Let's Begin Again, Begin the Begin

A few weeks ago I was watching Oprah and her 25th Season hoopla. The episode featured food revolutionary Michael Pollan, plus a vegan lady who convinced Oprah to get her entire staff to go vegan for a week.

It was interesting to imagine a whole office of maybe 500 people going vegan at once. Did they really want to go vegan, or were they bowing to the whims and pressures of their powerful boss? Plus, how easy is it for Oprah to be vegan, given that I'm sure she has someone shopping for her and cooking for her. Along the same vein, how easy was it for her staff to be vegan, given that the Harpo cafeteria was serving delicious vegan meals, too.

Still, despite my doubts about how voluntary the experiment was -- and whether it was a good idea to spend a week as a vegan eating fake chicken nuggets -- I was intrigued by the notion of going vegan for a week.

First, I have had Michael Pollan's book, The Omnivore's Dilemma, on my bookshelf, waiting to be read, for at least six months. And, though I've passed on it numerous times in favor of Star magazine or some pulpy mystery novel, I like the general idea of his mantra: Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants. One of my unspoken New Year's resolutions this year -- in addition the annual resolution to moisturize more -- was to try to cook more, possibly with lentils. Becoming vegan for a week would force me to cook more.

Second, I like a challenge. I recently completed my Sarah Palin Workout Challenge 2010, wherein I agreed to work out a certain number of times per week. If I missed a workout, a friend of mine would donate $10 for every missed workout to Sarah Palin's PAC, or some other politician (I use that term loosely) that I would find equally loathable. I did this for about six months, and didn't miss a workout or donate a single dollar to SarahPAC. That ended a few weeks ago, and I could use a new challenge. What could be more challenging than being a vegan.

Third, I like challenges that only last one week. I may be type A, but I really enjoy quitting things. It's liberating. And highly underrated. One week is just long enough to feel like you accomplished something, and then you get to quit.

Finally, amidst the multitude of comments about bathroom habits and Oprah's declaration that Harpo went through a record number of toilet paper rolls, one male producer mentioned that he lost 11 pounds in one week as a vegan. Okay -- you got me. 11 pounds? Results may be atypical, and maybe this guy snacked on sticks of butter before his week as a vegan. But, 11 pounds is compelling stuff.

So, here I am, approximately one hour into my decision to spend a week as a vegan. I've got a file folder full of recipes, and almond milk in the fridge. I've recruited my friend Elin to join me, because she's the most disciplined person I know. (Or is it just that misery loves company.) I have a shopping list that involves chickpeas, squash, and two different kinds of lentils. And most importantly, I have a blog where I can share my travels through a cheese-less world -- and answer the question whether a cheese-less world is a world worth living in.

Don't Call it a Comeback

Earlier this afternoon, when I should have been fixing my garden or ironing my curtains, I decided instead to watch a little Saturday afternoon tv. Which really means I decided to take a nap.

When I woke up, tv still blaring, there was a movie with Ray Liotta and Kurt Russell and this long-haired Jane Seymour person, except it wasn't Jane Seymour. I just googled the movie and found out the name is Unlawful Entry. In the part I saw, Ray Liotta plays a crazed cop, and Kurt Russell and Jane Seymour, I mean Madeline Stowe, play a married couple who are being stalked by Ray Liotta. I don't know why he was stalking them, he just was. Presumably, that all was revealed while I was sleeping.

But, as I was watching the movie, I was thinking how that Madeline Stowe person was in a lot of movies in the 90's, but now I couldn't even remember her name. Also, what was the last movie Kurt Russell was in? Or Ray Liotta? I'll always remember Ray Liotta from Goodfellas. (Okay -- really, I'll always remember Ray Liotta from Corrina, Corrina.) Why don't people put him in movies any more?

I think his problem is that he's too good of an actor for a comeback. Putting Tony Manero, nee Vinnie Barbarino in Pulp Fiction as a hit man was a random genious move, given Travolta's prior work. (Xanadu, anyone?) Similarly, Mickey Rourke was so far down the road to Crazyville that when he showed up in The Wrestler, it was such a pleasant surprise. (Of course, it was like the part was made for him and the years of plastic surgery.) But, Ray Liotta is not such a crazy or superficial actor that putting him in a movie would seem brilliant or even ironic. Which is unfortunate, because I really would love to see him in a movie about the tragic downfall of a retiring professional wrestler. Or retiring ultimate fighter. (For that one, I suppose we'll have to wait for the comeback of Ed Norton.)

