April 2008

I was watching some makeover show last night (I know, I know) and the activity that the makeover woman chose to help her loose weight was cardio stripping.

Now, before I become completely enraged, let me say that I’d heard of cardio stripping before and thought that it made at least a little sense. The first time I saw it, there was a pole that the class utilized to promote upper body strength. But in this women’s class, there was no pole! As far as I could see, everyone in the class stood in one place, swung their hips around a little, and pretended to unbutton imaginary shirts. I read online later that this is par for the course - there is no real, actual stripping in cardio stripping (that might make people uncomfortable) just as there seems to be no real cardio in cardio stripping (that also might make people uncomfortable).

In my mind, then, cardio stripping lets women live two fantasies at one time: 1) that they are sexy women who are edgy enough to strip and 2) that they enjoy going to the gym and exercising. Cardio stripping allows them to strip without actually stripping and take an exercise class without breaking into a sweat.

Let’s talk about stripping first: stripping is something that you traditionally get paid to do and not the other way around. Why is this so? Because as much as we all enjoyed that scene from True Lies, we all understand that stripping is not fun. In fact, it’s kind of icky, which is why it pays well and why your dad doesn’t want you to do it. Sure, stripping can be fun and empowering if a long-term partner was involved and if it took place the privacy of your own home, but could it possibly be fun in a Lucille Roberts with 20 strangers? Do you really think that any real, actual strippers would ever take a cardio stripping class for fun? Of course not. They are too busy crying softly, dating the wrong men, and doing coke.

And if stripping really were a fun activity, why are they not really, actually stripping during the class instead of miming it? If you were really edgy, wouldn’t you be doing the real thing?

What’s next on the cardio [blank] trend of women’s fantasies? Cardio two firefighters in love with you at once? Cardio kidnapped baby that is eventually returned to you after a blitz of media attention? Cardio eat the whole gallon of ice cream? (Don’t worry, you don’t actually eat the whole carton of ice cream, you just pretend to.)

The second part of the problem seems to be that we as a country are trying way too hard to make going to the gym really fun. Now, don’t get me wrong, I love going to the gym - it improves my mood, it motivates me, it relaxes me, it empowers me, it energizes me, and it gives me an awesome sense of accomplishment. Even with all of these positive feelings, though, I wouldn’t call going to the gym fun, just as I wouldn’t call my job fun even though I love it.

But it seems that, mostly due to advertising and the media, that people are demanding that their gym experience be nothing but good times - like a Friday night or a birthday party. They don’t seem to realize the sad fact that really fun things usually aren’t good for you, and that the most rewarding things that you can accomplish aren’t as simple as a cakewalk or a series of hip gyrations. Pushing yourself at the gym can be fun, but it will never be fun in the same way that the fantasy of stripping will be.

Cardio stripping has given me a great idea for a business, though. It will make DOUBLE the money of any gym or strip club because it will be both. Women pay me to come in and cardio strip and men pay me to come in to leer at them! Everybody wins! I’m taking suggestions for names.

Over the last two months, as I’ve been learning to run my own freelancing business, I’ve struggled with some of the non-writing aspects of the job: conferences calls, social niceties, corporate etiquette.

More specifically, I have trouble getting people to call me back. I leave messages. I write emails. I set up meeting times. But no matter what, I end up waiting for important phone calls when I should be working. Days of wasted time go by as clients who don’t realize I can’t work on their project until I talk to them about it on the phone - and much of the time I just need a one-word answer to a simple question like, do you want this in first person?

Today, though, I think I figured it out once and for all. And it is so, so, simple. Ready? About one minute before you want to an important client to get back to you about an issue, pour a big bowl of cereal. And not a hearty twigs-and-nuts cereal that takes a good seven minutes to absorb milk - I’m talking about your Rice Crispies or Cheerios. The cereals that are ticking time bombs of sogginess.

Your phone will ring as soon as you finish pouring the milk. You won’t get the first bite in before you’re deep in conversation: “Hi Sarah - sorry not to get back to you sooner, but I was engaged in some time-sensitive activities. Now, however, I have quite a chunk of information I’d like to walk you though regarding the ebook. It shouldn’t take too long - I would guess it will only take as long as it takes for a single serving of Reese’s Peanut Butter Puffs in milk to deteriorate into a thick glue.”

And you can’t say, “Sorry, but even though it’s 3 p.m. I’ve got some Cookie Crunch to attend to,” or, “Sorry, but Count Chocula is on the other line.”

But even though you waste a bowl of cereal, but they call every time. What first seemed like an inconvenience is a blessing in disguise.

I’m pretty sure this can also be applied to other aspects of life, too. Waiting to hear back from that job interview? Try drawing yourself a hot bath filled with time-sensitive bubbles. Waiting for a boy to call about a second date after three days of torture? Try mixing a fresh batch of cement. He’ll want to talk about his feelings for hours.

I remember the first day I went into Manhattan. Ben and I emerged from Penn Station and were immediately overwhelmed by the crowded, churning beehive of activity that is midtown. It was rush hour and about a million worker drones were rushing back to New Jersey just as we emerged - two country bumpkins with no idea how to walk in a crowd of people.

