The Pizza Text

When you think about it, internet dating is a lot like interviewing for a job. You comb through descriptions you are know are exaggerations, distribute personal information about yourself that is probably exaggerated, dress to impress, and (sometimes) pray for a call back that will lead a second date/interview.

Both are exhausting and require a thick skin. It also helps if you have a good sense of humor about the whole thing, as my friend *Audrey* does. Cue the story about Audrey and her pizza text.

Audrey has been on a particular dating site for a little while now. She has gone on dinner dates, wine dates, beach dates, and hiking dates. Audrey is very smart, funny, a great listener, authentic, and--this is important--very fit. So when *Vince* asks her out for a date at a wine bar, Audrey says, "Sure. Why not?"

Upon arriving at the wine bar, Vince tells Audrey that he has changed his mind about his venue of choice. Instead of hanging out at a wine bar, they should get pizza and ice cream instead. Being the good sport that she is, Audrey says this sounds like a good time.

There they are, eating pizza (Vince = a couple of slices / Audrey = one slice) and covering the usual first-date topics. The date ends, and Vince tells Audrey that he had a nice time and that he would like to see her again. Truthfully, Audrey tells Vince that she will be traveling over the next several weeks. She suggests that maybe they meet up for a bicycle ride in two month's time when she is back in town for a weekend.

Two months pass and Vince texts Audrey about meeting up for a bike ride. That day, over lunch at work, Audrey tells the story of Vince and their pizza date to a small group of coworkers and asks for advice on how to proceed. You see, Audrey really wasn't that into Vince. She hoped that her being away for two months might allow him to get distracted and move on, forgetting about that whole bicycle thing.

A couple of our male coworkers counsel Audrey on the situation. "Don't lead him on," they say. "Be up front about not feeling a connection," they advise.

So Audrey calls Vince and thanks him for his text. She kindly explains that while she had a nice time on their pizza date, she didn't feel a connection with him. Vince says he usually gives people two or three dates before he decides if there is a connection or not. Audrey says she respects his time and thinks it is important that she is honest with him. They say goodbye.

An hour later, Audrey receives another text from Vince:

"You were very presumptuous just now. You really should go on a bike ride with all of the pizza you eat."

WOW. WHAT A GENTLEMAN. It's a wonder women aren't beating down his door.

A Weight Off My Shoulders.

Thanks to a hectic work schedule, a trip east and other commitments I made even though I hadn't the time, I have neglected my writing. In this absence of jotting down notes and stories, I have missed the revelations and feelings of purpose that find me when I write. So in the spirit of hopping back on the horse, I'm tackling a subject that I rarely speak of: weight. That is, my weight.

A few years ago I read an article about a very famous fashion designer who decided to lose quite a bit of weight a little later in life. I don't recall many details about the article (there might have been something about a ridiculous lettuce diet), but what I do recall is the sentiment this designer made about his decision to alter his lifestyle so drastically that every inch of his body was impacted. In short, he said that he desired to wear smaller clothes more than he desired eating sweets and lounging around. I'm totally paraphrasing here, but that was the idea that stuck with me.

It's been about 5 months since I found that same desire, and while my results have not been so drastic as to have been chronicled in a fashion magazine, my change has been noticed by coworkers, friends and family. And of course by me.

A strange mix of guilt and pleasure whirls through my mind each time I measure my progress by way of my reflection. I find a bit of joy in seeing my arms and legs advertise the results of my crawling around on the floor each morning to do exercises with names like, "the dying bug". And I feel victorious watching the pale marshmallow-like rolls of my stomach shrink. In all this, though, there is a sadness--maybe a mourning--for the chances I let pass me by because I was too self-conscious. For the embarrassment I felt because of my body. It's easy to just be yourself; it's much harder to actually love yourself. For this I am sad: that I haven't always loved myself.

In this process of change, I have noticed that I watch people differently than I did a year ago. Before, I looked enviously at women with smaller waists. Now I wonder what battles they fight with their own bodies. It's a curious thing to be a woman in LA, in America, in Western culture. You are celebrated for losing weight and whispered about for gaining weight.

So that is where I am now. I don't have a radical diet, and I don't go to the gym anymore. Instead I opt for water over soda, salad over bread, and I make it a point to get out and walk 4 or 5 times a week. I've also started minimizing time with friends who have been a drain on my mind and spirit. It's amazing how much better you feel when you don't have a Debbie Downer constantly moaning in your ear.

A funny post soon, I promise. But for now I hope this brings a wee bit of encouragement to someone somewhere.

Week In Review

Whew! What a whirlwind the past 7 days have been! The week started on Monday, as weeks usually do, with me *technically* starting a new job. I still work for the same boss, and I still drive to the same building I did last week, but this week the company signing my checks changed. More on this development later.

I've been a busy little bee with my beloved iPhone the past few days. Aren't you lucky to enjoy the proof here:

I've discovered a new place to walk after work. The view reminds me of how glad I am to have quit the gym.