A Farewell to Arms

It's been a long time, my friends. For months, I've been content to pass on my random thoughts via Facebook. After all, it seems to bring more comments. I long doubted that there was anything that could bring me out of my self-imposed, blogging retirement.

But, I feel compelled to write about a recent incident I heard about on the Today show this morning. Apparently a man in Connecticut or somewhere thereabouts got his hand stuck in his furnace, and decided to amputate his arm to set himself free.

Now, I understand the story where the person trapped on a giant Mountain had to amputate his arm to free himself from wedged boulders to find help and escape the rugged mountain terrain. And, I saw the season finale of House where they had to convince some woman to amputate her arm to free herself from a collapsed parking garage.

But this man was trapped in his basement. He was tormented not by a fear of wolves or frostbite or oxygen deprivation. He was not trapped in the walk-in freezer at Sam's butcher shop. No, he was tormented by the microwave beeping about the food he had left in it. It wasn't winter, where there was a risk that the furnace might somehow burn his trapped hand. He was trapped in a basement in suburbia for less than 2 days. And, at the end of the day, he wasn't really able to amputate his arm and escape -- his friends rescued him. However, they apparently had to amputate his arm anyway.

I don't mean to be glib about this. Okay, maybe I do a little bit. But, I can't help but wonder whether this man would have ever thought about cutting off his arm if he hadn't seen the endless media coverage of others who have done this. I'm not saying that he did this for media attention. But, the idea surely came from media reports. And more than that -- what does it say about the modern attention span if one is ready to chop off an arm after being trapped in a basement for a day. What's the rush? Surely it's worth waiting a few days before removing a limb. This guy supposedly had a fiancee. Wouldn't you expect her to notice your absence within a few days? Unless she's in Canada, I suppose.

Never trust a big butt and a smile

Yesterday at work, I was talking on the phone to someone about a case I'm working on, when he somewhat randomly declared the following rule of life: Never trust a man in a cape.

I hadn't been expecting him to say anything about capes, because that usually doesn't come up in business conversations. But, I was impressed with his matter of fact style and conviction. And his follow up story about seeing a man in a cape at a poetry reading had me giggling.

Fortunately, I was able to restrain myself from actually discussing the merits of capes, or launching into my longstanding debate about capes versus cloaks. I agreed with the man about the omen of a man in a cape, although secretly I was thinking that a cape is so much better than a cloak.

Lately, I've been concerned that I'm no longer capable of having interesting small talk. (For the perfect example, I need only remind you of the dinner party crash and burn.) And I wondered whether it was time to bring back the old topics of cape versus cloak, or sherpa versus scribe, or my favorite -- what would whale taste like? (I had a theory that it would be like bacon, but later internet research proved it's like chicken.)

When I was clerking right after law school, I remember when we'd have conversations at lunch with the other clerks where it was not unusual to hear someone say something like, "The Constitution is a speedbump..." As much as I loved my lunch companions -- they sent me telegrams for my 27th birthday, how awesome -- another clerk and I used to beg everyone to limit their conversations to things that did or could appear in the purple section of USA Today or People magazine.

Now 10 years later, I somewhere lost the urge to talk about whales or monkeys with fezzes. Last night, at happy hour, someone started talking about a degressive corporate tax. I didn't even try to switch the topic to The Real Housewives of New York City. (Of course, I hadn't seen this week's episode yet.)

I suppose I'm maturing, but if this is 35, I'm not going.

If You Get Caught Between the Moon and New York City

I just returned from a whirwind trip up to NYC, my first trip back in almost a year. It was exhausting, but great, great fun. Good shopping, good food, and most importantly, lots of good friends.

While I was visiting, it was the first time I ever wondered whether I made a mistake leaving New York. On the whole, I've been pretty content since I moved to DC. But, I don't think I've ever been as happy in DC -- or had so many drinks -- as I was hanging out in NYC this weekend.

I have been mulling over it a lot in the past 24 hours, and I've reached the conclusion that it's probably not New York that I miss, as much as I miss all my friends. I was able to see a bunch of people that I haven't seen in over a year. And, there were still a number of really good friends that I wanted to see but couldn't figure out how to fit it all in. (Next time.) If everyone from NYC lived in DC, I suspect I'd feel differently.

Still, as I was driving back in to DC this evening, and the sun was setting, I noticed that the cherry blossoms were starting to bloom. I thought how soon I'd be able to lounge outside on my patio, which is something NY apartments didn't offer, unless you had a trust fund.

