My Relationship with Food

As I began writing about how I've gained weight living in my new, awesome apartment due to lack of psycho roommates (which I will write soon), I realized that my love for food deserved its own blog post. Well, actually it needs its own confession. Because eating is my everything. Wow, issues much? I'm just kidding, sort of. But really, eating is my favorite activity, and food really is one of my biggest interests. (No, it does not say that on my Facebook profile because I only blog about being a fatass, I don't need Mark Zuckerberg knowing too. Or my 1,200+ FB friends - do not judge, Facebook started when I was a freshman in college, I promise I only have like three friends in real life).

So today, inspired by Tiger's non-press conference fessing up to his own personal issues, I would like to announce:

My name is Rachel, and I'm a food addict.

(You see, by choosing to say it with those words - instead of just saying "I'm a huge fatass" - instills a sort of sympathy for me, kind of like saying you're a sex addict because you were a horny/rich/famous philanderer who was made to feel like rules didn't apply to him. I digress.)

But even though I will admit to these demons, I will not be entering into some sort of rehab (even though that is so the thing to do these days). You see, I choose to work out non-life-threatening issues on my own, and I won't use rehab as blanket redemption for my problems. While I really do have actual dependencies with food (e.g. bored eating, stressed eating, celebratory eating, etc.), unlike most substance addictions, I clearly cannot just stop eating altogether. 'Cause I would die, since, you know, you need food to live. And that wouldn't solve my problems with food, now would it? And no, consuming liquid nutrients to stay alive sounds worse than actual death, so if I couldn't eat, I think I would rather just go ahead and end things for good. Err, dramatic much?

This should be no surprise to you, though, if you've met me, or spent 1 second reading this blog, since you quickly learn that food is the numero uno way into my heart. Co-workers have realized this and since feed me like a pet squirrel or something. While my inability to turn down free food is border-line pathetic, it is a delicious perk of going to work.

Comparing my tendencies to others' battles with their own demons, my foodie desires and conquests tend to be more upscale, fine dining (as opposed to skanky Vegas whores). It's not just the act of eating I love, I tend to find myself watching food porn - whether it be instructional (Barefoot Contessa - Ina Garten, I love you) or pleasure-filled (Best Thing I Ever Ate) - or reading food porn (NY Mag Grub Street). And when it comes to the actual act, I lurve trying new restaurants, dining at my old-faithful places, cooking gourmet food, ordering-in crappy food - I can go on and on, but I think you get the point.

Luckily, though, I have refined my palate and developed a healthy addiction to vegetables. Although, don't get me wrong, put me in any scenario that involves the possibility of onion rings (okay, any fried food), and I will bow down before them like a crack addict to his dealer. Is that sad?

My relationship with food, though, is more than just an obsession; it is part of my genetic makeup. It is in my genes, and, well, now it's in my jeans, if you know what I mean. I was blessed/cursed with the hereditary ability to consume inhuman amounts of food (I assure you it comes from my father's side of the family). And I was raised to be an aggressive eater. I don't really know what that means, but it's obviously a very sex-ay visual. Unfortunately, this tendency has led me to believe I could turn my aggression into competition and always makes me inclined to think that I could possibly take part in certain over-the-top glutton-fests portrayed on Man vs. Food (low-brow food porn). That is, of course, until J reminds me that no one actually wins in an eating competition.

He's probably right.

I don't really know the purpose of this post - kind of like no one really knows the point of Tiger's press conference today - other than the fact that I clearly have a lot of issues, I'm admitting to them, and I'm working on becoming a better eater.

How to Know if He's Taken: Bag Edition

Today, as I waited for the L train on my way to work, I saw a cute guy. He was carrying a small lululemon tote bag.

If you see something similar, I suggest you do not waste your time - he is in a relationship.