The dog: Lady. The house: my fave.


I wish I could post the smell of these peonies online. The best smell in the world. With one exception--the smell of a huge wad of cash in my hand.


Lunch at In-N-Out with some peeps from work. Yum.


Artichokes in bloom. Yes, that's what happens when you just leave artichokes to do what they will.

The Funny Face With A Missing Mole

I'm beginning to think that I am God's very own comedy channel. Case in point: my visit to a new dermatologist last week.

I should clarify. My trip to one of the select doctors who specialize in treating "stars." This doctor has a skincare line and frequently finds his name in the pages of "Allure". There are a lot of these doctors to the stars, and they all seem to have offices on one of two streets in Beverly Hills. I once saw Goldie Hawn entering one of these buildings as I was leaving.

Anyway, back to the office visit. The staff seemed bored. That is until the visiting Neutrogena rep handed out full-sized bottles of face wash to each of the ladies. (Maybe Neutrogena isn't kidding when they say doctors recommend it?) After answering "no" to a bunch of questions about skin diseases, I was called into a little office at the end of the hall. An assistant who had recently scored two bottles of face soap asked me a few questions about smoking, drinking, cancer, and the purpose of my visit. I was there to see about a mole on my hip and some small moles under my eyes. Right. She said could see the moles under my eyes. This was a little confusing to me as the moles are not pigmented, and she was standing pretty far away from my face. "Wow. These people are really good," I thought.

45 minutes later, the doctor-to-the-stars came in. He, too, asked some general questions before saying: "Well, here's what we can do. We can take one off your face today. You can see if you like the results. And then we can go from there."

So I said sure. He numbed the area by injecting me with a needle...on my face. Then with a swift movement, one mole was gone. I was handed a mirror and asked to examine the results. My only thought was that it looked like the injection site was bleeding more than the site of the incision. This is why there are doctors to the stars! They are fantastic!

"We" finished off the visit by removing the hip mole (ouch) and going over the instructions printed a small slip of paper entitled "WOUND CARE". Then I made my way to the front desk where the ladies were still talking Neutrogena, and I made an appointment to return in 1 month.

Because I had been at the office forever and have recently embarked on the drink-as-much-water-as-you-can-possibly-stand challenge, I asked for the key to the loo. There in the dimly lit, marble-tiled restroom, I re-examined my face.

You can imagine my surprise when I looked at the mirror and realized HE CUT OFF THE WRONG MOLE!

All my life I have had four distinctive moles on my face, and now one of them was...missing. It was a moment so ridiculous that I laughed out loud, which was a bit awkward because half of my face was still numb. I felt like one of those stories where someone checks into a hospital with an injury in their right arm and wakes up the next day missing their left arm.

I called my mom after the visit to share the absurdity that was my Thursday morning. She gasped, then laughed, and we both decided that if this celeb doctor didn't notice those tiny moles, they certainly aren't a big deal. It was inevitable that the missing mole would one day have to be removed since it is there in plain view of the sun 24/7.

If I'm being completely candid, and why not at this point, the purpose for visiting the dermatologist that day was primarily motivated by my vanity. The small flesh-colored moles under my eyes are barely noticeable. But to me they are huge billboards that shout, "I'm turning into the crypt keeper!" If this doctor, with his huge magnifying glasses, didn't object to my tiny moles, why should I?

As for the missing mole, I'm surprised people still recognize me without it.

Coronas, Basketball and Topless Women: A Terrible Way to Meet People

I'm just gonna cut to the chase. At 30, being single isn't so much fun.

I don't normally talk about dating (or the lack thereof) or my faith, but last night I experienced something so ridiculous it was both hilarious and incredibly depressing. What to do with a story like that? Tell it to the World Wide Web!

I begin my story 5 weeks ago on a Monday night. My church--well I'm not technically a member yet because that process is lengthy and so involved that I half expect the pastor to ask me for a DNA sample--held a series on Christians, dating and sex and blah blah blah. I stopped attending lectures on the subject of being single a while ago; I'm practically an expert on the matter. But I'm new at this church that I'm almost a member of, and I thought this would be a good way to meet people. It was a good series; I learned a lot, not just about the wild world of being single, but about myself. So that was indeed a good thing.

To wrap up the series, the church hosted what I can only describe as a mixer for those who had attended the series. And so begins my encounter with Coronas, basketball and an illustrated poster of a topless woman.

I only went to this mixer (that's what I'm calling it even though I imagine this label would make the church staff cringe) because I have always griped about how churches never do enough to encourage people to meet. "Suck it up," I thought. "Just go and have a good time. At least you'll meet new people." So I talked a friend who doesn't go to my church and didn't go to the seminar into going with me.

