was a girl to do? (Let me just say right now that the healthy weight range for someone of my height is between 139 and 174 pounds). I casually dated the South Beach diet and got down to 140 pounds, but I couldn't break that 140 mark. I'd worry about it for a minute, but then I'd be off on the next adventure. In all honesty, it wasn't really surprising that I'd gained some weight, after all I'd pretty much given up sports for the first time in my life. So the daily regimen of swimming or softball, or rather the lack thereof was just taking it's toll. The point is...while I would have passing thoughts of losing weight, it wasn't really a concern. I was still thin.

I headed off to my first year of Juilliard. And every morning began with an intense 50 minute cardio class. Freshman fifteen? Ha, I would probably lose fifteen pounds! So imagine my surprise when I got on the scale at Halloween and got the spook of a lifetime: 162 pounds. Huh. And yet, I didn't feel I looked as though I'd gained seventeen pounds. I was still relatively happy. But nevertheless action had to be taken. If only I could get back to that 130 pounds from sophomore year. I know, I know 30 pounds when I thought I still looked okay? Ridiculous! But then again movies like Bridget Jones' Diary made 140 pounds out to be unacceptable. The question then became, how do I lose weight? I had notta clue. So thin and content had I been that I didn't even know what a calorie was. 

Going home for Christmas break was when Ned first showed his face in all his glory. I remember standing in front of my mirror. I looked at myself, thought I looked fine, and identified that as the problem. All my life I had been thin, so I still saw myself, identified myself as a thin person. Take a careful look, I told myself, what you see now is not thin. This is fat. 

There it was. I stood in front of a mirror and literally changed how I saw myself--I changed what I saw. And to this day I have no idea whether or not what I see in the mirror is a true reflection or not.

When I returned to school I attempted to lose weight by cutting out snacks. Unfortunately this also meant I cut out socializing. Going out posed to much of a temptation because more often than not it centered around food and drink. But I ate at meal time. And oh did I eat. I didn't know that peanut butter consumed in large quantities is bad. And I thought granola with chocolate chips was a much better alternative than chocolate chip cookies. But I exercised too. I walked in the park in the morning or did the elliptical for thirty minutes. So when I left my first year I had lost about eight of those added pounds. 

And then entered weight watchers. Points values for foods. Suddenly I knew the value of a calorie, and the true impact of all that peanut butter. It abolished my guessing game and that, in itself, was a tremendous weight lifted. It was easy, so easy. 30 minutes each day walking on the treadmill. 20 points a day. And one meal each week where I ate whatever I wanted. I lost 16 pounds and got down to 139 right as the summer ended. Maybe that was the problem. I didn't have the same surroundings and support system in which to learn to maintain the weight loss. Instead I was thrown back into school. 

Now don't get me wrong. I felt great. I didn't feel too thin. And I absolutely loved the way I looked. What I did not like was the constant attention. The probing remarks. "What happened to the other half of you," someone asked. "Oh you're just cold because you don't have any fat on your body," another girl remarked. And many, many, many people asked if I was healthy. And truth be told, I had never felt healthier. I was eating healthy foods. Really healthy foods. And then a boy I had dated the previous year said he couldn't even look at me because I looked so different. And my first year movement teacher (the one who conducted the cardio class and who knew I had body issues) told me not to worry because Moni (the second year movement teacher) would make me fat.

I'm not sure when the first one occurred, but it didn't take long. A binge. A short period in which I would eat an overwhelming amount of food. Then I would feel such guilt that I would climb into bed and fall asleep so that I didn't have to feel anything. I remembered all of them, at the beginning. And then it leveled off to Tuesdays and Fridays. Tuesdays and Fridays Ned would arrive and sink me under the surface. 

Sometime after (or before Christmas) I don't even remember anymore, I went to the school doctor and with an eating disorder pamphlet in hand, told her that I could answer yes to every question on the back. "No, no, you don't have an eating disorder," she said, as she lead me to a free school therapist. He didn't think I had one either. 

Going home for spring break it had become clear to my parents that something was wrong. At this point I was extremely depressed and had stopped going out all together. So I was sent to a new general practitioner. I told her of my plight. "You don't have an eating disorder," she said "You're just depressed, anxious." And she sent me to a life coach. 