Of course, just as I was smiling at the thoughts of the cherry blossoms blooming and my tree sprouting new leaves, I stumbled across a donut that someone had left on my front steps. (Interestingly, they ate the outside layer of bread and left the entire inside -- which doesn't seem very easy to do.) I suppose I could have let the trash on my front step sour my fragile enthusiasm for DC, but I decided pastrys on your front door are a good omen, even if half-eaten.

Now I'm just left trying to figure out the mystery of how half-eaten donuts fit in with all the other trash that I've found on my street, such as the tequila bottles, cut-off shorts, and electrical cord. It reminds me of this bit from Sesame Street when I was a kid, where Sherlock Hemlock found a bunch of trash and tried to figure out what kind of twiddlebug party had gone down. I'm entertaining any unifying theories.

You Ever Been to Bonus Eye-res? I Hunger for the Argentines...

A couple of years ago, I hatched my Law & Order guest star theory: Whenever you see someone on Law & Order who is famous, but wasn't necessarily famous when the role was filmed, you can be sure that the almost-famous person is the killer. Time and time again, this has proven to be true. In fact, it's disappointing when you start watching the show, see Laura Linney, and realize who did it. (As if you didn't have it memorized already.)

So, I was watching a Law & Order SVU that I had recorded earlier in the week. Special Guest Star: Carol Burnett. I wondered if Carol Burnett would be the murderess. Because, I used to have a corollary to my L&O Guest Star theory, which was that famous people who showed up on SVU weren't necessarily the culprits, because who wants to play a pervy killer.

But Carol Burnett. The lady is has just enough moxy to agree to play a pervy SVU killer. I heart Carol Burnett. I love Carol Burnett. Not necessarily because of her show, or the later tragedy that was Mama's Family. I love Carol Burnett from when she played Miss Hannigan in the movie Annie. Other little girls dreamed of playing little orphan annie? I wanted to be like Carol Burnett and play Miss Hannigan. Much more character. Much more bathtub gin. In fact, I think the origin of my lifelong desire to go to Argentina is the duet that CB sings with Daddy Warbucks.

But I digress. I taped the SVU to watch Carol Burnett. I thought she could be a killer, or maybe not. And then. Then. I saw the listing that showed that CB's nephew was being played on the episode by special guest star Matthew Lillard. And then I was torn -- would CB be the murderer, or Matthew Lillard. Would my theory be blown to pieces by the two guest stars.

It all worked out well, though. Theory intact. Both of them were the murderers. And creepy as all get out. CB was a cross between Miss Havisham and Debra Winger in Black Widow. Matthew Lillard was like Tom Ripley crossed with Adolf Hitler. It was ridiculous. Check it out.



Creeeeep-eeeee.

Although that ice blue sweater is kind of nice.

Ham bone, Ham bone

My roofer was here this morning to install a new skylight.

Last year, when I lived in an apartment, I could never say a sentence like that, as I owned neither a roof nor a skylight. Now, not only do roofers come to my house, but I actually call them "my" roofer.

It's just like Eldin the painter on Murphy Brown. Which may actually be the best part of having a roofer. If I ever make a sitcom of my life, I'm set. None of my neighbors at my current residence are wacky enough to qualify as the wacky neighbor. But I've got a roofer (to be played by Tracy Morgan) who can come by periodically to do things, and maybe make a wisecrack or two at my expense. People who watch the show will wonder briefly why my roof is never done, but then they won't care because the roofer is just too much fun.

Anyway, my roofer, Bernie, was here this morning, and we got to chatting while he was touching up some paint outside my house that got marked up while they were putting in the roof a few weeks ago. (See why the roof is never done -- one project leads to another.) Bernie mentioned to me that when they were working on the roof, they were practically beating off seagulls. Also, the roof was full of chicken bones. (Isn't the mental picture just prime for a sitcome of my life?)

Bernie said that he thought that all the chicken bones were brought onto the roof by the birds. Which was a timely explanation, since my very unwacky friend and neighbor, Steph, had commented only yesterday about how many chicken bones her dog finds in the neighborhood.

Her dog is lucky, since most of my recent finds suggest something much more sordid going on my block. I hatched a theory last night -- when I couldn't find a parking spot close to my house -- that someone on the block was hosting late night parties involving chicken, tequila, extension cords, smirnoff minis, and possibly condoms. But my roofer shot the chicken part to bits. Apparently the chicken bones are from the birds, and who knows about all the other stuff.

But the weird things is -- where do the birds find all the chicken bones? And do they know that when they eat poultry what they are doing is akin to eating a second cousin once removed?