We don't have no control, We're under control....

Tonight I saw Dr. Fred Bisci at the Juice Press.  I think my expression was a cross between I know you... and OH MY GOD, IT'S HIM! because he said hi to me like we were old pals.  So I said, shyly, "I know who you are..." and he smiled.  Hopefully the legendary vegan guru of the last three generations wasn't too weirded out.

If you know me well, you know that over the past two years, I've undergone quite the startling shift in diet and overall lifestyle.  Perhaps most startling of all is that I didn't lose the equivalent of a small child in body weight, nor did I drop 5 dress sizes, or even look all that different now in pictures.  But I did completely cut out a few staples of the Italian diet, ones that define both my cultural upbringing and my identity as Sammy - the professional eater.  These staples are generally meat and cheese - and I managed to lose  about 20 solid pounds in the process, that have not come back.  Thirty pounds if you count the ten that did, from the peak of my fitness in LA.

I was never overweight (not by American standards anyway) but my clothes were just a lot tighter and I was a lot flabbier.  For a long time, I thought I should really write a piece about how much "going vegan" changed me (while I'm not 100% strict, it's a much more apt description than "vegetarian" to my mainstream audience).  But lately, I think the real story that needs to be told is how I'm slowly learning to untangle my identity from food, something with which I think we all struggle at one time or another.  Or maybe I'm just a closet compulsive eater and this will be amusing for you- either way, it's time to share.

First of all, I want to get something clear.  I am aware that some of the things I eat are not vegan.  One of them is fish.  Another is anything resembling a chocolate chip cookie.  But when I talk about my diet, I think saying that I "try to eat vegan" is a more apt description than "I'm vegetarian".  Why, you ask?  Well, because most vegetarians eat a shit ton of cheese bc it's the only mainstream thing they can eat.  Try going to any regular restaurant and finding a vegan option.  It's impossible.  Most chefs only know how to make a meatless dish that includes dairy.  Which is why I LOVE it when I can find a place that can do a great vegan dish that doesn't mean to be vegan- like veggie burgers and salads at 7A and Piano's.  Hooray!

I'm not putting down vegetarians, but I think when I talk about food, people sometimes thing I am some kind of crazy.  So to me, it's important to stress that a) my food choices are entirely health-based, and not ethical in nature.  And b) that it really is quite hard eating mostly meals that do not contain meat or dairy (even though yes, I do eat fish on occasion).

But lately I have been experiencing an odd phenomenon that makes  me wonder how people who have lost a crap ton of weight even cope.  I moved back from LA in June of last year and, as I mentioned, I was in the best shape of my life during my stay out west.  The temptations just were not there, the weather allowed me to run 6 days a week, and I was in a happy relationship with someone who shared my fitness goals and eating habits (that's pretty key).  So when all of those factors disappeared, I was kind of like, Oh shit.

First the temptations came a-CRASHIN' down.  Oh, what's that? Seventeen bars per city block and cabs to take me home at ANY hour of the night? YES PLEASE! FIVE vegan restaurants within a ten block radius and five MILLION non-vegan restaurants right next to them? SIGN ME UP! Lula's, the crack of vegan ice cream, just up the street from where I am living? INEEDITTTT.

Next came the relationship ending- enough said.  Living on a couch for three months will prompt you to spend as much time OUT of the apartment as possible, which thankfully during summer was pretty awesome.  But come November, I realized that my habit had stuck, and not only was I eating out almost every night, I was drinking almost every night too.  And it was cold.  As balls.

This meant no more running.

So, in a matter of months, I lost what I totally took for granted--my LA lifestyle--and slowly my body began to realize it.  Now, while my weight should not matter to me even remotely as much as it does.....it does.  I view it as my indicator of how "well" I'm maintaining my old life, which when you think about it, is both silly and impossible.

It's like putting a fucking Panda in Central Park and being like "Ok, now go play, it'll all be fine!"

Maybe I sound like a bit of a brat- haters gone hate, especially when it comes to food stuff; I'm well aware of that.  I'm simply noting that New York really is a tough place to stay healthy when you are going through some shit/don't have boatloads of disposable income.

Somehow, I was able to shop at Whole Foods on a WEEKLY basis in LA, on my measly $35K (ohmygod, Venice Whole Foods, the times I have considered jumping a flight to see only you, I cannot count.)  And you know I bought nice, expensive shit.  I'm talking like $5 "raw cookies" and kale chips.  But the cost of living is just a different beast out there.  Ask my personal trainer - OH that's right, yes; I had a personal trainer who advised me on diet and exercise remotely, from her home in Santa Barbara.  I could probably get one session at Equinox for the cost of the amazing six-week plan she provided me at the time.

Meanwhile, over here in the depths of hell [the city in winter], it is approximately $40 for about 3 days worth of veggies, none of them organic.  I have not checked out an NYC Trader Joe's yet, and that is my fault.  Maybe I'm afraid that if they are expensive too, I truly have no more hope for this season.

The sunlight is different, the energy is different, NYC is a HUSTLE, and trust me, I'm a hustla.  But I don't always want to hustle.  Sometimes I just want to be in bed at 11pm without having spent a fortune on food and alcohol, without feeling like I'm a senior citizen.  It was ok to do that in LA.  Nobody knew me there; they just accepted me for what I was at that time in my life.  It just doesn't feel that easy here.

NOW NOW-

Don't get me wrong, I make do.  I have tried at least 8 different yoga studios, joined and cancelled David Barton Gym in a matter of two months, and settled on the amazing, fantastic, life saving Bikram Yoga Lower East Side.  I also diligently spend approximately half of my paycheck at the Juice Press, like a good little New York vegan.  But none of it compares to that Santa Monica beach run, where I was warmly greeted/catcalled by the Venice boardwalk bums at 7am every morning, whom I miss more than words can say.

I even did a blended juice cleanse last week, which I actually ended early because I felt myself clinging to aspects of it that were beside the point.  Now, here's where all of my girlfriends get annoyed with me and tell me I'm being crazy (they are nicer than that, but that's what they want to say): I am obsessed with the number on the scale.  It's 5-10 pounds higher than the golden number "157" that I was at my fittest (See? No one is starving up in this piece, you can all relax).  Yes, my weight fluctuates 5-10 pounds WEEK to WEEK.  Tis the nature of my bod.  That number represents all the hard work I put into looking and feeling good in LA, and the sense of powerlessness I feel over my circumstances these past few months is a direct corollary in my mind.