Amidst all the denial Ned grew stronger and stronger. He showed up more often, for longer periods of time. And I gained back more weight than I had ever lost. 

Here's the important thing to take away from this, you know you're body. If you think something is wrong, or know in your bones that a diagnosis is wrong, keep fighting.

Sitting across from a friend, at the beginning of my fourth year, he asked me what was wrong. After some probing I proceeded to tell him and he in turn suggested a therapist connected to NYU who was specialized in dealing with artists and in dealing with eating disorders.

I met with her. And she listened to me. Really listened. And she believed me. And the first crack in Ned's impenetrable armor was born. 

I had reached out to teachers, school officials, doctors, therapists, friends, and after two years someone finally got the diagnosis right. 

It was a start, but it certainly wasn't the end. My mom came up three times during my fourth year to stay with me--to help me--to get me on track. And I would feel myself getting better, only to succumb all over again.

You see, Ned influenced ever decision of my day. What I would wear when I got up, what I would eat, whether I would exercise, whether or not I was strong enough to endure the day's class, what I would buy at the store. He was a tremendous drain on funds. The amount of money on waisted foods, ill-fated diets, talismans I bought in stores that I thought would serve as a symbol of my new resolve. He literally consumed me, leaving behind a shell of a person. I disappeared, went into hiding.

Meeting Dr. Bob was a big step in the right direction. He was the most knowledgeable person I had met. He knew exactly what it was and he talked about it in scientific terms. I have loathed science all my life, but these terms make it seem like something outside myself. Something that could be controlled. 

Part of the eating disorder is something called thought-action fusion. What this is, is the inability of the brain to distinguish between the actual thought and the subsequent action. I would have the thought of a binge and be absolutely helpless to then resist it. I would try, but it was as if something much larger than myself would drive me to carry it out. That's why docto's say, have the thought and then try to wait five minutes before you begin the binge. Next time see if you can go ten minutes. Then fifteen. By increasing the time intervals you are actually strengthening your brain and the brain's ability to distinguish the thoughts and the actions. The other thing Tom said is that while most people suffer from disordered eating, an eating disorder differs in that the person registers a lack of food as actual pain, and thus feels the need to eat to compensate for that. 

How did I develop an eating disorder? Well, probably a whole slew of things in my life and characteristics of my personality led to it. The catalyst, most probably, was the 20 point diet from weight watchers. 20 points is the equivalent of 1,000 calories, which is not enough for anyone, anywhere. I was literally starving myself. And the first time the body has this experience, it loves it. It starts producing endorphins like crazy, as if you're on a drug. But there is only so long the body can keep this up before it rebels and demands that foods be taken in. For fear of ever starving again, it demands huge amounts of food and the result is a binge. 

I'm not binge free. And I may struggle with it for the rest of my life. And yet, I have a sneaking suspicion that I won't--a hopeful suspicion if you will. Everyday I wake to find more of myself.

Writing down what I eat (with absolutely no judgement), allowing myself to eat what I want, when I want it, and exercising have helped me tremendously. Taking the emphasis off of losing weight--instead creating a lifestyle that I will want to live each day for the rest of my life has been key to any success I have had. However, the road to recovery is paved with pitfalls. Step backwards are in fact a necessary part of the process, so I'm chugging along. Sometimes forward, sometimes back, sometimes I don't even know where, but I'm moving. 

If anyone has any questions for me or wants to share their own story you are welcome to request my email in the comments section and I will be more than happy to get in touch with you. Your stories provide me with insight and power and are thus extremely welcome. Thanks to everyone for their support.

{I've changed my Doctor's name because all the information that he gives me and that I then pass on is presented through my own skewed lens, so I can't promise that its completely correct; I do not want to attribute things to him for which he could get in some trouble; and plus I haven't asked him if I can write about him}

A very belated thank you.

The very lovely shill, al la (love, shill) designs really gorgeous pieces of jewelry. I was so lucky that at the end of the year she sent some my way and yesterday I got to give Naomi her share of the loot. You know what really makes a tea party? Pretty, pretty jewelry. So thank you, thank you Shill...more pictures will follow for sure, but for now here's a sampling and a first attempt at using paintbrush (I learned to type in middle school because of instant messaging and I have a feeling I'm going to pick up design skills thanks to blogging!).

