Healthy Eating

I'm a conscientious eater. I don't eat meat and I buy local/organic/whole-grain/etc., and just generally try to make responsible choices about what I put into my body. Imagine my horror, then, when Kelley and I started dating and I gradually became aware of her daily eating habits.

Breakfast:

Lunch:

Dinner:

With a diet like that, it's a wonder she hadn't lapsed into a diabetic coma or that her bowel function hadn't ceased completely.

Yet again, Kelley had to count her lucky stars that she found me, because I know how to cook and I know how to balance a meal (thanks, Mom!). Together we began a delicious journey of food education.

Fortunately Kelley has an adventurous spirit and would try whatever I put in front of her, even if she had no idea what it was.


We discovered that she really likes tempeh:

"It tastes like tater tots!"

Beet+chard quesadillas with roasted red pepper soup were also a hit.

Late for a party that night, she shoved the last few wedges 

into her purse on her way out the door. They might still be in there.

At each meal, we talked about whether we had a good balance of protein, fats, carbs, vitamins, minerals, and fiber, and whether we we combining foods well (vitamin D to help calcium absorption, for example).

Finally, armed with her new knowledge of nutrition and her refined palate, it was Kel's turn to try her hand at making dinner. I waited in the living room, fairly gloating with pride at my expert instruction. I had no doubt she'd emerge from the kitchen with a beautifully plated, nutritious meal for us. 


Sadly, before we could reach that point--

SHE SET HERSELF ON FIRE.

And while trying to put herself out, she also burned up one of my oven mitts.

I had only myself to blame. In the course of teaching her about food, I neglected to cover kitchen safety. I didn't realize that she didn't know not to lean over the gas range while it was lit. (Or that a box grater would shred her knuckles if she wasn't careful. Or that frozen pizzas left in the oven too long will, you know, burn.)

So I'm back to doing the bulk of the dinner prep, though Kelley still insists on contributing one night a week: 

photos: Dunkin Donuts; McDonald's - Double Cheeseburger; Pad Thai

Home Alone

Last night, Erin left Troll Manor and I was home alone.

I repeat, Erin left the apartment.

She joined a community choir that rehearses on Tuesdays, and last night, that meant I had 2 hours at home to myself before going to an open mic night. (I’ve only had the apartment to myself once before, for about an hour, when Erin had a work event at a hotel down the street.)

Toby, the dog in the apartment across from ours, does a lot of loud, sad barking when his owner leaves. Last night, I understood how Toby felt. So we did some commiserative howling and Erin came home to this scene:

Plus also just a little urine.

Cleaning the Chrysler

Sometimes Kelley gets mental blocks about things. It takes her years to make medical or dental appointments, for instance, and she spent over a grand on D.C. parking tickets before finally updating her registration and plates.

Luckily, her tendency to procrastinate fits well with my skill at nagging. I'm willing and able to make her life an unbearable hell until she takes care of essential tasks. I go that extra mile for her because I love her.

I'd been "encouraging" Kelley to clean out her car for a long time, but so far she lacked the willpower to buckle down and get started. I couldn't stand to see her suffer any longer, so I simply declared that over the long weekend, we were going to get the job done. No room for discussion.

I knew cleaning the car, especially the trunk, was going to be an adventure. Kelley has been using her car as storage space since college, and the contents of the trunk and backseat had become a veritable museum of her early 20s.

While Kelley went to retrieve her car and drive it down to our building's loading area, I amassed supplies. I figured one shopping cart and a trash bag would be more than adequate.

Once Kelley pulled up and popped her trunk, I saw that I had made a horrible miscalculation. What we actually were going to need was a dump truck and some sort of crane.

We went to work. I started on the car's interior, clearing out CDs, shoes, dry cleaning, and traffic citations, while Kelley began on the trunk. 

Always efficiency-challenged, rather than just sorting things quickly (bear in mind it was, like, 5 degrees outside as we were doing this) , Kelley had to inspect and admire each treasure she brought forth from the trunk's abyss. She called me back frequently to admire her finds.

An awkward family photo.

An entire garbage bag full of sneakers.

A poncho from the Maid of the Mist.