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I used to get really excited when I spotted a member of the Strokes druggedly ambling around the East Village.   Many parts of me have changed, but the sum is still intact.  All of this recent change has forced me to look within, and find stability in who I am, and not what I look like or how disciplined I can be with my diet and workouts.  I went through a similar battle with stuttering, and I'm finally at a point where I am proud of what I have to say - not how I say it.  Sometimes a girl's just gotta have a slice of pizza.

I went to Bikram tonight after a few weeks off and nailed every pose- then had the most delicious smoothie I've ever tasted, and went home early to clean and write.  It felt a lot like LA, and even though I know I won't wake up to the sunshine and beach three blocks away, I am oddly comforted.

Maybe because I know that tomorrow, when I pick up my green juice, I'll probably see Julian, singer of the Strokes, parking his baby carriage outside the Juice Press, as he usually does, and I'll know that for him too, sometimes things change. 


Sam

Wrap me in your marrow, stuff me in your bones

I am at an existential blogging crossroads/crisis.  All of the things I've wanted to write about/say in the past, oh, year seem to be too private for the internet.  Every time I sit down to write, I think, no one needs to hear this but me and maybe my therapist.  And some of it I don't even tell him.  Thus, I have not written since last New Year's.  How ironic.  So I thought I would share a bit from my most recent [private] blog, taken from the book of Word--and here's to less melodramatic writing in the new year.

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More and more lately I feel like the world is a place that I am visiting, and there is so much to do on this vacation, but sometimes when we are reckless, we make the mistake of drinking too much, and we sleep the day away, only to wake up and realize that the vacation is almost over, and we haven’t done shit with the beautiful place we were meant to enjoy; we spent way too much money, had way too much “fun,” and in the end we’re left with a bunch of regret as we board the plane home. 

Vacations are only a few days long but sometimes I feel like that’s all we really have.

That's it.  I'm figuring out how to make the most of my vacation.  Without you.

"Put me in your suitcase, let me help you pack, cause you're never comin back, no you're never comin back.  Cook me in your breakfast and put me on your plate, cause you know I taste great, yeah you know I taste great."

Time Passes Much Too Quickly When We're Together Laughing

Here's what I discovered this year:

1. Happy Thank You, More Please




Even though movies are fake, I'm still just as gullible as I was when I was 7, so this gave me a great feeling in my heart.  Seeing a bunch of people in their 20s running around New York caring about what others think and working hard to figure themselves out will always appeal to me.








2. Tom Ford Toasted Sugar nail polish

Somehow, some way, Tom Ford slipped under my radar.  Edging out Marc Jacobs for the "Gayest Crush Ever" grand prize, there he was, in all his slicked back splendor convincing you that his severely overpriced makeup is worth it.  But alas, his nail polish lasts A WHOLE WEEK.  I tried to chip it.  No luck.




3. Veganism
 
--The Juice Press Power Detox Smoothie (Such a texture has never been achieved in a smoothie, and I have made safely over a thousand Frappuccinos in my time) http://thejuicepressonline.com/

--Whole foods vegan chocolate chip cookies (they taste like regular chocolate chip cookies; if you disagree, you probably have Type 2 Diabetes)

--That little vegan place near the beach on Westminster (their faux tuna sandwich had me on the vegan train before I was even "officially" vegan)

--Gracias Madre, vegan Mexican in San Francisco (The best Mexican I've ever had.  Vegan or not.) http://www.gracias-madre.com/web/





4. "Moving to New York" by the Wombats

Saw this band at the Troubador with a very old friend, and it helped me understand why we love New York.  We're all a little masochistic sometimes.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lv773plAGuM

5.  Spirit Junkie

Really this ties into #6 but I'll give it its own category.













6.  My dear friend Jenn and the fact that Gchat works internationally

7.

8. Cooking! Mushroom kalamata lentil burgers.  I'll take three of my favorite things over beef any day.

9. Morphine.  It saved me, even though I cried at first.

10.

We Don't Live Here Anymore

I bet you don't know the difference between a latte and a cappuccino.  I bet you think you do, but you don't.  It's not your fault.  Starbucks is a funny place.  On the surface, they place too much emphasis on what we, the customers, want and how hard they work to give us exactly the right combination of syrupy sweet service with a supposedly renowned coffee catalogue (which has been ripped apart in the media more times than I can recall); but don't you DARE try walking into a Starbucks without being at least moderately well versed in the menu now made known to the point of parody by pop culture.

You'd think for the biggest and most made-fun-of coffee chain in the world it would be acceptable to walk in and request "a medium latte, uhh, with some caramelly stuff and, uhh, whipped cream?" (having worked at Starbucks for 6 years I can tell you this concoction is not found on the menu).  Surely you've been living under a rock if you don't know the sizes or the makings of a latte or cappuccino (less foam/more foam--same amount of espresso in each!).  There's a conspiracy to keep the perfect cappuccino a secret because only me and 5 other people on the planet know how to make them, and we all worked at the now defunct 8th and University store. 

Ten years ago, when crackheads were strolling in on the daily, and we used clear garbage bags so we would see the needles, we were still teaching people the ins and outs of the coffee lexicon.  Simply asking for a "cup of coffee" didn't throw your barista for a loop the size of Manhattan.  Just this month myself and my boyfriend, visiting from New York, paid a visit to Intelligentsia in Venice, home of the $6.50 cup of specialty brewed coffee.  As I stood in line marveling at how I'd just paid $4.50 for about 3 ounces of foam and a shot, I was at least comforted by the fact that I wasn't made to feel like an asshole for requesting just that. 

We've all fallen victim to that bitchy barista.  The one who giggles or smirks if you don't PERFORM your drink name to the point of Broadway.  To be honest I find it all very sad.  Starbucks is no longer made for the individual.  It's a machine that got oiled too well and is moving too fast to tend to all the toys on the conveyor belt.  Even as I type this, I am wincing as a woman changes her order after her cup has already hit the bar.  SCREEECH...It's too long a line to be changing things up like that! 