Since then, I’ve learned well the rules of walking the streets and can navigate even the meanest lengths of sidewalk without bumping into a single businessman or stepping on a single tourist toe.

Tips:

Know your slow walkers. First and foremost, you have to target the slow and weak walkers so that you can “switch lanes” early and pass them without having to slow down - and slowing down is never a good idea. Slow walkers range from the obvious (old people or women with strollers) to the less obvious (hipsters texting while walking, loose women wearing uncomfortable stilettos, people talking to imaginary entities).

Watch for obstacles. There are all sorts of things to trip on - and I’m not just talking about cracks in the sidewalk. I’m talking about crack addicts on the sidewalk.

Know your unpredictable walkers. Unpredictable walkers are much worse and more dangerous than slow walkers because slow walkers proceed in a straight line, whereas you never know what an unpredictable walker will do next. Beware the gaggle of high school girls. Beware the tourist who will stop without warning in the middle of the sidewalk to take a picture of a building. And always beware the toddler, who, as we know, is not much more than a drunk.

Understand that businessmen don’t move an inch. Often in the city, you will be involved in a Showdown: the streets are crowded and there is someone walking towards you directly in your path - who will move? In most other places in the world, both of you would compromise and move a foot or so in either direction. In New York, however, you are given about ten seconds to sum up the other person’s personality and to decide whether they will move or whether you will be pushed unceremoniously into oncoming traffic. Businessmen don’t budge. Women who blowdry their hair don’t budge. Workers wearing reflective vests don’t budge. Big dogs don’t budge.

Watch for cars. In most places, cars will stop for pedestrians. This is not one of those places. In fact, I would recommend watching out for cars even when on the sidewalk. You never know.

Understand that the whole game changes when it is raining. Rain in New York means millions of people carrying around huge, sharp umbrellas. And having an umbrella open over your head seems to give people the right to not look where they are going and to ignore your personal space. Whereas a normal walk in the city would involve goals such as not running into anyone or getting really angry, a rainy day walk only has one goal: the keep your eyeballs from being poked out by the unnecessarily huge golf umbrella that that woman who obviously doesn’t play golf is carrying.

I haven’t posted many recipes lately, mostly because I haven’t been making anything new. But today was bright and summery and my new summer copy of Eating Well came in the mail.

I just started my subscription to this magazine, and I have to say I’m in love. It’s the Middle Road of eating healthy - lots of quality ingredients and lots of whole grains, but at the same time, they’re not afraid of having an entire feature this month on types of awesome burgers (the cheddar bison burgers on whole wheat rolls that Ben made for us yesterday were delicious). They include the nutritional information but don’t go out of their way to ban “bad” ingredients from their recipes - they’re more for using small amounts. They’re also into eating green, which I like - last month they had a big spread on where and how you should buy salmon.

In any case, the weather had me wanting to make something fresh and different and Eating Well had a stupendous feature call, simply, Shrimp Fest! . I tried out their beer battered New England fried shrimp, which, although fried, involves 100% whole wheat flour and only two(!) tablespoons of oil. I thought it might be too good to be true, but really it’s just too good.

• A cup of pale ale or other light-colored beer (I used Sam Adams Summer Ale)
• A cup of 100% whole wheat flour
• 1 teaspoon Dijon mustard (sounds weird, tastes great)
• 1/2 teaspoon of salt
• 1 pound large or extra large shrimp, peeled and de-veined, but with the tails on
• 2 tablespoons of canola oil

Mix the beer, flour, mustard, and salt. Whisk until smooth. (Note: you have to do this in two batches, so you have to repeat these next steps twice) Put half of the oil in a skillet on medium-high heat. Hold each shrimp from the tail and dip into the batter, knocking off the excess on the side of the bowl. Add each shrimp to the skillet, making sure they aren’t touching. Cook for about 2 minutes on each side, until curled, firm, and golden brown. Transfer to a platter, add pepper, wipe the skillet clean, and get to work on your second batch. If you’re just cooking for two, halving the recipe makes a perfect amount of food.

I served my shrimp with baby red potatoes and green beans tossed in rosemary and extra virgin olive oil. And a Sam Adams Summer Ale. I was going to take a picture, but we, uh, ate all the shrimp without breathing in between bites. Take my word for it, though: they are pretty. And delicious.

For the first time in my life, I’ve dealt with back problems this last week. It probably has something to do with the fact that I don’t have a good office chair and have refused to buy one before our move to Montana in June. This means that I run my freelance writing business form 1) the Salvation Army chair that looks pretty nice but feels like I paid $10 for it, which is true 2) the free sofa bed in our living room that forces you to slouch and 3) my bed. It seems like as much as I mix up these three environments, it feels like I’ll have a hunchback by, say, Thursday.

The strange thing is that back pain isn’t the worst aspect of back pain. The worst aspect of back pain is that it immediately transforms you into a crotchety 80-year-old man. One moment I notice that my back was hurting, the next moment I was yelling for the kids in the street to keep it down. One moment I was feeling a little achy, the next moment I was hobbling down the street and mumbling to myself about the hardships of life. It’s as if the low-grade but constant and aggravating pain seeps into your overall view of life and the world.