Not that I'm judging a guy for being Earth-friendly and carrying a reusable bag - rock on, random guy - but lululemon doesn't exactly scream straight and single. I mean, the phrase "Friends are more important than money" doesn't quite seem like the mantra a FJO might recite voluntarily. And although the label does offer a guys line, lulu isn't an establishment I've ever known a guy to buy merchandise from on his own. It's a place your gf recommends. For example, J's roommate Frank has quite a nice looking lulu sweatshirt (you would never guess it's from there unless your eyes are trained to zero in on that omega logo). His gf picked it out. His ex-gf picked it out. [Ed. note: I'm sorry for the confusion, ladies, Frank is indeed single and ready to mingle. Please contact me if you're interested. A potential date could include hanging out on his and J's couch watching the soon-to-be-returning-Greatest-Show-of-Our-Times Gossip Girl and eating delicious food cooked by his grandma. Clearly it's an opportunity you can't pass up.]

Also, if a guy is carrying a Jack Spade messenger bag, does that make him gay? Or am I just stereotyping nice taste?

Please let me know, because I could be writing off an entire accessory subsection without warrant.

The Stuff Epic Movies are Made of: Olympic Glory & Love

Was Cool Runnings one of your favorite movies growing up? Me too. There are few cinematic elements I love more than Olympic glory.

Strangely enough, though, I haven't been that into the actual Olympics in a long time. I guess the whole "Is Communist China going to survive hosting the games without any major incidents" element from the '08 Summer Games was semi-intriguing, and Subway's 2nd Favorite Hero, Michael Phelps,' domination was definitely impressive, but I haven't gotten caught up in the magic like I did last night.

Off and on all weekend I got sucked into more Olympic viewing than I have in the past decade combined. I forgot how much I loved watching downhill skiing, moguls, and figure skating.

Not being what you would call "coordinated" or "graceful," I never had any aspirations to break into the world of ice dancing. But it's really fun to watch/arm chair QB judge without any actual idea of qualifications. "Oh man they're so in synch," "That outfit is ugly," "They fell; they're dunzo," is about all I can grasp in terms of the performance critique.

But, boy oh boy, did last night's finale of pairs figure skating end with the trifecta of Olympic Glory perfection:

1) A older, married couple, who were twice as old as their competitors, coming out of retirement for a chance to win the elusive Gold Medal after a devastating injury doused their hopes years ago

2) The first Gold in the sport for their country (China), and first ever non-European couple to win the event! Trend-setters.

3) A victory over long-time champion Russia (it's not my fault Russians get a bad rap, but after witnessing the bitchiness of the tiny Russian coach toward her Japanese-turned-Russo skater who F'd it up, it seemed semi- deserved)

Seriously, mark my words, in a few years, there WILL be a movie based on last night's victory from China's Xue Shen and Hongbo Zhao. And I will totally cry during the montage, because you know there will be a good one.

Photo credit: AFP

Sigh. That story will get me through the rest of the week. Thanks to The BFF for keeping me up to watch it.

UPDATE (thanks, Lauren):

Happy couple
At the 2007 Worlds, Shen and Zhao won their third world title with a commanding performance. At the conclusion of their free skate, Zhao dropped to one knee and proposed, but Shen didn't know what the Western gesture meant so she dropped to her knees as well. It was not until later that she said yes, and in May 2007 the pair was officially married, though they did not hold their ceremony until 2008.

Even more adorable.

I leave you with this inspiration:

Feel the rhythm! Feel the rhyme! Get on up, its bobsled time!

The Psycho Diaries

If you're my friend in New York, there is a guarantee you had to listen to me bitch about my previous living situation. Again, I'm sorry. Thank goodness, though, those days are behind us, and it could not feel any better.

Coming home to a house of hate is horrible, as you can imagine. Although it wasn't always horrible for the two years we called that apartment home, the last year was fairly unbearable.

The first year began with us living with Kris (named changed to a more hilariously feminine spelling). Having been raised with two younger brothers, the thought of living with a guy didn't really worry me. But having spent the past four years living with girls (in particular very, very tidy and clean girls) ruined me. Kris was the filthiest guy I've ever met. Like, it makes me cry thinking about how bad he was.