I miss the days when everything didn't have to mirror something bigger, something better.  But I will always find comfort in the fact that years ago, before Starbucks became the "rich white professional's internet and toilet service" (to quote the Gothamist) it was just me and a bunch of dope black chicks making the most kickass drinks and giving the best service you could ever hope for, at Starbucks or anywhere.

"Still has natural hair color"...

Ahh, we meet again.  I've been putting off writing, probably because I know that once I start, it's going to open a flood gate of multiple things I've probably subconsciously been suppressing not least among them the vast amounts of therapy I could probably use right now.

Sometimes I think being sane just isn't enough.  Just because we're not wrapped in dozens of blankets wearing a bucket as a hat and licking the windows doesn't mean we're "okay".  There's just so much in my head at this moment of life that sometimes it literally feels like I'm in kindergarten again, carrying one of those dixie cups of water filled way too high, trying so hard to keep it all in as I wobble back to my seat, inevitably spilling most of it out along the way.

Among all the good that is going on in my life right now (a very special guy, TONS of career possibilities in the very near future, being 26, etc.) is the ever-hovering cloud that I am not in New York.  I am sure when I leave this place I will find a new appreciation for it that I wish I could have seen while I was actually here.  Kind of like Boston.  I remember those times, when me, Anya and Amanda would prance around town in sleek black outfits, tall boots and shiny jewelery, toying with boys and messing with men, ending the night with pizza (yes it was good--I'm a pizza whore, I don't discriminate), and running it all off the next day along the Charles River, making big plans to change our lives and little ones to rule the night.

That running route was fantastic, the way the Harvard bridge seemed to stretch on forever, finally spitting us out onto the river's edge where we'd run aaaalllll the way around some other bridge, until finally we'd finish, totally out of breath, high fiving each other, and already talking about where we would meet up next.  To think I spent a lot of that time wishing I was somewhere else makes me sad, but I'm so happy to have fond memories of it.

Speaking of memories, they've been alluding me lately.  Two nights in a row I had terrible dreams that I remembered clear as day.  Literally I woke having to talk myself out of them actually happening.  What is the difference between dreams like that and real memories? I mean obviously real memories happened.  But when people we love are gone, or are far away from us, all we have is their memories.  I don't need dreams messing up my memories.

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This week at work we had an icebreaker for a required class that will teach me all about the  media I'm not working with (I only work in digital).  The icebreaker asked people to find others who could sign off on something they had done on a list of about 35 activities.  The three I ended up signing most were "Bites nails", "Plays piano" and "Still has natural hair color".

It got me thinking of my vices, my talents, and my intrinsic self.  For the life of me, I can't stop biting my nails, kind of like no matter how hard I work out, and how disciplined I am in terms of not eating meat or dairy, I cannot resist a god damned chocolate chip cookie.  And as for the latter, my mom never let me dye my hair.  It's amazing how grateful I am for the things I wasn't allowed to do as a kid.  All the girls with bad highlights and belly button rings at 15 probably never got to appreciate growing into their own selves without the influence of these social crutches.  I learned how to be  gracefully insecure as a result.  I may be a little neurotic now but at least I know who I am.

I am learning to be happy in each moment.

I am learning to thank the Universe for all my body does for me each and every day.

I am learning to be the best person I can be all the time, whether I'm in New York or LA, at a job I hate or one I love, single or in a relationship--kindness, positivity and gratitude is my goal. 

I guess this was two entries, but there are many more to come as more and more water spills out of my dixie cup--I want to call out to my kindergarten self, Careful! There are memories in there.

XO
me

P.s. This is where I belong.  But I'm learning that the journey there is what it's all about.

Make sure to wear some flowers in your hair...

At any given time, somebody's internet tabs could probably tell their whole story--at least at that moment.  Right now, my tabs are Continental, a Google search for Haight Ashbury, another for "best vegan in san francisco" and the official Bart website (which is SF's version of the subway).  Though I never felt a pull towards the place,  I loved the movie Milk and went straight for the Castro.  I felt like I was in some 80s version of a grittier, gayer East Village.  It didn't help that I'd been in the EV just a week earlier, revisiting friends, stomping grounds, and memories.

They say LA is shallow.  I always stood up for it, until I realized that perfect weather, my newly acquired unsustainable Whole Foods habit, and flat brim hats on white boys are not typically found to exist in nature.  It's not really life to live in LA--at least after you've lived in New York.  The city (and you better know which city I mean by now when I say "the city") provides true characters, endless opportunities and hard winters that make us grapple with why we love it unconditionally.

But LA is just an empty canvas.  And I may have gotten that from a movie--but it's true.  It's an empty canvas that we all just throw our shit onto.  We smear it with hopes and rinse it off with endless nights out, the smug knowledge of the fact that we live in tropical weather (that we never enjoy--we being the 10% of people who actually work in LA), and mingle with the other 90% who either already made their money, or who think backup plans are for losers despite being an extra at 38.

Trailing through the Castro, I felt romantic.  Old Victorian looking apartments looked rundown but were wedged against quaint, welcoming cafes, with handsome young men selling vegan cookies to long-haired little boys, in awe of how you could make a pastry without eggs.

Basically, the nail is in the coffin.  I'm too selfish for LA.  I need my city to give me something.

Be sure to wear some flowers in your hair...

Being home for about 24 hours and getting right back on a plane made me realize I need more time out here to appreciate home again.  It's too hot back East anyway. And my memories are almost as good as the real thing.  I think that's why I only miss the feeling of New York...not actual places.  Those feelings, of family and good friends, will be with me always.  I took them back with me on the plane.

When I got home, I made this:

The ugliest bouquet, but it's my bouquet.

 I'm realizing that lots of things are ugly.  I just have to make them pretty again.

I'm the President's Son, I don't need no soul...

Tonight I took a trip.  I squished my cheap headphones all the way into my ears, shoved my keys, my ipod and a twenty in my pocket and set off for a walk.  All the way to New York.

I needed to see a place that was alive after dark.  As I grazed the shops of Abbot Kinney, some desolate, some wide open and some subtly winding down, I breathed a huge gulp of fresh air, more for my heart than my lungs.  I miss home and this was the closest thing to it.

