Working Class Chic

It’s 9 o’clock at night, I’m eating a grilled cheese sandwich off of a paper towel and drinking lukewarm San Pellegrino straight from the bottle.  As an appetizer, I housed a stale glazed donut and washed it down with a swig of V8 Splash, you know, so that I can get an 1/8 of a serving of vegetables without even chewing.  I’m the epitome of class. I’m what they call: “working class” chic. 

Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself.  I need the word “chic” to be used when describing my current state of life.  Because otherwise I’d call it “hot mess with dark circles.”  Or "painfully pale and breaking out, despite departure from adolescence."

And I have no one but myself to blame for this madness—I’m the one who says yes to everything.  I’m the one who brilliantly decided NOW was the time to go back to school.  And work a full time job (that’s really like two full time jobs glued together and pretending to be one).  I’m the one who joins committees for a living.  And volunteers constantly.  You know, in my head it seems so logical.  And before all the meetings and events start, I always think I'll have so much free time.  Then bam!  I find myself sneaking cheese danishes out of morning meetings to ensure that I have something to eat for lunch, readjusting my spanx in the middle of parking lots (because I don't care who sees me anymore), and running perpetually 20 minutes late to life (okay, maybe 30).  I live on coffee, which translates to 24-7 coffee breath (and asking everyone, even strangers, for gum).  I have tote bags that could hold toddlers.  Like seriously.  And a hell of a tough right shoulder (from hauling my entire office around in said tote bag).   

It's G-L-A-M-O-R-OUS.  

I have these memories of tagging along with my dad to all of his committees and meetings and boards (I come by this lifestyle naturally, you know), thinking to myself how much fun it all was.  Everyone seemed so pleasant and it seemed like such a fun way to spend time—hanging out around a big table (like a dinner party!) with all your best friends.  I thought meetings were awesome.  And that everyone around these tables actually liked each other (I guess I couldn't smell bullshit when I was a kid).  And some of these meetings even had snacks.  Which was an ultimate plus for someone like me who lives for snack food (mmm, cheese & crackers).  Oh how important meetings made me feel when I was eighteen and got to—say something!  Or better yet, provide a HANDOUT!

And, oh, how my feelings have changed.  I mean, the meetings aren't so bad, but I'm starting to wonder how anything ever gets done.  These meetings pretty much require that we take work home so that we can do the work we should have done at our desk (but got stuck in meetings).  It's a tough life in the big city.  

Yesterday was my 27th birthday.  It seems that not so long ago I was navigating how to diplomatically accept the Barbie I didn’t really want from the person I really, really didn’t want to come to my birthday party while my dad played happy birthday on the accordion.  Back then, it was okay to ask everyone to make you the center of attention—it was expected, even.  But once you hit –oh, say twenty or twenty-five?—it suddenly becomes a bit unsavory to expect everything and everyone to bend to your every whim on your birthday. 

Plus, I can’t ever find the option on my time card that gives me paid leave on my birthday…without getting what the French call “le let go”.  So, alas, I’ve accepted my role as an adult (bitterly) and feel that I did the right thing yesterday: I worked a full eight-hour day.  And then I went to class for five hours.  And wrote a paper.  And studied for an exam.  And have been feeling mighty sorry for myself ever since.

I spent the morning with some of my favorite kids under ten.  Even though we were busy doing important things like taking the MSA (the wretched Maryland state exams that these poor kids spend the whole year preparing for and only a few miserable hours taking), I still had a nice chance to chat with them while we waited for it all to start.  We talked about football, Monique and the Oscars, chocolate chip cookies and cats—just the kind of conversation everyone should have before 9 am with kids who still think an opportunity to play "7-Up" is the bomb-diggity (and who would roll their eyes to hear me say "bomb-diggity"). 

In the middle of our talk about cats and dogs I had one of those Billy Madison moments where I wanted to shake their faces and warn them about the perils of adulthood; to hold fast to the joy and lightness of childhood.  And to enjoy the shit out of their next birthday party.  But, people get arrested for shaking kids faces these days, so I guess they’ll just have to figure it out for themselves.
 