Check it out at love, shill

I knew Naomi had included a link to me...

...because all of the sudden I was getting many (many, many) more hits. She texted me to let me know that she had taken stolen some of my pics, so I stole them right back, because...well, look how cute she put them together. I got to figure out how she does that. And for now they'll be a permanent fixture in my right-hand column. After all, I'd like to believe six impossible things before breakfast. Everyday in fact.

Visit Naomi at taza-and-husband (if that isn't where you've just come from) because trust me, it will be worth your while. 

I did the unthinkable. I got on the scale.

I have a modern day dilemma. It goes something like this: why would I want to enter into an industry where everyone has an eating disorder, where in order to succeed one must be beyond thin? Is it possible to be a successful actress and live in one's normal body? 

Did anyone catch the globes? Did anyone happen to see Sally Hawkins, winner of the Golden Globe for best actress in a comedy or musical? Oh boy. All I can do is slowly exhale when I think about it. She was so thin. Emaciated thin. I will be the first to admit that I, like so may others, consider a thin body to be at the apex of what is beautiful. Not because society deems it so, but because I consider it so (well, but then I have to think about what influence society has on my own beliefs, etc. etc.--a whole pyschological probe that I don't have time to invest in today (and probably don't want to)). The point is, even I, in all my distorted splendor, looked at her and felt squeamish. And then sad. So thin was she that my friend described her as saying, "do not pass go, do not collect $200." I asked someone in the know, about the actresses there, 

"please tell me what are they doing--are any of them healthy?"

"Very few" he said. "Look at the actresses that you really respect, who's work speaks for them--those, those are the actresses who are healthy." 

"Cate Blanchett?" I asked, "but she's so thin."

"And yet she doesn't suffer form an eating disorder."

Oh. Oh. Oh.

So this morning I had a lovely breakfast with Naomi...

(trying to fill the necessary picture quota)

...and I said..."how can I go into a business where everyone suffers from it, but no one opens their mouth to say anything?"

And in all her wise glory Naomi said the following: "People suffer from it in the business, as well as outside of it. You won't escape it by choosing another career path. You're going to face it everywhere, you might as well face it while doing what you love."

And there it was, God's miracle: infinite wisdom in the form of my many friends.

Dr. Bob once told me that the actresses who handle the issue of weigh the best, are the ones who recognize it's just a part of their job. Just as executives are forced to wear a suit, so are actors expected to go to the gym and look their best. It may not be right, but it's part of the business. This makes sense to me. I can do this. It's like wearing a suit. And I want to wear a suit that I feel comfortable in.

I've made great strides in coming to terms with the body I have. That doesn't mean I don't want to lose weight. I've hid from the scale for...oh, I don't even know how long now. I've asked to not have my weight measured when I go to the doctor (you can do that--did you know? though if it's been a year, they'll make you climb up there anyway). I've stopped wearing jeans all together. And I've avoided cameras at all costs. So the other day, in an effort act courageously, I met my long lost friend, the scale. Yes, I know, you're wondering about my choice of the word, "friend". Well, the scale is just a feedback mechanism. And whether or not I like the number I see, the scale is just letting me know where I stand. Good friends do that, they tell you like it is.

Well, I didn't like the number I saw. Not one bit. But I didn't fall apart. And for that reason, I get to rejoice. And take action. More vegetables, more fruit. Less processed junk. Because in the end it's not about a number on the scale, it's about my cholesterol, and thyroid function, and resting heart rate. I want to be healthier. I pledge to be healthier. Here and now I pledge to embrace the long-forgotten  fruits and vegetables (mothers the world round can now rejoice!). And water, I can't forget water. I embrace health. And the power of foods that give me the energy to keep fighting the good fight.

And if the number on the scale goes down at all, well then that would be one of God's many miracles too. But it's not the point. And that is the point. 

God, grant me a miracle.

So that I can put one foot in front of the other. And keep moving. Forward, in whatever direction I needs go.

Sunday night is Girl's Night.

But in honor of the Golden Globes we let Brian into the fold. And ate tacos. And tacos might just become a Sunday night tradition.

Angela cooked. Brian brought cookies. And I photographed. 

While babysitting I read an article that might just change my life.