But before this my friend Amanda and I had a dinner that one could only describe as better than sex (for our waiter did describe it as such).  The beet tagliolini to be precise.  The bass and the scallops were also not of this world, but then again, all of our hosts were off-the-boat Italians (the best kind of fob there is), and eager to put smiles on our "bellisima" faces.

During my walk I thought about this dinner.  How I feel so lucky to feel so healthy.  And to be able to eat things and appreciate them bite by bite, like I was appreciating each step of my walk.  I looked at everyone I passed straight in the eye until they smiled at me.  Call me creepy but that dude in the Dave Matthews "Everyday" video is onto something.  For as much as I complain, be it about the job, the fact that men are clowns, or my utter lack of financial freedom, I am pretty lucky to be alive, at the pinnacle of health and feeling good.  After all, my girl-crush of a Spin instructor told me I looked ripped today.  I thought I was going to fly off of my bike--the girl has Britney Spears' body, circa 1999.

I came back from my walk with a couple souvenirs.  I was tempted to stop into Other Room and get that delicious concoction they call Delirium Tremens, which essentially tastes like someone melted a stick of butter into the best IPA imaginable, but I deferred to the liquor store, where I emerged with Self magazine, a Zone protein bar, and some Trident.  I also stumbled into a medical cannibis establishment, which I only realized after oohing and aahing at the brownies and realizing they looked kind of like poo, as hash brownies often do.  I then somehow acquired a list of doctors who will prescribe me medical marijuana, if I so desire. 

On my way home, I thought about my Dad, and how excited I am to see him on Friday.  I thought about Ryan Dunn, who's gone now, after drinking and driving his car off a cliff.  I thought about where I'll be--or not be--in 3 more months, and I thought about walking down that very street, with a tall dark stranger beside me who I wouldn't have to say anything to, who would just get me.

And for once, I didn't wish for anything.

Recipe of the Week: Healthy Banana Coconut Chocolate Mousse

So this was a recipe from Domino Magazine that I put my own little twist on.  Mainly I made it healthier by lessening the "bad" ingredients.

This is what I did (note my changes):
-2 Bananas
-5 tbsp. coconut oil (buy a jar, it's worth the $11 at Whole Foods--the stuff smells like crack, is healthier and tastes better than butter, and is good for hair and skin...you'll never go back)
-3 tbsp cacao powder (this shit's hella expensive so I just bought vegan carob chips so I wouldn't house the entire bag like I would if I got regular baking chips)
-2 tbsp. Agave nectar (makes it sweet without the crash afterwards)

BLEND!

You can't do this with a cheap blender.  You either need an expensive blender or a food processor.  Cheering the blender on helps too.

Basically what this comes out to is a heavenly concoction of gelato consistency that tastes like banana, coconut and chocolate, but is about a million times healthier than chocolate mousse.  This supposedly yields 2 servings, but that's only if you're a 400 pound reckless diabetic.  It's so rich that I've gone at it for about 7 servings.  You can also put it in the freezer!!!!!!

FOR THE WIN!

Classy, Rich & Sweet

So, I think I may have unlocked the secret of life.  Or maybe just the secret to bypassing my midnight snack compulsion, which feels like solving the meaning of life!

Last night, when I got home at about 11pm, I was faced with the same dilemma that greets me after a couple beers and a fun night out.  The refrigerator saying "Merrrmmmmmm...open meeeee".  And every time, I have a mental row about it before finally succumbing, not even truly hungry, to various degrees of snackage, from leftover vegetables (not so bad) to spoonfuls of frosting dipped in a back of chocolate baking chips (bad).  I always feel guilty after this, because I wasn't even hungry to begin with, and also because eating shit right before bed is all around not a great idea.

Well, last night I did the same thing--up until the mental row part.  I decided I would feel significantly better about myself if I abstained from that unnecessary snack, and sure enough, I didn't die of hunger.  Far from it actually.  I did however wake up with a slight hangover after 2 beers and a wine spread out over 4 hours.  What an amateur.

I know I've been exhausting the food topic to death.  So I'll keep this one short.  But mainly I want to own a restaurant some day.  Really actually a bar that serves bangin food.  I know I would be a good bar tender (notice the intentional space there).

It's good to have goals.  I have to say: the thing I've loved most so far about this adventure is not knowing what in hell is coming next.

Until next time...I am in THIS kind of mood: Classy, rich, and sweet :)

THE CLEANSE, LAST DAY

SUCCESS!! (It's 12:17am but don't worry I'm not eating till tomorrow).

Tonight was the first night that watching Epic Mealtime didn't borderline turn me on.  To the contrary, it actually made me sort of sad and I couldn't really enjoy it, especially as I focused on the lack of gratitude those buffoons have for their food.  Not once are they like, "Wow, Baconator EggMcMuffin Pizza Lasagna, you are freaking delicious"--and they should.

Maybe it's because they are drunk and are just concentrating on not puking.  Which brings me to the next thing I realized:

It must epically suck to go sober.  I say this because I'm not even an alcoholic, and I enjoy booze so much--be it a sloppy hoppy beer, a glam rockstar vodka redbull kick, or a classy glass of wine--that I could not imagine life without it.  To rely on something so heavily that you go out of control to the point of rehab, only to have that TAKEN AWAY must be an abysmal realization. Means you were running from something worse than the rest of us.

Back to me, I got too cocky tonight.  The Hashers (hash.org) were all doing a bar crawl in Venice so I figured, it's my last night of the cleanse, why not bike over and say hi.  I was immediately offered 4 kinds of sausage and 3 different pitchers of beer, and I knew it was probably a mistake.  I didn't want to offend anyone, but Hashers are like Italians in that if you're not eating or drinking to excess in their presence, you must be unhappy.

Seeing them was nice--for the first 15 minutes.  Then the smell of bratwurst and the golden, crisped to perfection hashbrowns got to be too much. As was my moodiness which had managed to skyrocket in a matter of minutes upon entering the next bar and realizing that no one was going to stop offering me beer until I was drinking one--and that was not happening.  So I left.

Being able to have fun in a social situation where drinking is involved but I am sober is not something I enjoy doing.  I realize this makes me sound like an alcoholic.  But I'm not.  I would just prefer the ritual of holding the drink, even if it's just one, and feeling integrated with the group--not standing on the sidelines like a schoolgirl tattling on the cool kids for not including you in their game.