We arrived about an hour after this mixer began and promptly ordered 2 Coronas from a surly woman in a low-cut tank top. The Lakers were playing and every.single.tv.in.the.place was blaring the game. My friend and I were talking (yelling) at each other over the roar of the crowd when several kind people introduced themselves to us. I haven't a clue as to the readership of this wee blog, so I'm just gonna say there was interesting conversation, dull conversation, a new friendship forged over a mutual love of coffee, a person who talked so much you couldn't get a word in edgewise, and a person who spit in your face when they talked.

My friend and I spent the evening smashed between a wall, the bar, and a beer pong table. From our viewpoint we could see the entire crowd, and let me tell you, it wasn't pretty. There was the single woman in her late 30's I met once who had that I-am-here-to-find-my-husband-and-you-are-competition look in her eye. She couldn't be bothered to be polite to my friend and me because she had a single pastor from our church centered in her crosshairs. I thought the poor man would be trampled by her at one point. Then there were the guys who so badly wanted to know if you were The One that they asked embarrassingly intimate questions before you had the chance to tell them your name. When it was apparent that my friend and I were not The One, these boys wandered off mid sentence.

At one point, my friend and I were actually having a pretty funny conversation with a guy I shall call John Coltrane. I was on my 6th or 7th glass of water when I turned into a total klutz. I knocked my friend's cup of water all of the floor, caught my jacket on a nail, and, much to John Coltrane's amusement, my wildly flailing hand slapped the bare boob of a woman featured on an old Buzzcocks poster. Turns out this poster was directly above my head the entire night. That might explain why a lot of guys constantly looked in our direction.

It was then that I decided I was tired. Tired of talking, tired of being claustrophobic, tired of wading through nights like this.

I haven't a clue as to why that "roofie bar" was chosen as the place to host a mixer for people who just finished a lecture series on Christians and dating. It was as though the church said, "let's see how well you swim when we throw you in the deep end without swimming lessons!"

I left that circus feeling incredibly disappointed and discouraged. I can only relate it to a line from a book I read where the author said something to the gist of Christians who try to date and follow God trade with a currency the world doesn't use anymore. If I can't meet like-minded guys at my own church, where else am I to go? Does no one else value the same things I value? Granted, I only met a few people, but the scene was so similar to the pub I used to go to. Only at that pub I wasn't shouting, and I was surrounded by friends--not people putting the pressure on to quickly determine if you were their wife before moving onto the next woman at the bar.

My gut reaction to that dismal failure of an outing was to quit. Why bother putting yourself out there when all you ever get is disappointment? But then I emailed this story to a friend and laughed so hard as I pictured the ridiculousness that was last night.

So while I will more than likely never go to another gathering where everyone has a target on their back (a.k.a. mixers for people without significant others), I'm not going to give up on finding someone who still trades in my currency.

Either that or I'm going to start trading in credit.

My Fashion Icon Cooks a Mean Irish Stew

On Sunday, "60 Minutes" aired an interview with Anna Wintour, the matriarch of the fashion world. The interview was interesting and safe. Ms. Wintour is an incredible editor--no doubt about that. She is perhaps the only woman who could tell Oprah Winfrey to lose 20 pounds and not get slapped in the face for it.

Every month Ms. Wintour tries her hardest to persuade me that someone like Giselle Bundchen, with her linguine legs and flat tummy, should be my fashion icon.

This morning, as I was pulling together a few cookbooks for a coworker, I chose my fashion icon. When I lived in Belfast, I watched Rachel Allen's cooking show regularly. Ms. Allen is from Ireland and teaches at the Ballymaloe Cookery School in Cork. In each show, she was laid back and often cooking with pink pots and spatulas. Even though I've never met Rachel Allen, I felt her clothes said a lot about her personality: detail-oriented; conscious of style without being obnoxiously trendy; feminine; authentic. I couldn't tell you what kind of personality Giselle has (she's usually photographed sans top).

So I declare the Irish chef Rachel Allen to be my fashion icon.


(I found this photo at nydailynews.com)

A New Morning Ritual

I've never been a morning person. I could very well stay up all night and watch the sun come up, but forget trying to wake me from a deep slumber to witness a sunrise. Lately, however, I've been waking up at least an hour before my alarm sounds. Minor miracle, people.

Because I'm not an early morning person, I don't know what to do with myself during this hour. For the last two weeks my mornings usually looks like this: wake up around 6am, stare in disbelief at my clock for a minute or two, put on an Edith Piaf album, and stay in my bed, wondering what people do at this time of day. When you're just sitting there, a fan blowing your curtains all over the room and Edith singing about love and loss, your mind starts to wander. This is about the time I burst out laughing.

Every single morning, without fail, I get an incredible case of the giggles. It is an odd way to greet the day, really.

Yesterday, I thought about how people use words incorrectly.

For instance, I once read a query letter for a novel about a character who tried to mustard up her courage.

And another time, a friend told me that she had an affliction for fast food chains.

I'm starting to look forward to my early morning laugh fests. Although, I can only imagine what my neighbors must think.