She offered to show me how the television worked. I assured her I could figure it out. And so I tried for a good hour. To no avail. Channel three? No. Input four? No. Oh hell, reading it would be. So I picked up Vogue. Yes, I went right for the challenging material. Picture, picture, caption....sigh. And then...I came across this: Vicki Woods Follows Twelve Habits of the Healthiest People in the World. Hmmmm...I liked the sound of that. And Ned, sure as heck, didn't. Perfection.

So it goes something like this:

1. eat a balanced diet; 2 cups fruit, 2 1/2 cups veggies, 5 1/2 ounces meat, 3 cups low-fat or non-fat dairy (you get the picture)

2. exercise (30 minutes cardio daily to maintain weight, more to lose; weights 3 times a week; and yoga or Pilates once a week for flexibility) 

3. cut down on alcohol (one glass a day at most)

4. cut down on caffeine (yikes!)

5. cut out all nicotine 

6. brush and floss daily

7. wear an SPF daily

8. get 7 to 9 hours of sleep each night (it helps ward off diabetes)

9. have regular sex with your partner

10. keep the mind sharp (puzzles, crosswords, etc.)

11. keep a busy schedule (this means socialize people!)

12. and finally...meditate daily 

So Vicki's goal was to follow these rules for a month, just in time to feel fresh and alive for the inauguration of Obama. I'm a bit late for that, but seeing as in about a month's time I've got some oh-so-important events (one of which is to retake my headshots and Lord knows I'd like to look fresh-faced and alive for those) I too will take the month long challenge. Each day I'll focus on something else and add in my own little goals (like making my bed--turns out it makes a difference) and I'll keep you all posted on how it goes and how Ned responds to the whole thing.

A storied evening, indeed.

So MJ (the usual roommate) has been away in D.C. working his cute little behind off in the broadway-bound revival of West Side Story. Last night it had it's out of town opening at the National Theatre (where it got its start in 1957) and I was invited to come down and take it all in. 

Having never seen West Side Story in any incarnation I was completely taken in by a story that is part of our cultural conscience and music that even non-musical theatre junkies like me know only too well. I was shocked by the shot that killed Tony. And deeply moved. And I can't wait to see it again in New York. 

Afterwards I was MJ's date for the party. I held his drink when needed and took pictures like it was my job, but in truth MJ didn't leave me for a second--he was the perfect gentleman, introducing me to everyone and making sure my glass was always full. I (who does not always thrive in these types of social settings) had a fantastic time and was wooed by the charisma and kindness of every single member of the cast. 

(that's my guy on the left)

Now for the mystery portion of my evening: Hugh Dancy was there. I know it was him. I know because I saw him head backstage right after the show (and bear in mind I had no vodka in the system to color my judgement). And he was there at the party. Right up until the bitter end when they turned the lights on and kicked us out. And he chatted with everyone (not me--I avoided like the plague (okay, well, the kind of plague that you hope nudges up against you) simply because I would have lost it). But the thing is no one else seemed to know who he was. And the girls he talked to said he spoke with a heavy American accent and said he was next off to work at the Alabama Shakespeare Festival. So much these girls believed this, that I started to doubt my judgement. But I know. It was him. And ladies, he really is as cute as you think he is.  Don't know who he is...google him...you'll know.

And now for the plug. Need to get to D.C., Boston, Philly? or to NY from one of those places? Take Bolt Bus lines. Every seat has a power outlet and the bus offers free wi-fi. Not to mention, it's only about $20 each way. I'm on the bus now, blogging away!

want a good review of the show? go here: Baltimore Sun

If Oprah did it...well then, gosh darn't, I'll give it a whirl. too.

This morning my December/January roommate Angela (destined to achieve a veritable brunette bombshell fame as I'll keep talking about her 'till I'm blue in the face...) inquired as to why it appeared as though a bomb had gone off in my room. 