Not only did he never lift a finger around the apartment "because he was never there," on a regular basis he would come home drunk from happy hour(s) and eat my food. It was not uncommon to walk into the living room to find tell-tale remnants of my string cheese having been consumed by his inconsiderate self. He would also help himself to my laptop since his was broken. He said it was for Fantasy Football. One night after drinking Fantasy Football apparently turned into other fantasy sites, which led to his immediate priveledge revocation.

Kris and I went from being fairly good friends to enemies and back all within the course of his 11 months in the apartment. He was the one who got us involved in the Hamptons share house, and the one to get me personally involved with WBDB in addition to a few other friends. It turned out he didn't really appreciate his friends liking me, slightly understandable once I was out of the situation.

All in all, he was a good guy. A guy who living with made you hate him. No ill will harbored against him though. He moved out a month early to live with a friend, and I've only randomly run into him a few times.

Along with Kris, we spent the first few months with another guy, Wes. Now Wes was the ultimate roommate who no other roommate ever lived up to. He was young (an 18 freshman baby), super fun and outgoing, and all around fabulous. He was rarely home because he was always donig stuff (better than us), and when he was, he was helpful. Wes, swoon.

Sadly, though, the reason Wes was living with us was because Brandi (named changed so she doesn't sue me and/or do something else super aggressive to prove a point, per usual) had to sublet her room in the apartment for a few months while she got out of her other lease.

See, Brandi had broken up with her live-in boyfriend of five years. She just had to get out ASAP. Although I frequently admit that IAAB, I will also admit that I'm very easily taken by people's stories. I am not a sucker necessarily, just fairly gullable when it comes to hoping the best about people.

Brandi was an actress with a day job. So, let's take a moment to recount the situation properly: dramatic person who had just broken up with a guy she'd been dating since college, jumping into a random living situation she could not afford with her current rent.

Now, The BFF deserves full credit for realizing this as a potentially disastrous equation right off the bat. But as I mentioned here, we were in dire need of figuring out a housing arrangement, like yesterday. So we just all jumped in, totally blind.

Anyway, even before Brandi moved in, there were issues. Like crazy bitch email issues. So needless to say we were already concerned before her shit arrived in our home.

Things that first year were up and down. We had Kris as a scapegoat for many of our issues (e.g. disgusting bathroom, general lack of contribution to apartment), but The BFF and I were worried how things would go once he moved out since Brandi made it clear she would not be leaving.

We had to figure out what we would do, but considering it was fat in the middle of the World is Ending Economic Mess, neither of us wanted to rock the boat with a new lease and additional moving expenses.

So again we turned to The Worst Roommate Finder Ever, otherwise known as Craigslist. Now, I have plenty of friends who have had decent/good experiences using Craigslist. I am cursed, however, so I can't say this story gets better.

With only a few weeks to figure out what to do, we made an ad and interviewed a few people. Unfortunately none of them were desirable. Then we got a response from a girl, who lived in Texas! OMFG! New BFF! How exciting!

Seriously, we were pumped. A fellow Texan moving to the big city to Live the Dream!

I tried. I really tried. If you're one of the people I used as part of my attempt, then thank you for taking one for the team. The phrase "socially awkward" does not come close to explaining Ruby (named changed).

I won't get into details, but she drove us insane. Once, soon after she moved, she name-dropped Robert Pattinson so much that The BFF's boyfriend asked if he were her boyfriend (clearly 28-year-old FJOs are not RPatz' target demographic). She ruined Twighlight for me.

She also name-dropped another guy, who we were told had been her boyfriend. As more and more details of stories came out, we learned that wasn't exactly the case. The over-exaggeration in addition the immaturity of everything else gave her a maturity of about 12 years old.

She was the kind of person who would repeat things you had said to sound cool. She would interrupt conversations to ask to play Truth or Dare. At bars. For no reason.