Giving up rationality for Lent

Today it has snowed all day in Georgia, South Carolina, and North Carolina.  I swear on all things holy if that wind even thinks about moving North, I’ll pitch a real, live, honest Johnson hissy-fit.  Is the world ending?  Like, seriously.  A show called Jersey Shore was the most popular thing on television this year and it’s snowed a record amount in the American South and Mid-Atlantic.  Two catastrophic earthquakes have literally devastated entire chunks of the world, the United States Supreme Court said it was a-okay for lobbyists, i.e. corporations, to support presidential campaigns (so the makers of Viagra could be electing our next president), and Britney Spears is blond again.  I’m just not quite sure what to do with myself in this big, bad world of ours.

And yes, I also acknowledge that it is probably really, really uncouth to reference Haiti, Chile, the U.S. Supreme Court, and Britney Spears in the same sentence.  But, need I remind you, friends, the world appears to be headed to hell in a bobsled (perhaps driven by a German or a Canadian?). 

And I’ve decided to perhaps try really, really hard to stop being surprised by these things—regardless of how insanely difficult this will be.  I jokingly gave up punctuality for Lent (because I seriously run on Africa time these days…and before you go and get your panties in a wad about this statement, spend a few weeks anywhere in Africa and you’ll get it), but perhaps I should have given up logic.  Or rationality.  Or my usual Lenten sacrifice: NASCAR. (Unrelated, but funny).  Sorry, Mike.

Maybe I should work on not being shocked anymore when I get my mid-afternoon New York Times email updates (which, thank you, NYTimes, provides me with endless anxiety and nausea every afternoon) that inform me of some unbelievable decision that has been made by a politician or a state legislature somewhere in the great U.S. of A.  I guess I should stop being surprised when I wake up to horrible news on my BBC newsfeed.  I mean pardon my bleeding liberal heart, but maybe I should stop losing sleep over bad social policy and failed reform efforts.  Because where does my rage get me?  What use does it do me to chew the inside of my cheek till it’s raw and neurotically flick my foot up and down like it’s a broken wind-up monkey? 

Maybe I see some “unsubscribes” in my future.  But what if everyone cared?  What if we all voted.  And informed ourselves before we voted.  What if we parented our children like responsible human beings.  What if we taught our daughters about self-respect and our sons about dignity?  What if everyone read the newspaper everyday and allowed themselves the mental capacity to get excited, or better yet, outraged—like full out, red-in-the-face, mad about things.  Maybe we could be a better generation of people.  Maybe we could stop blaming everyone but ourselves for our bad economy, our sinking school systems, and our serious “communication” errors. 

I took a “how millennial are you” quiz the other day and was proud to see I wasn’t one.  I mean I was like 10 points short of one, but 10 critical points they were.  For starters, I still read the newspaper.  Two of them, actually.  I read them online, but they get read nonetheless.  And yes, I mix my Washington Post and New York Times up with a little splash of USWeekly (for flavor), and I think it’s the perfect balance.  I can’t really try and understand health care reform without first understanding why Kate Gosselin got hair extensions, now can I? And I make no money, but I still believe in philanthropy.  And the importance of giving back.  Which is why I spend 80% of my free time doing things I don’t have to do. 

It’s not that I’m ashamed to be a child of the 1980’s, and that I don’t fully appreciate where we are as an iphone, on demand, fiber optic society.  I wouldn’t work in higher education if I had something against the charm and flavor of the millennial.  I just want, for myself, to be better than what society has claimed as “acceptable” from us.  The whole world has given our generation credit for getting Obama elected and from where I sit, I think we’ve sat on thumbs during his first year, hemming and hawing over the things he isn’t doing right and the things he hasn’t gotten to work on yet.  Maybe we should think a little bit about what we can also do when we aren’t in an election year.  Maybe we should revisit what “civic responsibility” looks like.  The Sarah Silverman get-off-your-ass-and-vote video worked, but now I need her to do a new one.  Get off your ass and doing something useful.   