A single tentacle from a homemade octopus costume.

A set of snowshoes.

Two bottles of wine and some vermouth.

A brick.

A bag of polyfil from that time Kelley thought 

she was going to make a pillow.

There was more.

So. Much. More.

But one hour and three frostbitten fingers later, we were nearly finished. Kelley crawled into the trunk to pull the last few books from the innermost recesses.

And for the first time since May 2009, Kelley would be able to retrieve her spare tire from beneath the floor of her trunk.

The car was clean! Sort of. It still needs detailing because there are dead leaves ground into the floor and it looks like a pterodactyl defecated on the back hood. 

But the worst was definitely over. I retrieved another shopping cart and we packed everything to take upstairs to our apartment.

All that junk is now sitting around our living room. Kelley has sorted out a few things she wants to give to Goodwill, but she hasn't touched the rest. I sense another mental block setting in. I'm going to give her a few days to rest before I start harassing dropping some gentle reminders...

Meat Cruise

For New Year’s, I left Troll Manor to take a trip with my mom and three sisters. Mom found a last-minute deal to Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, home of the “Girls Gone Wild” spring break videos and, I imagine, the source of two-thirds of Speedo International’s annual revenue. And when you find a deal like that, you don’t say no.

Ft. Lauderdale’s warm weather seems to be its main attraction; there’s not much to do around town. After about 10 hours there, I decided I missed my trolling partner-in-crime and asked my mom if Erin could join us. Because of my shameless begging powerful feminine charm, Erin booked a flight to come the very next day, but not in time to experience the crux of our time in Florida: Meat Cruise.

According to the website, Meat Cruise would be a sunset cruise along Ft. Lauderdale’s New River, aboard a riverboat called the Jungle Queen. Passengers observe the flashy architecture of the houses along the riverbank (“Millionaire’s Row”), then disembark for a buffet-style dinner and variety show, and finally sail back to the marina. Excited for a night of classy, family-friendly fun, my mom and sisters and I got dolled up and boarded the Jungle Queen. “Boarding the Jungle Queen” sounds like a euphemism for an especially filthy sex act, doesn’t it? OK now get your mind out of the gutter and stay with me, because boarding the Jungle Queen was just the beginning. Five passengers set sail that day for a three-hour tour.

A three-hour tour.*

This tour ended up being a pretty amazing case study of American excess. We didn’t cast off until after sunset, so in order to admire the aforementioned riverbank architecture, our ship’s captain had to illuminate each noteworthy house we passed with an industrial-strength handheld spotlight. As we sailed along, he’d talk about a property’s market value while pointing the spotlight into peoples’ dining room windows as they ate. Sometimes they seemed to know we were coming and would wave or act amused. (One old guy sitting outside tooted an air horn good-naturedly in response to the intrusion on his evening beer-on-the-patio routine.) Sometimes the captain would just light up an empty mansion for dramatic effect while relating an uncomfortable factoid about its current or former (alleged) inhabitants.

“On your left is the home of the CEO of the Sunglass Hut.”

“Up here you can see the mansion once owned by the founder of the Otis elevator company. I hear they’re getting a divorce and the property is going to the wife. Old man Otis really got the shaft on that one, heh heh. Get it? Elevator shaft?”

“This place on the right was owned by Bruce Willis and Demi Moore before they divorced. I always used to hope I’d pass by one night while Demi was rehearsing for her role in Striptease.”

In this way, we passed a pleasant hour of nautical trespassing on the privacy of America’s best and brightest, such as the CEO of Kohl’s, Gloria Vanderbilt, and the late Al Capone. We then arrived at Meat Island.

A sunset cruise needs an incentive; the fresh breeze and enjoyment of the outdoors are not enough. A cruise without a meat buffet at the end is like an 800-meter race without a ribbon at the finish line, I always say. And boy, did the good people of Meat Island deliver!

Once all 150 passengers had filed into the long, hut-like dining room, the staff brought out trays upon trays of barbecued baked beans, pork ribs, chicken, and shrimp. Tiki torches were the lighting method of choice here—I assume so that we could all do our shame-eating in relative anonymity—and their low glow reflected in the sticky barbecue glaze on everyone’s faces and hands. It was incredibly romantic.