Easy...I was sorting my laundry. The question she should have asked--the question that would have gotten me: why was I just now sorting my laundry? After all, I've been back in New York since the evening of the 31st. Tomorrow will be the seventh of January. What had I done in that time? Hmmm...very good question. Well, I'd seen a movie (Revolutionary Road..blah, don't get me started), picked up a pay check, made some returns, payed some bills, been a very good girl and gone to the gym every day but one...heck, I'd even done some decor rearranging in my room (jury's still out on whether I like the change, but to be fair I won't be able to tell 'till I pick up the splinters of my bomb site). Actually, this written list gives the false impression that I've been productive. I haven't been. Not really. I haven't done any of those things that I declared would get 2009 rolling. I haven't done laundry. Haven't cleaned my room. Haven't cashed in my 12 days of free YMCA in order to check out their pool. Or checked out the NY parks and recreation pool. Haven't slept at night. The only thing I have done that's taken some effort is to develop a mild case of insomnia. 

So yesterday. After getting out of bed around eleven (I'd fallen asleep at five (a.m.)) and eating nothing but cinnamon rolls, I was lying on Angela's bed watching Oprah. And there she was. Doing it. Doing what no one does. Talking about her weight. I know what you're thinking--people talk about it all the time. And you're right. But what they talk about is their tried and true diet of choice, or the latest exercise craze, or (and my personal favorite) cutting down any rumor of an eating disorder: Please, I've always been this thin. No, Brittany Murphy, you can't say that...we have proof. Clueless exists as actual, living proof that that was not the case. How unfair of me to single out Britt, she's not the worst offender, not by a long shot. Back to the point...there was Oprah talking about the shame, the guilt, the embarrassment, the struggle. And I sat in stunned silence shocked by her courage. And I thought, if Oprah can do, so can I. 

Because the thing is...I've started this new year off dictated more by my fear than anything else. And the really crazy thing is...it's a fear of success. Because this will be the year that I say goodbye to Ned for good. There's no question in my mind as to the veracity of this statement. It's just a matter of having the courage to say I don't need him any more. Perhaps the first small step (in 2009) to eradicate his existence is to introduce you to him...

Reader this is Ned.

Ned. Reader. 

Ned is my nasty little eating disorder. 

I read a book once that says if you give it a name then you separate it from yourself and this can be a positive tool on the road to recovery. Most people name their's Ed. I put an "N" before it. Thought the "N" was emblematic of my sharp, biting sense of humor. In truth, the "N" just helps me cope a little bit better. Ned sounds like a smaller, more diminutive man. 

I can already see the email from my father now. You shouldn't be blogging about this, he'll say. It's dangerous. There are nasty people out there who could use it against you. I say let them try. Chances are Ned will have thrown much worse in his day.

No, I'm not anorexic. And I'm not bulimic. I remember learning about eating disorders in elementary school. With the first you didn't eat anything. And with the latter you threw everything up. Well...no worries here. With my potent love of food and unimaginable fear of throwing up, I was safe. Untouchable if you will. Turns out only 18% of those diagnosed with eating disorders fit into either of those two categories. The other 82% are diagnosed as having a non specific eating disorder. 

At the beginning of my fourth year of school I was diagnosed as being a "non purging bulimic." But in all honesty I fall into the category of binge eating. In recent years binge eating has become a more recognized form of the disease--so much so that when you google search eating disorders it appears in all your results, but not so much that any order doctor knows how to diagnose it. 

The whole reason I'm now talking about this...is because no one really does. Not in open, public forums anyway. And because no one talks about it...no one understands it--even within the medical community it remains (in large part) a mystery. It took two years before a doctor could diagnose me. Two years of living with it and suffering...two years of asking for help and being told it was simply depression, anxiety--that if those things could be treated, than the eating would naturally correct itself. No one should have to endure that. So it's time for people to start talking. It's estimated that 24 million Americans suffer from the disease. And as obesity becomes an ever greater problem, the need to talk about the American relationship to food is at an all time high. For the first time in our country's history a large number of obese women are giving birth. Doctors don't yet know how this will effect the children, but studies conducted on rats suggest that the children born to obese women will suffer from slower metabolisms and a propensity for less healthy food. Thus the fear is: obesity as an epidemic is  likely to snowball even sooner than expected. 