While I write this little rant of mine, Atticus Finch is in the background talking to Scout about racism, tolerance and letting people be themselves.  It couldn’t be a better backdrop to my current state of mind.  At least I know some things will never change.  To Kill a Mockingbird will always be the same beautiful story (even though I really did think it was called Tequila Mockingbird for at least a month before I actually was handed the book and read the title for myself, thank you middle school English teacher with a borderline-absurd southern accent).  Atticus Finch will always be the unfailing southern gentleman, a steadfast reminder of morality, democracy, and civic responsibility (I mean, he shoots the rabid dog.  C’mon!?).  At least I know when Bravo has really pushed its limits of the newest Real Housewives series (that I will inevitably watch in a marathon, avoiding my homework), AMC will be there for me, keeping it real.  It’s like knowing cake will always be good and bourbon will always be better.

Snow-more

As I mentioned in my previous post, we’ve recently been dumped on by the Gods of snow.  And by dumped on, I of course mean we were scattered, smothered, covered, chunked, capped, and topped like a bunch of hashbrowns on a grill (SHOUT OUT for all my fellow Waffle House enthusiasts).  51” of snow later, I feel like I’ve learned a whole new set of “quiet time” coping mechanisms and I’ve confirmed that I am IN FACT not a winter person.  I like sunshine.  I like wearing skirts.  Without tights.  I can’t even remember what it feels like to be hot from the outdoors.  I seem to have blocked the misery of sub-Saharan heat and Baltimore summers, and have decided, in my head, that I miss sweating.  Ever meet a fat girl that likes to sweat?  Hi, I’m Lindsay.  I’m trying it out.  (Remind me I was into this in mid-July when the backs of my knees are sweating and my armpits are ruining yet another Michael Kors silk dress.) 

And this week has been like a rebirthing.  A screaming, kicking awakening into a dark, cold, chaotic world with malfunctioning snow-maintenance infrastructure (read: EPIC FAILURE AT SNOW REMOVAL, BALTIMORE).  We’ve all emerged on the other side of this snow storm carb-loaded, under-socialized, and hungover.  Our immune systems have been compromised; cookies and booze and a lack of Vitamin D have left us all looking a little peaked.  Our social skills have been reduced to something strangely reminiscent of a caged Chihuahua.  And for my poor friends with children—my heart goes out to you.  I know you’ve just reached your limits of good mommy.  And your kids might have learned how to make you dirty martinis. (Or you let them play with plastic bags their toys).  And, no.  I don’t judge you for this.

So this week has been a real feces storm—a shit-show of epic proportions.  Schools were closed for what felt like a century.  I didn't realize how much I valued being able to leave my house until I couldn't do it for a week.  I also never knew how much I could love two plastic chairs.  Two plastic chairs that served as a symbolic gesture to the world: If you PARK in my PARKING SPOT, I will MAIM YOU.  (And ironically enough, Baltimore respects this symbolic gesture MORE than most things...perhaps even human life? For a city with such a high murder rate, I'm shocked these chairs mean anything at all.)

And now, between the unplowed streets, the inevitable realignment my car will need from pounding these 4 foot potholes at 50 miles an hour, and the additional 45 minutes it has taken me to get ANYWHERE this week, I’m OVER IT.  The last three parking spots in EVERY parking lot are piled 10 feet high with frozen, brown doo-doo snow.  Snow so ugly you almost want to look away and dry heave.  A week later, it’s no longer the beautiful, pure, white stuff than blankets all surfaces in a magical, glittery way.  Oh no.  It’s been tainted now with all the pollution and garbage we humans produce.

Plus the snow is everywhere.  Still piled up.  Going nowhere fast.  I’ve filled my boots with snow all week attempting to leap over snow piles to get to the safety of shoveled sidewalk.  When I get to the end of a street, I’ve learned how to pray.  Pray hard.  Because when I attempt to turn left, it truly requires an act of god to see around the 12 foot pile of that doo-doo snow that the plows have so graciously removed from the streets and left in one giant very inconvenient spot. 