At first she was sweet, and then soon after she became a bitch toward me. Whatever, by that point I had made my attempt at friendship and I was back-peddaling as fast as possible. My mental health would not allow

Bitter Betty Had a Good VDay

As I've already ranted, I typically associate Valentine's Day with: A) unmet expectations and/or total disappointment, B) break-ups (two in high school within days of Feb. 14th), C) jealousy.

Exactly what you're supposed to think of, right!?

Anyway, due to this memory montage swirling around my mind, I didn't let myself get too caught up in my favorite thing ever, planning. I knew if I did I would end up getting upset if things didn't work out perfectly. A pre-Vday fight (or, more like an airing of grievances) with J made me even less excited.

Luckily, though, we worked things out, and we spent the weekend happy and sappy.

The BFF was out of town for the weekend, so I cooked J dinner for the first time at my new apartment. I made chicken breasts stuffed with almonds and goat cheese, sautéed mushrooms and asparagus with mustard cream sauce.

A week or two ago I was watching the Food Network (my go-to channel) at J's, and Sandra Lee's Semi-Homemade was on. If you're not familiar with Sandra, here's what you should know about her:

1) She loves to booze on camera.
2) She's dating New York's Attorney General Andrew Cuomo, who is potentially running for NY Governor. Random.
3) She's always creating themed "tablescapes" for each festive meal. Every meal.

So J commented on the decorative table settings, which green-lighted my excitement to create something festive he might appreciate.

One of the many awesome things about living above a multitude of Dollar Stores includes the bountiful assortment of holiday-themed cheap decorations, like heart champagne glasses and sparkly stickers.

The night turned out fun, and on actual Valentine's Day we went to brunch at Momofuku Ssam Bar.

So basically the combination of eating, eating, more eating and low-key quality time together created the perfect weekend.

Hope everyone else had fun too. And, for your sake, didn't gain 10 pounds like moi.

A Card for Everyone

Happy Valentine's Day. Hopefully you can relate to at least one of these, otherwise I'm not sure why you're reading this.

someecards.com

RomCom Love Tips: What Would Bridget Jones Do?

To make up for yesterday's anti-Valentine's rant, read New York Daily News' rules of love based on romantic comedies here. The suggestions are obviously very insightful and in no way can they fail you. Unless you're actually looking for real dating advice.

My favorites:

RULE 1: Zany adventures are the best place to find love.
Are you investigating a madcap crime? Are you stuck on an airplane or ship? Are you members of the same sassy girl band, but he's in drag? Are you members of the same soccer team, but you're in drag? If you answered yes to any of the above, read no further, because you're all set. (Note: If you answered that you're on a ship, then one of you may die. But don't worry - your love story will be even more touching.)

RULE 3: Beware the Best-Looking Guy Around (unless it's Hugh Grant).

The Best-Looking Guy is the evil one. Remember that. Whisper it into a tape recorder and play the tape under your pillow while you sleep. The hot guy is only there to distract you from your steadfast roommate/confidant, friend's brother (who is also unusually hot, but in a less prissy way) or the Guy You Knew All Along. Exception: If the hottest guy around is Hugh Grant, then he probably is the right guy for you and you just need to wait for him to realize it, which will result in a car chase and a proposal. Exception to the exception: If your name is Bridget Jones, jump to Rule 4 (Give the Annoying Guy a try (unless it's Hugh Grant).

 

[Ed. note: In related news, I love Hugh Grant. I know, I know, he cheated on Elizabeth Hurley with a hooker, making him the dumbest guy alive according to my father, but my love for him is genetic. Just ask Dolo. She even sat through Did You Hear About the Morgans for him. Now that's dedication.]

RULE 12: Cardinal Rule: Kids Are Wise.
When in doubt about your dating life, ask someone under 7 to explain it. These pint-size gurus have great instincts and your reliance on their advice shows that you Will Find Love After All. Unfortunately, Abigail Breslin is now too old to help you. But look for kids with big glasses and spiky blond hair, or, if none are present, get an adorably ill-behaved dog.

[Ed. note to self: Get a dog. Or two.]