To wrap this up:
Pros of the Cleanse have been=deeper sleep, confidence that I can do pretty much anything no matter how uncomfortable, and a renewed appreciation for food; AND being super excited to try all these new healthy recipes like lentil burgers (thanks Jenn), banana pudding, healthy nachos, and homemade sushi!

Cons=I'm bored out of my motherf*cking skull.

I will of course be reporting in tomorrow when I figure out what it's like to chew again.  That is if I don't immediately throw up as YouTube will have me believe.  Granted these testimonials were Master Cleanse people after TEN days of not eating, but apparently a SIP OF ORANGE JUICE was enough to send one girl's stomach into fits of WHAT THE EFF ARE YOU DOING TO ME.

But we all know I have a stomach of steel so I am not worried.

Thanks for following me and--for those of you who have seen me clean a plate--having faith in me.

Until tomorrow...

THE CLEANSE, Day 2 (of 3):"Bacon gettin' freaky wit da cupcake apparatus"

Well, I'm not sure what to say.  I've just watched my 7th episode of "Epic Meal Time", which is basically a bunch of racially confused bros getting drunk and cooking the most delicious shit you can possibly imagine.  I've included YouTube screenshots below (hey, it's like I'm still at work).

Day 2 is down and I've come to realize two things.  One, food is a privilege.  To think that there are people who don't get to experience the ecstasy of a bacon cheeseburger, (or cheese slathered veggie nachos for all you vegetarians), truly saddens me.  I realize now that food should not be abused, taken for granted or consumed simply because it's there.  Doing any of these things is greedy.  And will probably make you fat.

I've also realized that Day 3 of a fast is probably the hump, and I now see why people are able to go like 17 days on the Master Cleanse.  Because once you've gone three--well, shit.  Keep goin! However, I've also come to the conclusion that these people are not Italian.

Although I will honestly say I have not felt hungry ONCE this whole time, I've been plagued by a sort of quiet nagging that says, Sam! Soon you'll be able to eat whateeeever you want.  And you'll have to be really disciplined so you don't undo all your hard work.  And sometimes it says, Sam! Make sure to eat a 1,500 calorie iHop burrito the SECOND this shit is over!

But I know better.  Though a small part of me is excited to be able to eat that stuff again, I also equally crave and look forward to avocado, fluffy lettuce ("Boston" technically, but I call it fluffy), and the prospect of MAKING SUSHI OMGOMGOMG.  I realized that all I need is ahi grade tuna and some seaweed wraps from Whole Foods! ChaCHING playa.

Maybe it's not food I miss, but the thoughts and feelings associated with it.  Any time I'm eating an extra stellar meal, it's usually because I'm out with friends (probably also drinking), rewarding myself for a long day, or preparing to go somewhere and having some alone time.  Either way, I've learned that I don't want to live my life without food as a central tenet--I will always be skewed toward the "live to eat" demo.


So why have I developed a twisted affinity for watching guys make and consume the most greasy food in existence? Not sure.  But it's the next best thing to eating it, and that's good enough for me.

Until tomorrow...

THE CLEANSE, Day 1 (of 3): Fixin' up to swallow me whole

So this is what masochism feels like.  I've literally been googling pictures of "melted cheese pizza", "gourmet ice cream sandwich" and "juicy cheeseburger".  Not because I'm hungry, but because I am getting some kind of sick kick out of just looking at these things.  We all knew I was a little bit of a weirdo.

Well today was a success, not so much because I didn't eat, but because I didn't get fired.  I'd say the worst side effect of this cleanse is irritability.  One of our vendors brought us Fatburger for lunch and another brought us gourmet chocolate chip cookies for afternoon snack.  Thinking about it now gets me riled up, and I'm not even hungry.  I wasn't really then either, but just the fact that I like those things and had to sit idle while my team took juicy bites out of of greasy beef and chocolatey morsels made my head spin.

If anything, I've been super pensive lately.  Not having food to think about has made me focus on other things, like what the hell I'm doing with my life and if I'll ever have enough money to like, not think about money.  Or to live in NYC again.  Speaking of the city, holy CRAP I missed it today.  Those hazy summer nights in heels and jumpers, owning the world as we drunkenly pranced from bar to pub.  I am so glad that the place to go to relive my youth is somewhere I will always enjoy, and not some faraway metaphorical playground I'll never go back to, like Nebraska or something.

I also went into Whole Foods today to get avocados and special tea (I found an "Aztec chili" variety with an illustration of chili peppers and some squares of dark chocolate on the box.  Expecting it to taste like Lindt's Chili Dark Chocolate bar, I'm sure I'll be sorely disappointed.)  The avocados are for AFTER the cleanse, before you get all "ooohh...what are those for!?" True, I am still fantasizing about pizza whose cheese stretches two feet off the plate, but I'm pretty sure that by Saturday, a giant salad of avocado slices, toasted veggie burger and maaaaybe some hummus will send me into fits of hysteria from the sensory overload.

But the hardest thing so far has been the excitement I feel about the prospect of dinner, and the immediate sinking feeling that comes when I realize there will be no dinner.  I can see how hunger could craze a person.  Like just now, I looked at the clock and went holy shit, how did I just spend 4 hours doing nothing? I'm going to be so tired tomorrow morning and then was quickly relieved by thinking about the delicious breakfast I would make for myself.  Maybe some whole grain toast with mango butter jelly and some delicious--AAHHHHHHNG try again.  Kale juice.

Guess I'll just have to keep myself busy drooling over pictures of what I am going to eat when this hellish endeavor is over.  Only I would actively seek out these images on a fast.  (Though I will be sure to make my nachoes healthy, with low fat chips and light cheese).  What is wrong with me.

Until tomorrow...

Pre-Cleanse, Day 2: The longest day

What would possess a sound-minded Italian to think she could go three days without eating solid food? Really?

If you have no idea what I'm talking about, read my last entry.  And if you did, then you're probably laughing at my miserable ass, all melancholy and lethargic.