And I thought we were in a new age of environmental sustainability… a time when the little cars win.  When the hatchbacks and the 2-door sedans get the better parking spots and spend less at the pump.  When the hippies get big fat tax write-offs for buying hybrids, assuming the hippies are filing taxes these days.  Turns out, not only did Toyota recall all those Prius steering columns this week, but when you’ve got 51” of snow on the ground, the ONLY cars that get ANY action are diesel fueled beasts with giant tires.  Cars that behave more like subdivisions than cars.  Cars that give people superpowers in snowstorms, like seeing over 12-foot piles of doo-doo snow.  (And no offense to my SUV-driving friends, but have you noticed the assholes that drive these things!?  Well, actually, offense intended.  I’ve almost been taken out like five times this week by these suckers. I INTEND TO OFFEND.)  It’s been a rough week for the environmentalism movement.  I think the snow-removing moguls actually invented new chemicals this week, not replaced them with vegetable or soy-based alternatives.  But hey, we learned how to melt snow without heat, didn’t we? 

So I beg you, sweet baby Jesus in your golden-fleece diapers…Snow-more.  I can’t take it.  I’ll pack up my 4 bedroom home in an environmentally-deplorable 18-wheeler and head South (READ: I’ll hire some poor schmucks to pack up my 4 bedroom home, and bill you later for my doublewide in South Florida).  I’m ready for some sun and some sand and a drink I actually WANT to put ice in.  Just get me to April showers and May flowers.  I'll be good.  Really, really good.  Promise.

Snow Day

On Thursday afternoon I was making so much fun of my beloved state of Maryland. Everyone and their mother was frantically rushing about town, grabbing at the picked over shelves of bread, peanut butter, and eggs. I myself found my way to Target in the middle of this apocalyptic trial run; I joined my fellow Americans and bought bread, butter, milk, and eggs. I also bought 3 liters of wine, but that probably goes without saying. I stood in line at Target watching families pile on weeks worth of food, toys, and cleaning supplies wondering to myself if we’d even get this snow storm that we’d been threatened with. How many times do we panic for nothing? And why on earth is the person in front of me buying two jugs of Clorox, borax, laundry detergent, AND fabric softener. Apparently she had BIG plans for the snow storm. Made me feel almost guilty buying only butter, eggs, dog food, birthday cards, and my weakness: USWeekly. I clearly had plans for a much less clean and more shallow snow day.

Well, foot meet mouth. The snow started falling on Friday night and by the time I woke up on Saturday I felt like I had accidentally boarded a cruise to Alaska in my sleep. Not so much a snow day—a snow week. As the inches kept piling on, I was quite proud that I’d actually remembered to hit up Target before the storm hit (and really happy I’d picked up those big, fat bottles of vino). So, 30 inches of snow later my only regret was not buying the Charles Wysocki jigsaw puzzle (note: if you don’t know about these puzzles, look them up. I’m obsessed.)

Yesterday, as my roommate was recovering from shoveling our cars out (because lord knows I don't shovel snow), I said: I'm thankful for the snow. This sent her into near hysterics because it was so out of the blue and clearly said from the comfort of my sweatpants and wool socks. While she was aching from head to toe from moving literally 2-3 tons of snow off of our vehicles, I'm sitting there happily contemplating the joys in life in my elastic-waisted post-chardonnay-blasted haze. But I am. I'm thankful for it. I needed the time to relax. I think we got 30” of snow because God knew I needed to stay in bed all weekend, curled up under the blankets, snuggled with the dog (who really only snuggles with me in hopes that I’ll drop a graham cracker…not that I eat graham crackers in bed…or, rather, not that I’m proud that I sometimes eat graham crackers in bed).

And what is it about snow falling that makes me so insatiably hungry? And not hungry for things like brussel sprouts or salad. OH NO. I’m talking about cinnamon rolls and cookies and rice krispy treats. I’m talking about nachos and buffalo chicken and pizza. I want cream sauces and things smothered in cheese. And if the snow means you can’t go to the store to buy these things—you get inventive. You stand in your pantry for thirty minutes trying to figure out how something you have in your cabinet will somehow magically become the one thing you’re craving from your favorite restaurant. You use flour and sugar and eggs to make things from scratch—SHOCK! NOT FROM A BOX! The kind of inventive that means I’ve run the dishwasher twice today because I’ve been using so many pots, pans, dishes, and appliances.