Once the tables were cleared, we were encouraged to explore Meat Island before the variety show began. Most poor, bloated souls waddled to their seats immediately, but my sisters and I wandered off in search of a thrill, which we found in the form of the most bootleg-looking little zoo I’ve ever seen. It housed several squawking parrots in cages; two huge, tangibly annoyed alligators in a small concrete enclosure; and one sad monkey in a cage with these playthings from a pediatrician’s office waiting room:

Scarred, we turned back and sat through the Meat Island Variety Showcase, featuring a magician who stabbed children through the neck and a comedian who made poop jokes in several languages. Finally, we glided home in the quiet haze of a food coma and took a cab back to the hotel, where Erin enjoyed the after-effects of our bean-filled dinner for several hours before bed.

Happy New Year, everyone. May your year be as bright as a 100-watt military-grade spotlight and may you shine it boldly into the unsuspecting eyes of all your critics.

*Actually ended up being four hours. Lyrics to "The Ballad of Gilligan's Isle" are a copyright of Emi U Catalog Inc. and Warner Bros. Publications U.S. Inc.

The Dangers of Groupon

I have a subscription to O, The Oprah Magazine, thanks to my mother, who likely considers the gift to be some form of parenting. As I'm sure Mom hoped, I have found a role model though the magazine: Gayle King. Through Gayle's column, "The World According to Gayle," I hope to learn the secret to finding a famous, filthy-rich best friend who puts me on her payroll and lets me jackdick around on whichever of her projects strikes my fancy at the moment.

My mother probably hoped I'd want to model myself after one of the more focused and independent Oprah apostles. Someone like Suze Orman, perhaps. Suze is way too shrill for me though, and kind of a spoilsport. She never wants anyone to have any fun. She's all, "pay down this" and "401(k) match that." Boring.

But I have to admit that Suze's January column spoke to me. She wrote about setting financial goals for 2012 and suggested that everyone choose one of her six recommended goals to focus on during the coming year. Several of the goals didn't apply to me, such as teaching my kids how to value money (I have no kids), or stopping treating financial windfalls as "splurge money" (what's a financial windfall?).

The fourth goal on her list, however, struck a note:

"curb my appetite for Groupon and LivingSocial"

I first learned about these companies last November when Kelley emailed me a link to a Groupon for laser hair removal. Setting aside her affront to my personal landscaping, I was intrigued by the fantastic deal. $890 worth of services for $140? Who cares what it is? Where do I sign?!?

Kelley and I began checking Groupon and LivingSocial daily. Between the two of us, we purchased a long list of deals, including:

• auto detailing
• trapeze classes
• The Body Shop
• G Street Fabrics & Home Decorating Center
• Mama Ayesha's Middle Eastern restaurant
• wine.com
• maid service
• West End Cinema
• amazon.com
• Whole Foods
• dental cleaning and x-rays
• Brazilian bikini wax

Whole Foods was a good one, and Kelley did need a teeth cleaning. But I have no idea how we're going to spend $300 at a fabric store when neither of us sew. Kelley's Brazil region was furious for a week after her wax (or so I was told). And I don't need to comment on the trapeze classes at all, right?

Bottom line: we spent more on unnecessary things than we saved on useful things, though I'm not sure I can put a price on my new-found knowledge of the contortions Kelley can do while hanging by her knees.

So, Suze Orman is right. In 2012, I can surely find better uses for my money than outrageous deals on gourmet chocolate tastings, Caribbean hotel packages, and yacht rentals.

Suze wants us all to focus on long-term security when we make financial decisions. I can't forget that my long-term goal is to snag my very own Oprah. To refocus my spending, I return to my idol, Gayle King, for advice.

In the January issue of O, Gayle reveals that she loves cupcakes, the color yellow, and these crystal-heeled Miu Miu pumps:

I found the pumps on net-a-porter for $1,200. Drat -- Suze definitely would not approve. Actually, Suze probably wouldn't approve of me spending $4 on a cupcake either, given the state of my personal finances. Looks like my best hope of morphing into Gayle is incorporating a ton of yellow into my wardrobe and home decor.