Visions of an energetically "cleansed" and toxin-free me, all shiny hair and tanned limbs pedaling down Santa Monica Blvd. quickly disintegrated as I realized that the only thing I'm going to be doing energetically for the next three days is SLEEP.

Tonight, as I walked into a work seminar on digital advertising, my eyes immediately darted to the 87 boxes of Domino's stacked neatly against the wall.  I knew I couldn't have any, after having eaten only fruit and salad all day (a butt ton of fruit and salad, mind you).  Watching my friends bite into the thick cheese and crispy crust, I felt arrestingly empty, like a friend had died.  Probably a sign that it was time to try this out.  Normally, if I was really starving, I'd house about 5 of those little slices.  But not tonight!

The anxiety has passed, the fantasy gone, and the disillusion and general sense of gloom have set in.  It's not that this is impossible--au contraire.  I'm actually looking forward to tasting the juice.  I am NOT, however, looking forward to lunchtime, which is pretty much the highlight of my workday, which tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that will have become a sad void filled merely with a mixture of P.A.M. (Pineapple, Apple Juice and I forget).

In short, I have never wanted to bite into a stale, kind of cold slice of Domino's pizza so much in my life.  This was probably not because I was really that hungry, but more because I'm used to getting what I want.  And I don't say this in a spoiled way--I say it in an assertive, effective, ambitious way.

I don't mean to sound negative--I AM still doing it.  I've come too far.  And it hasn't even started yet.

.....but this is what I'm eating once I finish.

Pre-Cleanse, Day 1: "I can't go. I'm drinking juice."

Spending $195 on juice has not been one of my most rational decisions of late.  This is a fact.  But I've been pretty obsessed with the idea of doing a cleanse since almost two years ago (holy sh*t, really?) when I met someone who hadn't eaten for 12 days, looked absolutely awesome and had more energy than a 7-year-old boy who had just done a couple lines of pixie stick.

I thought, What a swell idea! I could easily give up food for ten days (recommended # for optimal results), subsisting merely on a blend of lemon water (organic lemons of course), cayenne pepper and Grade B maple syrup (for energy).  I even read the book on the this cleanse, referred to by its followers as the Master Cleanse, which of course was created by a nutritionist, not an MD.

After trying, to no avail, to schedule 10 days where I would be free to not eat i.e. not have to deal with the perils of business dinners and other work-related obstacles that would hinder my mission, my plan quickly fell by the wayside, relegated to the corner of my mind where the motorcycle license and somelier certification are getting antsy.

So how I find myself prepping for a three day Blueprint cleanse (retail $255, so I did get a slight break...thanks Daily Candy), is beyond me.  The Master would have cost about $30 to do for three days, but everything I read said you really didn't gain any benefits until after all the nasty side effects of toxin-stirring have passed, and that didn't come til Day 4.  So Blueprint it was.

This cleanse lets you consume six healthily sized bottles of juice a day.  1,200 calories, Mom, so I'm not going to waste away.  And it's  WAY more nutritionally sound from the literature than the Master.  Tons of vitamins and minerals because the juice is pressed from fruit and vegetables--unlike the Master which is like stripping your system of everything, and forcing you to poo multiple times a day with a fun mandatory salt water flush each AM.

But still, even before the cleanse, I've experienced low energy, feelings of panic, and anxiety over having spent the money in vain if I can't follow through.  Most of this can be attributed to being Italian.  But the small percentage that may not be has me thinking hard about what I'm afraid of.

Three days before the cleanse, you're supposed to phase out meat (no problem--sorry Granny), dairy (I WILL eat cheese again, I WILL eat cheese again) and basically eat like a vegan.  So basically, today I ate how most of the people in LA eat, and I felt kind of woozy.  And believe me, I ate a substantial amount of food, which leads me to believe this fear of mine is largely mental.

I just LOVE eating.  The taste of food literally makes me happy.  Ask anyone who knows me and they'll laugh at the thought of me not eating for three days.  Yet I have convinced myself that this is one bucket list item I cannot skip over.

I know it's possible, and I know that I will be eating (and drinking alcohol) again as soon as this weekend, but still the thought of not being able to break up the periodic boredom at work with a granola bar or some cereal is somewhat unsettling.  But before you think I'm doing this to lose weight, I'm not.  Obviously I could just eat like I did today and lose a bunch, but that to me is less healthy than a measured, nutritional calorie-full day of juice.

When I moved to LA last summer, I dramatically changed the way I ate, lost about 15 lbs and felt sexier and more energetic than ever.  I just want to get back to that mindset--that there's no need to eat cupcakes every day, just because they're there.

We'll see.  Maybe by Friday I'll be cursing all the hippies that do this shit and greedily scarfing down some KFC.

....God, that sounds amazing right now.

Cleaning in Cali with one Crusty Cat...Oh My!!!

So I'm sitting on not-my-bed about to be picked up to go to a run about 30 miles away.  (My bed comes in 2 days, THANK GOD!) Being in California (do I call it California? LA? Venice? I'm in Venice) has been like slowly waking up in an unfamiliar place and the time between becoming conscious and actually realizing where you are after a groggy couple of minutes.  You kind of have to make the decision to confront where you are, and until then you are totally lost.

I feel like I have to physically let go of something before I can feel at home here.  Let go of what,  I'm not sure.  But I forced myself to walk around today and yesterday and they were significantly better than my first two days here, which I spent cooped up in our apartment which somehow, impressively, neither I nor my roommate realized was a decrepit level of disgusting neither of us could deal with.  I pinpointed the problem immediately.  The woman living here is at that point where she thinks she can still clean the place herself, but is too blind/oblivious to realize that there are bits of food on everything, dust everywhere, and a layer of dirt on all surfaces.  So off to CVS we went.

Armed with latex and a vat of bleach, we tackled the bathroom and kitchen first, and then Swiffered the crap out of our rooms so we could be in them without getting an allergy attack.  Now that everything is cleaned, I feel about 10000X better about being here.  My next mission is to find a way around Mitzy, the 17-year-old crust queen in residence that lounges on the otherwise lovely couches we have on the patio, rendering them unsuitable for human use.  Another fun nuance of dealing with old people--pathological lying.  Apparently, "The upstairs neighbors will take care of her" means "You will be responsible for feeding this abysmal creature while I'm gone."