It’s like an evil, cruel, unwritten law that comes with snow. And we got so much snow, that it seems that I have to eat in similar proportions. Last week it snowed and we got 2-3 inches and I made a whole batch of chocolate chip cookies just for me. As in, I was home alone. I ate at least 7 of them before I decided I’d surely die of diet-induced diabetes in my sleep if I didn’t back away slowly and eat a piece of celery. So it seems only natural that I’ve been making all kinds of concoctions this weekend and eating my body weight in sugar and butter. Which, for the record, is a lot of sugar and butter.

Nothing like a snow storm to bring out your inner 1950’s housewife. Don’t hate me yet, feminists. I DO know how amazing it feels to put on those power heels, a high-waisted pencil skirt, a string of pearls and walk down some shiny hallway with authority and that distinctive “click-clack” of a woman in charge, but I can’t help but love the feeling of standing over a stove and making something delicious from plain old ingredients. Like, please forgive me Women’s Movement, but sometimes I think we really got ahead of ourselves with this whole anti-domesticity movement. I’d take a day at home in my slippers with a Le Creuset dutch oven over a high-brow power meeting any day. Hell, I’d even give up being able to vote a time or two if you bought me a new standing Kitchenaid Mixer (but only if it’s the professional series in a stainless steel finish…I’ve got SOME standards, people). Please, don’t tell the suffragists.

So, obviously my favorite part about my snow weekend is the freedom it gives me to do whatever I want. Like right now, I’m sitting in a sea of cookbooks, trying to put to memory the unfailing albeit persnickety rules of Béchamel sauce. This is a beautiful, simple cream sauce. It consists of four ingredients: milk, flour, butter, and salt. There are three rules that ensure a perfect Béchamel. First, never allow the flour to burn (which requires keeping the butter from browning). Second, add the milk to the flour and butter gradually, and off heat to keep it from forming lumps. Third, never stop stirring until the sauce is formed. If only we could discover three basic rules to everything—three basic rules that would ensure happiness and a perfect ending. Maybe that’s why I love cooking so much. With a little thought, and a lot of heart, you can make amazing things happen with the simplest of ingredients. Recipe for life, anyone?

So, friends, enjoy the snow. Take the time to read a good book, bake a batch of cookies, and eat 8,000 extra calories. Unless you're one of those jerks that DOESN'T live in the mid-atlantic and you're lounging in 70 degree weather on a beach somewhere. PS-If this is you, I hate you. Because I hear we’ve got another storm headed our way. Could be another foot or two of snow. I should perhaps make a trek to the grocery store today to ensure my early on-set heart disease. We're down to only 6 sticks of butter.

My dog just ate a stinkbug

My dog just ate a stinkbug. No really. She did. And I can’t help but wonder, are her intestines slowly filling with the noxious odor these little brown bugs put out when pissed?

I’m a victim of the Google generation—as in, as soon as something new happens in my life, I Google it. Never you mind the olden days of wait and ye shall see. No, I want answers. Quick, dirty, wildly varying answers that will lead me to near-hysteria as I self-diagnose my sore throat as something terminal. Bacterial and terminal. And possibly sexually transmitted.

So I just Googled stinkbugs. Actually I Googled “Can dogs eat stinkbugs?” Because if there’s one thing I like more than Googling random words, it’s asking Google random questions or throwing it ridiculous phrases to ‘cipher. All of my library research rules of logic go flying out the window and I just type shit in. Wild, crazy shit like, “Do deodorant stains come out of silk?” or, “How do I say ‘fuck my life’ in French?” No longer are we a generation of needing to understand a complicated language of symbols and conjunctions (search=north and carolina and civil and war and heroes) to do our intranets searches. OH no. We can type it in however we want. Hell, we can misspell it. Give it to her, quick and dirty. She can take it. She’ll turn around and seductively ask, “Did you mean to say…”home remedies for WARTS” (not wrtas)? Right. Yes. Of course that’s what I meant. And I’m always amazed at how frequently I find an accurate answer in those nearly 30,000 hits. (Let it be noted: I’m significantly less successful at self-diagnosed medical care). How does it work? How did Google get so smart?