The diet culture of America proves to be one of the greatest culprits. We're ruled more by a calorie count than the body's natural impulses. Dr. Bob (often mentioned in passing--he's an eating disorder specialist) was interviewed for a local NY paper. The question asked of him was what can we do to lose weight and be the healthiest version of ourselves? Based on his response the newspaper chose to pull the article since it went against all the ad space they sell--meaning his response was in some ways "anti-diet" and the ad space was bought up in large part by diet companies. Imagine that...a leading expert on how to be healthy and his response was not as valuable as the advertisements being sold. What Americans and the government will have to soon realize is that if we actually want to combat obesity and the onset of eating disorders then the dieting industry will either have to be eliminated or take on new forms. Just as we're now in the hunt for alternative energy forms, we have to realize it's time to embrace alternative methods to losing weight. 

Okay, so this post has gone on for entirely too long. And I recognize that some people may not appreciate the content. But as I am the ruler of this blogdom I get to write about what I know. And what I believe in. So if anyone is still reading this...I'll be writing about this more and my apologies if that upsets you...but it's a new year and it's time for change.

A College Degree?

I excitedly called my father a few nights ago.

Dad, Dad, you'll never believe it...George Eliot was actually a woman!

You see, I've been reading this great book entitled, Once Again to Zelda. It recounts the true stories behind those often cryptic dedications in literature's beloved and best-known works. The title refers to the tumultuous relationship between F. Scott Fitzgerald and his wife. 

It's a fantastic read and I'd highly recommend it. I mean really, these people's lives...you just can't make that shit up (pardon my oh-so-politely-placed French).

So my father says, Yeah...you didn't know that? Wow, that says a lot about your high school education. 

But the thing is I had a really fantastic high school education. I could talk about transcendentalism and romanticism till I was blue in the face. And then I could go on for a little while about Faulkner or Joseph Heller. Hell, I could even talk about Myth and Meaning and Joseph Campbell. But I did not know that George Elliot was actually a woman.

So after a minute my dad said, Yeah, I guess it actually says more about your college education.

So I'm left to ask this question: is a Bachelor of Fine Arts more of a euphemism than a degree?

"Tidbits, snidbits, and sniggles"

That's what came out when I asked my December/January roommate if she had any idea as to how I should describe our girl's night dinner. And it was at that moment that I knew I had lost the power of speech. 

Doesn't matter though. Because the cookbook I got for Christmas is changing my life. Watch out men, I'm learning to cook, and you know what they say...

Angela and I made an egg pizza. Eggs on a pizza dough crust with scallions, ground turkey, mushrooms and cheese.

And I was inspired by My Lovely Life to cap of all that protein with these bad boys...

Angela later declared them, the best cookies ever...

You know what that means...they'll be coming soon to a party near you. That is, if you invite me. Happy Sunday night, here's to a good first full week of 2009.

Today I donned an apron and attempted to domesticate myself.

Have you ever...

...caught a glimpse of someone and for one suspended moment thought you were living a completely different life? 

It's amazing. Bewildering, but amazing.

Look Mom, I cooked!

It's a new year indeed.

I'm so glad it's over.

I complain. A lot. Little things here and there. I caught myself yesterday and resolved to change this in the coming year. That being said, I feel totally justified in saying...I loathed 2008 and couldn't be happier to see it go. Oh, it had it's redeeming moments, but all in all I'm so glad it's over. There. I feel so much better getting that off my chest. 

I love the start of a new year. A fresh start built right into the calendar. What better post-Christmas gift could there be? I usually make more resolutions than one blog post could hope to hold. After all, this will be the year I curb spending habits, cut out the figure I've always wanted, commit to a relationship, backpack across Europe, write the next great American novel. But, it's been called to my attention that small changes sustained over a period of time result in the biggest payoff. That being said, the only resolution I'll write down (other than quieting my constant quips) is this...

I resolve to make exercise a priority. My roommate pointed out that I call going to the gym "being a good person." I'm off to be a good person I'll say. Or, more often than not, I don't feel like being a good person today. But this year--this year I resolve to be a great person, a changed person. I'm going to do it in the pool. Lap after lap I'll become better. Small changes, after all. While home in Houston, I prepared. I bought a reversible Speedo, a sleek swim cap, and those suction cup thingees known as goggles. I even took to the water twice in my final days and yes...wait for it...I feel different. 

Here's to a fantastic year in which we all resolve to be better people (in whatever form that takes)!

And now for some New Year's fun... 

People streaming away from Times Square. 

And a final self-portrait of 2008. Red lips and a short dress (not pictured)--trying new things every day!

I can't wait to see what 2009 has in store...