But flea-infested felines aside, as I was biking around the beach I witnessed an eclectic dynamic that not even New York can quite match.  You have your wealthy authors and directors, celebrities and well-to-do looking artist/media types mingling with vagrants of every sort.  Kind of surreal but also comforting in a strange way.

Maybe I'm scared to admit that I can see myself loving this place.  I start my job on Wednesday and I know that will bring twists and turns, hopefully in the right direction.  I guess all I can do right now is to NOT anticipate...so far I think I'm doing a good job. 

More to come soon...

It never rains in California...

Except for on Friday, when I'm getting there.  But that's ok because here it's cold and rainy a lot more than that.

Do you remember that lazy summer feeling when things were just good? You'd wake up and look outside and there was nothing to really weigh you down--no previous judgments or things you said or did to have to compensate for that day.  I'm not sure if it's an age thing or a location thing, or a phase of life thing--but I haven't had that feeling in a long time and I got a wave of it the other day.  I was walking down Avenue A and I passed that grungy ass bar that I've never actually gone into, but that smells like every other grungy ass bar I used to frequent, and the scent of cigarette smoke, wet wooden tabletops and sexy sweaty musicians' unwashed hair was arresting.  For a split second I panicked.  How can I leave this for LA? But then I remembered, Cisco Adler is in LA.

Last summer was very different than any other summer I'd experienced.  I kind of thought I was in a relationship and I kind of acted accordingly.  Ok I'm bordering on the inappropriate internet sharing that I always rag people for.  So that's that.  I had fun, I lost about 15 pounds without really trying and I learned to love fresh food and nix processed garbage, much to my family's dismay.  Afterwards, going back to living at home with a growing 18-year-old boy, was far from conducive to keeping up the new lifestyle, so needless to say, I was less than thrilled with those results.

But I actually am pretty proud of how well I kept up my habits for as long as I did.  It was only when it got really shitty out and I got really sick of the commute, that I pretty much stopped working out.

But back to Cisco Adler, even though his music is kind of poppy and not as gangsta as him and Shwayze think, it reminds me of LA and they represent everything I love about it.  They aren't shy about admitting that it's the simple things in life that make them happy, like little shorts, tight pants (both on them) and long hair (again, them).

Ahhh the boys of summer.  I'll be there soon.

Barely Breathing

It's downright horrifying how much power a song can have over us.  Kind of like people.  Although I got the title of this entry from a current pop sliver that I cannot get enough of, it is also ironically appropriate as it's the name of a one hit wonder that defined my teen years.  And I haven't felt more teenaged in years.

I was in my car today--they do that a lot in New Jersey--and I got an urge to listen to a song.  No idea which, probably the one I named this entry after.  If I were in any other situation, I could probably have gotten access to the song within seconds, but I was in my 2000 Saturn with only the CDs I'd burned, and this song was not on them.

As I sat at a stop sign, my mind racing, desperately trying to come up with a way to hear this song, I realized I had to let it go.  I would be late for my appointment if I went home and burned it.  All I wanted in my life at that moment was to be swallowed up by this song, to blast it and let it consume me.  I would have practically sold my soul for the next three minutes to be filled with this song.  It really made me think of other things I'll have to let go.  Things I've already let go.

Songs, like people, don't always give us what we want, and it can seem literally like the edge of a cliff that we would surely jump off to hear it, to see them.  But there are other songs.  And that's what I did.  I picked another song, took a deep breath, and pressed play. I didn't enjoy it at first, in fact it was painful.  But after a few minutes, I forgot how badly I wanted the first one, and I could breathe again.

From BU's grad magazine, The Comment:

I watched myself stutter for the first time in June 2001. On the TV monitor, my face contorted, my eyes looked down and my voice staggered and stumbled. I felt ashamed. As a 15-year-old girl embarking on college applications and the boys of summer, I was horrified that this thing I’d tried to stifle had a name but no specific cure. What I didn’t know, sitting in the clinic watching that video, was that asking a person who stutters to slow down and relax was like asking a blind person to squint a little to see.

I even had trouble with my name—especially with my name. You’d be hard-pressed to find a person who stutters who doesn’t have trouble with her name. Her address and phone number trigger anxiety as well. It’s said that the general population’s number-one fear is public speaking, ranked even higher than death. But to a person who stutters, I can assure you, death seems like a picnic.

My first memories of stuttering are seemingly random episodes that I don’t like to recall. Fearing to raise my hand in class. Required public speaking. Sitting in English class waiting for my turn to read aloud, knowing that the jerk behind would mimic me just low enough for our teacher not to hear.

I started stuttering when I was 6 years old. My parents never made a big deal about it. Yet eventually I realized I was constantly substituting words and worrying about whether I would be able to say things. The teasing and my confusion as to why I could not read aloud began to take an emotional toll.

 How can a seemingly small “disability” manifest so largely? Imagine walking into a party. The host comes over, extends his hand, asks your name. “Hey, I’m Ssss-ssss-sss…” “Whoa, this girl’s drunk!” he laughs. Yeah, me and the 3 million other people in this country who stutter.

Still, when my mother suggested we look into an intensive program at the American Institute for Stuttering in New York City, I vehemently refused. I didn’t want to acknowledge that there was anything wrong with how I talked. Fortunately, she persisted, and finally I agreed. I walked into the first session of the program terrified of being exposed; I’d tried to hide my stuttering for so long and had never met anyone else who stuttered before.

Stuttering took many forms that day. It was the 16-year-old boy next to me, head down, refusing to look up as he attempted to speak. The overbearing mother who mouthed her 14-year-old son’s words as he tried, to no avail, to introduce himself. I clutched my mother’s arm, desperate to leave this place where, at the time, it seemed I could not possibly belong. I was not this severe, I thought. I knew how to say my own name. It didn’t matter that in order to do so, I would pretend to be distracted, or stomp my foot, or blink my eye a certain way. When push came to shove, I could say it.

During the first week of the program, I was forced to come to terms with things I hadn’t understood. Foremost among them: Stuttering is caused by a genetic disorder, however far back in the family tree, that results in a misfire between the brain and vocal cords (or “vocal folds”). Instead of the folds opening to produce speech, as they do in fluent speakers, they slam shut, causing all sorts of desperate secondary behaviors, which range from facial contortions to pen-clicking to strange sounds and breathing patterns. It’s as natural for a stutterer to experience blocked speech as it is for a fluent speaker to talk normally. Try to talk without letting any air out. That’s the beginning. Now try deliberately to stutter. That’s how it feels for me to speak fluently: weird and unnatural.