And wouldn’t you know it, “poot-a-loop” from NC has had the exact same thing happen to her dog, Marley (surprised to hear Marley is a golden retriever? Because I’m not). Except her dog started vomiting. Violently. Maybe its because her owner’s online persona is “poot-a-loop”. I’d probably vomit a lot too. Just a starting point of the diagnosis. But not my girl. Oh no. Mine wagged her tail and looked for more stinkbugs to consume. Like they were stink-filled M&M’s and she just couldn’t stop at one.

Many a concerned and empathetic dog owner responded with helpful responses, like: “Dogs eat bugs, don’t worry.” Or, “Check her temperature and keep an eye on her, shouldn’t need to go to a vet.” And some dog owners responded with ‘tude. I’m sure all you fellow Googlers out there have gotten used to this by now, but sometimes these people make me want to scream and slam things down on the coffee table. Apparently there is a holy grail of dog parenting—a secret underground world of people who clearly have a deeper knowledge and wisdom on owning a dog. These people make no mistakes in letting you know that your little pound puppy mutt, you know, the one that chases her own tail, rolls in poop and eats STINKbugs, deserves better. MUCH better. And don’t get them STARTED on the benefits of dog acupuncture—its absolutely changed Muffy’s life. (I bet if I stuck needles in my dog too she’d turn her act around quick).

Or at least this is how I interpret the condescending tone of 85% of answers to these online queries. Something about the mask of the world wide web makes people think they have the right to pass judgment on the simplest of questions. Like, “Can dogs eat stinkbugs?” Response: “This upsets me. You know it’s expensive to have a dog. You should be willing to take it to the vet, if you’re a good pet owner and treating your dog with respect.” Um, I’m not sure you’re aware of the track record my dog has at the vet. I’ve considered renaming her Louis Vuitton, because that’s what I could have bought in FY2009, instead. But Louis Vuitton’s don’t chase their tails. Or bark at cats. Plus, she ate a bug. Not a bomb.

So among learning that I’m clearly a horrible pet owner and getting myself all worked up over nothing, I also learned that stinkbugs are attracted to light (perhaps also my vivacious outlook on life?). Also, did you know that stinkbugs are fairly new to the US? They were accidentally introduced to Eastern Pennsylvania. I mean, how does that happen on accident? OOPS. I dropped a whole mess of stinkbugs while I was in Amish country…hope they don’t procreate and spread. Now they’ve spread to New Jersey and Maryland. And now the story comes full circle. Thank you, tourists from Asia in Eastern Pennsylvania (hey, that's what Google told me. Don't think I'm spreading hate).

Oh stinkbugs. What a curious creature. I’ll hand it to you, nature. Pretty clever creating insects that emit horrible odors when messed with. Such a good idea. I was about to whine that humans don’t have such functions, and then I remembered: Oh. We do. And this, my friends, is why siblings fart on each other.

And just in case you were worried, Lucinda appears to be fine. In fact, I think she’s pretty pleased with herself. She actually prefers it if the things she hunts and kills stink—it makes her feel like more of a woman.

Thank you, Google. And thank you, poot-a-loot. I’ve learned a lot tonight. And I hope Marley made it through okay.

Biggest Failure

Last week my wife almost divorced me. Because of reality television. Yes, I know. I’m not really a lesbian. I’m not really married to my roommate. But sometimes there really is no denying the fact that we are totally plutonically married. Like full on I cook dinner and she makes martinis and takes out the trash. We even have the ultimate symbol of a lesbian marriage: a dog that controls both of our lives. Lucinda couldn’t function without her two mommies. She doesn’t care that we sleep in different beds. I mean, isn't that what most married people do anyway? Besides, it’s a spiritual marriage, or at least that’s what we tell the neighborhood drunk who likes to ask me out. And while I do have a thing for eccentric MALE artists, I believe he takes this role a bit too seriously and perhaps should lay off the handle of vodka he drinks a day. And maybe get a job. And take a shower. It was sad to see, however, how heartbroken he was to hear that I had abandoned the heteros and switched to the other side, albeit somewhat relieved (it finally explained why I had been denying him all these years).