If this pattern continues, I predict that tomorrow I will be wearing tube socks (one pulled almost up to my spotted knee, the other hanging loosely around my ankle) and telling long yarns about the very first horseless carriage I saw back in aught-nine.

Elaine Marshall’s life seemed perfect - she had two loving children, a supportive and strangely fashionable husband, and a summer cabin for mini-vacations. However, her husband was hiding a horrible secret from her. During all of the years of her marriage, she never seemed to notice that her life partner Jim liked daffodils more than most men and that he spent a little too much time making sure his socks perfectly matched his outfit.

That’s right - Elaine had married a gay man. And when she stumbles upon Jim and his new lover Phil, their quiet family life is torn to pieces: Jim’s job is jeopardized, Jim’s daughter is embarrassed at school, and Jim’s son runs out and assaults a gay classmate who used to be his friend. Through it all, Elaine doesn’t seem to understand: how can her husband claim to still love her and yet want to move in with a dude? How could she have been tricked for this many years? How could she have ignored how much he like exposed brick and multicultural art?

I must admit, this LMN film was better than most. Elaine Marshall, played by Jean Smart of Designing Women, give a few hysteric temper tantrum monologues that true Lifetime fans both expect and love. In fact, the best line from the movie comes during her initial outburst upon finding out that she’s married to a fairy: “What about me? What about AIDS?”

Aside from that, there’s a lot of quality family drama, highlighted by the troubled son whose gay dad makes him into a violent teen who doesn’t listen to his mother or pass geometry and the sulking teen daughter who would rather, like, die, than be seen with he queer dad in public. Mix in a boring sub-plot that involves Elaine getting a master’s degree in something that has to do with deaf children and you have your typical drama filled with secrets, lies, and families in crisis.

Don’t worry, though, the movie ends conflict free, although I’m not sure why. It seems like the family went from utterly not accepting the dad’s true lifestyle to the family playing a rousing game of driveway basketball. Then again, I’ve never been in a situation like this one, so maybe that is indeed how having a gay husband is ultimately resolved. Once again, Lifetime manages to both entertain and educate.

1. The handful of trees that line our street are in bloom.

2. The local immigrants have relocated their loud arguments in strange languages from the depths of their hookah smoke filled apartments to the sidewalk. On second thought, I am not sure if they arguing, or if that specific tone of voice is simply what their language sounds like. Either way, it is distracting.

3. There seems to be more honking, although this might only be due to having the windows open.

4. The “stray kitty soap opera” that takes place in the alley behind out apartment has really picked up and come to a head - this involves enormous catfights and mating rituals, both of which are loud enough to wake us up at night. To summarize: Orange Tomcat has given up some territory to Tabby Imposter, while the Calico Warrior has reclaimed every cat’s favorite lounging spot from the formerly dominant Fat Cat. Black Kitty (our favorite) is holding her own and keeping to the shadows. All are seeking the heart of the fat and sensuous Housekitty.

5. Yes, it seems like Ben and I spend too much time watching stray cats from our kitchen window. Please remember that neither one of us have real jobs - we’re just word hustlers, and there’s some down time involved.

6. Our local homeless population looks kind of confused in these four weeks of the year in New York City where it is not either uncomfortably hot or uncomfortable cold. One such local homeless man has been spotted wearing Tevas with socks - an early season fashion statement, or just stuff he found in the trash and wrestled from the Calico Warrior?

7. I hope that last one wasn’t too offensive toward the homeless. But then again, homeless people don’t have the internet, do they? Okay, that was probably offensive to the homeless. I was probably also insensitive toward foreigners earlier. It’s best not to start thinking about these things and just say them, right?

8. The noisy neighbors have bought a clarinet to welcome the warmer weather and perhaps because they found out through the grapevine that I had recently learned to tune out their new viola. I declare the clarinet to be the adolescent boy of the wind instruments - it can’t seem to get through a bar of music without embarrassingly changing octaves. Also, it makes me want to send it to a far away boarding school until it turns 18.

9. The spring season encourages more men to yell more sexually provocative things at women in the streets. After living in New York for almost two years, I’ve stopped being so angry with this and have moved on to just wanting to provide constructive criticism. “Sexy, Sexy!” isn’t going to get you a response, let alone a phone number or a date. I just want to pull one of these retarded guys aside and say, “For Christ’s sake, try yelling ‘I can tell from your gentle face that you have a beautiful personality, and I happen to have this extra ticket to the ballet!’ or at least ‘he didn’t deserve you!’”

10. Just as the first flowers bloom and the first fruit grows gravid on the vine in other parts of the country, the trash along our street is ripening. While others are inhaling the light and relaxing perfume of daffodils and lavender, upon stepping onto my front stoop I am welcomed by the scent of the 90 poorly wrapped poopy diapers that my upstairs neighbor with seven kids has left on the curb and that have been baking in the sun all afternoon. While you take in the smell of fresh-mowed grass, I have to walk by the dumpster behind the sushi place - the stuff of olfactory nightmares after the temperature breaks 70. Ah, spring.