Good thing I have that $300 Groupon to G Street Fabrics.

Rat Patrol

Before Kelley and I moved in together, I lived in a studio in Foggy Bottom. Alone. Free to do as I pleased. Unplagued by wadded panties on the bathroom floor or blond hairballs rolling like tumbleweeds over my parquet.

While a bachelorette, part of my daily schedule was an evening walk around my neighborhood. Foggy Bottom is a beautiful area of DC. It's situated between the White House and Georgetown, and contains attractions such as the Kennedy Center, the Watergate, and the white sand beaches of the mighty Potomac.

The goal of my evening walks wasn't to revel in the history and majesty of my surroundings, though. I didn't stroll about to take in the modern sculpture on the lawns of the neighborhood rowhouses or the lights of the yachts on the river.

Nope.

I hunted rats.

I blame my mother for most of my questionable quirks and my rat fancy is no exception. She once told me about a bit she saw on Inside Edition about a group of reporters who peep into restaurants at night to inspect the kitchens and video the vermin within. 

The segment was called "Rat Patrol." I liked the name and loved the premise. What can I say? I appreciate a good seedy underbelly. (As you probably know from watching the news, no place beats Our Nation's Capital when it comes to seedy underbellies.)

After months of regular patrol, I am pleased to report that while Foggy Bottom has its fair share of rats, they are, on the whole, well-mannered and reasonably sized. The only time a rat ran directly over my sandal-clad foot, he had the decency to stop, put down the large Papa John's Hawaiian BBQ Chicken pizza he was carrying, and apologize profusely.

Foggy Bottom rats also seem to prefer the outdoors. I never saw a rat inside a building, and I was able to scout almost all of the local restaurants before Metro Police pepper sprayed me and confiscated my night-vision equipment. 

Once we started dating, I introduced Kelley to the concept of Rat Patrol, which no doubt increased her attraction to me.

She attempted her own patrol around her house on Capitol Hill, but claimed that her neighborhood had no rats. She's wrong, though. There are plenty of rats on Capitol Hill.

They just wear fancier clothes.

WHERE MY N***** AT

Lately I've been enjoying the fast-paced, high-stakes game of Selling Things on Craigslist That Were Once Given to Me as Gifts. I was delighted by how easy it was to sell a chair and a table -- within days of posting them in the DC classified ads, they were picked up and hauled off, leaving me with pocket money to spend immediately on Indian take-out food put in savings! Recently, I decided to continue my winning streak and post a tower-style speaker for purchase. I received a response right away from a gentleman in Maryland; we'll call him Jim. Jim and I arranged to meet on a Tuesday evening in the lobby of my apartment building to make the transaction.

Tuesday night, Jim called to let me know he was on his way, a courtesy not always extended by the greater community of Craigslist users. This pleased me. He mentioned that he'd brought his iPod to test the speaker's sound quality before he purchased it, which seemed reasonable. I hauled the speaker down to the lobby and plugged it in. At 9:55 pm, five minutes before "quiet hours" begin in my building, Jim -- a tall, soft-spoken African-American man -- approached the front door. We shook hands and made small talk as I let him in and he handed me his iPod, which was in shuffle mode. I plugged the iPod into the dock at the top of the speaker, pressed play, and stepped back to let him inspect the product. 

I noticed just a second too late as the screen lit up that the song was titled, "Where My N***** At?" Here is a link for your enjoyment. 

The only people in the quiet lobby were myself, my potential customer, and the African-American front desk attendant. I flushed red and lurched to turn the volume down as the opener played; Jim shook his head. No, he wanted the volume all the way up so he could make sure the speaker wasn't blown out. So I stood awkwardly by as, after some machine gun fire at the :21 mark, the bass line came in, followed by the refrain. Which, as you might imagine, was half a minute of someone yelling "WHERE MY N***** AT?"

At several points I timidly ventured, "So does that sound OK?" in an effort to make it all stop, but Jim made no motion to turn the music off. He wasn't satisfied with the sound quality until this scene had lasted a full minute.

He handed me the money and left. Inspired by the picture of thug life painted for me by Cassidy's lyrics, I drank a handle of Hennessy and shot a guy.