And at times, my wife likes to remind me that I’m being absurd. Neurotic. And insane. Which, in truth, is far too often. And this is fine. It really is. Like I’m totally aware of the fact that I’m crazy. They say self-awareness is the first step to getting help, right? The other night I got so crazy about The Biggest Loser that I almost forced her out of our cozy little tv room. I disrupted our domestic bliss with my biting (hopefully also hilarious) cynicism. She threatened to go to bed early and read a book. In her room. With the door shut. All because I couldn’t keep my verbal diarrhea hatred from spewing out of my mouth. She said, “Jesus Christ, Linds. Why don’t you go fucking blog about this?” So I shut up and stored up all my bad thoughts for this blog entry. And I couldn’t stop thinking about it. And hating it. So here I am, fucking blogging about reality television. And for the record, this is so not what I’m in to.

Okay. Refocusing...

The Biggest Loser. I hate this season of The Biggest Loser. In my advanced, superior, cinematically-gifted opinion, I believe this show actually has become the biggest loser; the biggest, meanest, most over-exploited waste of television space on the air in 2010. I can’t even wrap my head around how much I hate this show this season.

Which is weird, because the first time I watched it, I was obsessed. I was into it. I was inspired by the stories of the people who were putting everything they had into losing weight and transforming their lives. By the end, I was really pulling for them. I think I even went to the gym a few more times (which would round out my yearly average to 7 visits, as opposed to my traditional 5).

So tell me why do I feel like I’m watching a horrible infomercial this season? Why do I feel like the trainers have transcended compassion and understanding and replaced it with misplaced anger and cruelty? Like am I just being overly defensive because I too am “medically obese” and think there’s no problem with having nachos as a meal? Like, is that really so wrong? C’mon Jillian. You know that Taco Bell you fake-gagged yourself over tasted delicious. When the cameras turned off you rubbed that Grilled Stuffed Burrito all over your face and moaned with pleasure. The people on set were appalled. Don’t try to hide it.

I can’t help but feel like the producers of this show have forgotten that at the core of this, these are people with legitimate diseases. With health disorders. Medical conditions. And extreme emotional connections to food, eating, and self-image. Important, symbolic, and even cultural reasons why they're obese. I don’t think making these people feel worse about their lifestyles is really the right approach. Like I hope there are suicide specialists working with the trainers, because if someone treated me this way, I’d definitely take up cutting. And maybe the eating disorder I’d develop would help with the dropping of 30 lbs a week.

Can we get some Weight Watchers up in this show? I’d much rather watch 12 contestants counting points at the Applebees and watching Access Hollywood on the tv while jogging on the treadmill like everyone else I know in the month of January, than see Jillian or Bob screaming at someone until they fall over with heat-exhaustion. And Bob, what’s up with the gaunt heroin-chic look this season? Trying to get a job as a Dolce & Gabbana model?

Like grab me a can of frosting, wife, and bring up a box of vanilla wafers. It’s time for the Biggest Loser.

Epic failure. Let’s hope Brett Michaels soon starts another reality show so that I can remember why I really do love reality television—washed up rockstars with diabetes looking for love with French prostitutes. I mean, what else is there in life?

sidenote: I've been told three times in the last week that I should have a reality television show. Between my ever-hilarious love life, my insane family, and my bizarre plutonic marriage, people would totally watch me. Maybe then America could watch a show about a girl who weighs more than 100 pounds with self esteem. What an idea.

additional sidenote: Cara is never allowing me to watch Biggest Loser again. Ever. And I’m okay with this decision.

Landing

Sometimes you just can’t sleep. Sometimes you feel things you just can’t explain. Sometimes you are so overtaken by emotions that you can’t quite pinpoint why you’re feeling so uncomfortable in your own skin. You find your eyes are welling up with tears at the simplest thing; crying for no real good reason.