The AIS program required us to speak without secondary behaviors from the first day, which is like asking a righty to write with his left hand. In my case, I was accustomed to using the filler word “um,” to looking upwards as I spoke to feign that I was thinking (and thus draw attention from the fact that I was struggling) and to subtly stamping my foot. I was no longer allowed to do any of this. Once, when it took me 40 seconds to say the word “confidence,” I won a prize. Stuttering was rewarded here because we were finally confronting the demon. We had to learn to be okay with it. If we were afraid to stutter, there was no hope of controlling it.

To hack away at the mental component of stuttering—tension in the vocal cords is increased by stress—we used desensitization techniques. We sat in cubicles with a phone book and called every florist, bakery, doctor’s office and gym in the city, asking what time they closed. Sometimes we were told to stutter on purpose; other times we used prolongation techniques or reformatted breathing. The group would hoot and holler in applause if someone got a hang-up. All that mattered was that we were doing the very thing that terrified us.

For so long I had cringed at things any normal speaker would say without thinking (such as the aforementioned name, number and address). Oh God, if I stutter at all, this person is going to think I’m crazy or mentally challenged. Although the severity of stuttering falls on a spectrum, you’re almost luckier if you’re more severe. If someone asks your address and you start tossing your head back and rolling your eyes, you’re more likely to get a sympathetic response than if you’re silent, praying you can get through it without looking like you’ve forgotten where you live.

The AIS program helped me enough that the next summer I signed up for the annual conference of the National Stuttering Association (NSA). There I met people who had never experienced effective therapy. It was the first time outside of a therapy atmosphere that many of us felt safe enough to stutter openly. I saw fluent speakers patiently waiting minutes just so people could finally say their names. At AIS, we’d been encouraged to use the techniques we learned to generate fluency. Here, it was finally okay to stutter.

I’ve gone back to the NSA conference every summer since for the workshops, seminars and mixers. When I was 18, I started the now-annual “College Transition Workshop” as preparation for high schoolers. As I entered my twenties I was let in on NSA jokes, such as “One tequila, two tequila, three tequila . . . Fluency!” There is a sense of humor about the disorder that stutterers embrace to lighten things up. My stuttering friends and I frequently joke about the inevitable silences that occur on the phone because it’s hard to tell when someone is silently blocking. Often we’ll wait patiently for each other when indeed no one is stuttering at all.

Even with the AIS program and the NSA seminars, my stuttering still brought challenges. A significant one was introducing myself to a roomful of non-stuttering fellow classmates at New York University. Up to that point I’d managed some combination of coughing, looking at the floor and leaving the room to pull myself through the dreaded swamp. But after all the AIS-induced awareness and NSA self-improvement and support, I felt I had to face the demon. I could no longer be in denial, letting others feel my shame as I refused to make eye contact. Instead I stood in front of the class, heart bursting, and looked at the eager faces before me. “My name is Ssssamantha G-G-Gennuso. No, I haven’t forgotten my name, but I am indeed a p-p-person who st-st-stutters.” To my amazement, no one flinched. I finished my introduction and sat down in an intoxicating haze of relief and pride.

The tools and techniques I’ve learned require constant diligence, and they are not a cure. But I’ve let my stuttering out—openly struggling on my name at parties and on job interviews, knowing the reaction that inevitably will come, only to crush it with confidence and a smile.
This isn’t to imply I’ve got it all figured out. Every stutterer has a story, but one in particular stays with me. It’s the mantra of a friend of mine from my first days at AIS, Bob K. Bob’s stuttering was so severe that he made the commitment to practice for hours every day until he achieved relative fluency. He left his old life of insecurity and self-hatred behind. But when I asked him if there was anything he missed, he said, “My stuttering, because it’s a part of me.” I thought he was crazy when I first heard him say that, but I’m starting to understand what he meant.

In loving memory of Catherine Montgomery, the first one who truly "got it"

Vegas and the Three Week Recovery

Back from my official last spring break EVER, (unless I get my PhD....HA) and wishing I could be back in Vegas/NYC instead of in the, OH WHAT A SURPRISE, dreary and gloomy motherfucking Boston weather.  Boston, I can't hide my feelings any more.  You're like an abusive boyfriend.  I'm tired of making excuses for you because you just suck.  And you're not even that good in bed.  Ugh.

Ok, let's do a 180 and talk about Sin City.

When one goes to Vegas, it's safe to say it's not going to be an "unwinding" trip.  In this case, I didn't mind the fact that I was not allowed to sleep the usual 13 hours a night that I normally would try when on vacation, because I was entertained and enchanted by the Vegas Veteran I had the pleasure of exploring with enough to distract me from my fatigue.  Now: overwhelming casinos, $10,000 peace sign diamond pendants, and awesome bathtubs with lots of glitter bubbles aside, I have to say that probably the most ridiculous part about Vegas  is the craziness those Cirque du Soleil folk can do with their bodies.  I just watched Knocked Up today and got to relive Mystere all over again! I'm one lucky girl because on my VERY first trip to Vegas, I saw not one, but THREE Cirque shows, and two awesome bands, and got to meet Dick Dale, master of surf guitar.

The universe probably realized it's off balance when Sam isn't having fun because since Boston has sucked so bad lately, my time in New York has been super hella awesome in between projects and whatnot.  I've been seeing more shows than ever via the Vegas Vet and I finished up Spring Break with a Tragedy show, sadly the last show in the All Metal Tribute to the Beegees.  I'm still picking glitter out of my glasses and ears.  Funny how that happens.

I miss New York and familiarity with all of my heart and am too tired to write anything witty or clever about it now.  I'm learning a lot about myself during this chapter (as dad likes to say, everything is but a chapter in his book, my book, your book) and currently focusing on a) not letting weather dictate my mood, b) realizing that I will indeed someday soon have a kickass job because I earned it and c) not being a huge pussy about life in general.  Yay goals.

That's it for now.