I’m having one of those days today. Today I woke up feeling like I wasn’t supposed to be here today; like I should be somewhere else.

I can’t help but feel like my heart is burning a bit, missing Africa.

A journal entry from January, 2005:

After a grueling plane ride, we land. It’s like any other landing—they give the same speech, some protocol—I could be in New York, London, or Los Angeles. It’s not until I step outside that I realize: Shit, this is Africa. Kotoka International Airport, Accra, Ghana.

The heat immediately seeps into my skin, an abrupt change from the cold, artificial air my body had gotten used to for the last ten hours. I breathe in the air. I smell the faint scent of burning and a strong smell of earth; a smell I’ve come to love and know as Ghana. Sometimes it seems like the earth itself is sweating from the heat; a sweet, dark odor seeping from the pores of the red clay. It wraps around you quickly and quietly.

After stepping onto the tarmac, we walk a short distance to the terminal—a large concrete building. The building has been painted, Akwaaba, “welcome”. Just inside the doorway, people rest on mats in the hallway. Flying for this many hours always confuses my body; I have no idea what time it is or how long these people have been waiting for our flight to arrive. There seem to be people lingering everywhere. The airport is a good place to wait. Outside the front doors, people stand in large groups waiting to see who arrives. Families gather in anticipation; young, hopeful men stand around in hopes that someone will hire them to transport luggage or drive a taxi.

But indoors, the air seems stagnant and hot. There are bags stacked everywhere. A barely rotating luggage belt clanks around awkwardly, as bags pour in through the open hole that leads directly outside. Large metal carts rapidly move around and fill up by locals and Ghanaian-Americans who seem to know exactly what to do. There are very few signs and even less machines—no computers, no digitized screens, no moving walkways. If this weren't my third time here, I'd be lost. In America, this would be chaos. Here, it seems strangely under control. Calm, even.

The first time I came here, I didn’t know what to expect. I stepped off those steps, felt that heat hit my skin for the first time, and walked into the unknown—a whirlwind month of my early college years. I spent three weeks wandering West Africa with my eyes wide open, trying my damndest to absorb everything in sight. I attempted, feebly, to process what I was hearing and feeling with every ounce of myself. To look at everything with as many lenses as I had the capacity—to do my best to simply participate and observe.

I’ve learned, over the years, just how hard this is to do—to simply blend into the background, participate and observe. I was naïve to think it would be so easy, that I could just show up in West Africa and not be seen by everyone as a white, American obroni college student. Besides, our western brains are highly skilled to pick out imperfections. We’re well-trained in cynicism, sarcasm, and despair. It has taken me many years to begin to quiet those thoughts—to push them to the side—so that I can truly hear the music. So that I can really dance. So that I can be okay with darkness.

And here I am back again, landing in this beautiful land and preparing myself for a new adventure—a new learning curve. I’m so happy to be back. As soon as the dusty smoky heat hits my nostrils I can feel it. That it that changed my life two years ago. That it that has left me dumbfounded, heartbroken, and filled to the brim with curiosity, joy, and light. That it that has made everyone I know who doesn’t know Africa hate me for loving this place so much.

We’re met on the other end of the terminal by my dear friend Christine. I can hear her laughter as soon as I come through customs. She cries out with joy, as if in pain, and releases the most excruciatingly beautiful smile that no one could possibly stay upset or angry in her presence. The hug that follows this grin is even more joyful and suddenly the hours and hours on an airplane are non-existent. The heat is beginning to set into my bones and I’m so excited to be here—to be home. She squeezes me tight and says, “Welcome home, junior sister”, and lets out an outrageous cackle that lets me know she sincerely means it. I feel like I can’t contain my words; I ramble in circles asking how everyone is doing, checking in on her love life, her family’s health, etc.

There is a distinct feeling I get when I travel to a place that feels like home. Everywhere I walk, I hear the local greeting: “You are welcome.” This time, I feel that in the deepest of places.