Close your eyes and repeat, “Bacon is amazing.”

I’m back on the wagon.

I’ve fallen off for quite some time now. I seem to have vaguely remembered making a previous statement about not turning into one of “those girls.” The ones who get completely comfortable in a relationship and pack on the pounds. I’m not there yet, but I feel like I’m teetering. It has nothing to do with getting “too comfortable” and everything to do with feeling too tired and stretched too thin, and wanting to comfort myself with pizza on the couch with my boyfriend. Or enjoying far too many fancy dinners out and not enough planned dinners in. Or staying at his house, which is a fat-kid factory—Doritos, Totino Party Pizzas, Mac ‘n’ Cheese, chocolate cake and ice cream—and a bacon, egg and waffle breakfast cooked every Saturday and Sunday morning.

Who knows. Tomato, Tamato. But, I’m back on the wagon.

Of course, when you’re a woman who’s fallen off the wagon, it takes precisely one day to decide everything that might be able to instantly solve your 5- to 10-pound problem. “I’m going to buy a yoga mat!” “Sign up for a new gym!” “Cut out carbs and sugar for two weeks!” “Start running again now that the weather is nice!” “Avoid all the candy and crap at work!” “Open my cookbooks again and make something!” “Buy the latest, stupidest diet craze book on the New York Times Bestseller List!”

If you’re me, you do all seven within a 24-hour period.

As I previously mentioned, I’ve been reading, “Skinny Bitch.” Usually I avoid these type of books like the plague because they’re mostly chocked full of common sense. And I abhor any sort of quick-fix diet that girls think will solve all their problems. (Such as the cleansing bullshit or cabbage soup thing.)

But for some reason I’m reading this damn book, and I really wish I wouldn’t have even started it. It has some really good stuff in it—like all those aspartame facts that I was just dying to read. But, it also has a lot of really gross details about why you shouldn’t be consuming meat or any animal products—even milk.

Some who’ve read the book call it, “Vegan propaganda.” But, whether it’s half-truths or whole truths, suddenly the prospect of meat is grossing me out. I was hoping to read this book to maybe curb my feelings of Hawaiian pizza on Friday nights, Taco Bell at 3 a.m. or the occasional Dick’s Deluxe. You know—just refocus my eating habits and reiterate that putting this kind of crap in your mouth does eventually add up. (It’s amazing that someone as intelligent as me has to spend $14.99 for a little dose of common sense.)

I didn’t buy this book so my stomach could turn every time I added ham or turkey bacon to my morning scramble, or chicken to my salads.

I mean, H-christ. All I think about is the slaughterhouse details I read on the bus this morning on my way to work.
The contaminated meat, piss, puke and fecal matter, slicing off a pig’s face and throwing salt on it, cutting off a cow’s head, hanging it up by a hook in it’s butt or boiling chickens—all while they’re each alive.

It’s enough to really kill a lifelong bacon craving, that’s for sure.

Currently Feeling: Sassy in my new fuchsia work dress and black trench!
Currently Anticipating: Leaving work at a decent time tonight.
Currently Hating: Cell phone companies—they really blow!

20-Something’s Guide to Summer Solstice

Attending a festival to celebrate Summer Solstice this coming weekend is a must. It’s the longest day of the year and commemorates my favorite season—summer! If you live in Seattle, you must, must and MUST go to Summer Solstice Festival in Fremont. (If you don’t live here, schedule a trip to Seattle around it.) Hippies, naked bicyclers, crazy dancers, floats, a parade, good food, fantastic local art, etc. I highly recommend it. I’m somewhat of an expert on it because I go every single damn year, and you will, of course, find me there this weekend. So, I wrote a quick guide, gathered from past experiences. If you’re attending Summer Solstice in Fremont this weekend, heed the following:

• Don’t ride your bike as transportation. Sure it’s great because there’s no parking, but it’s a real bitch to be attached to a bike when you can barely stand up from drinking all day.



• Do pour massive amounts of vodka in a Slurpee so you can drink in public. It tastes fantastic, and oh yes—they have sugar free flavors.



• Don’t schedule an airplane ride in the evening of Summer Solstice. It makes it really hard to locate a passport or get on the plane if you’re so drunk you can’t walk.
• Do wear sundresses, backless tank tops, short skirts or no shoes. It’s a hippie festival and (more often than not) hot! Celebrate bare skin, baby!
• Don’t sit in the beer garden, in a chair for four hours without standing. It’s really hard to monitor just how drunk you are and can lead to nasty walking injuries.



• Do pop a squat behind a camper RV in daylight, in the midst of the crowds. It’s Fremont and a hippie festival—no one judges!



• Don’t ride your bike into sticker bushes, located intermittently on the road between Fremont and Ballard. Also don’t fall off your bike when drunk and scrape your knees and elbows.



• Do drink champagne mimosas in the morning and arrive in time to view the parade at noon–naked bicyclers are the first to pass through!
• Don’t forget to stop off at each and every bar after the parade. They’re swarming with friendly drunk people, and it’s an all-day party!
• Do go to the Sloop afterward. And make sure you Sloopersize your beer!



• Don’t order the Fried Special plate at George & The Dragon. It requires all five fry baskets to make, take approximately an hour and prevents everyone else from ordering fried goodness.



• Do get a plate of Phad Thai from the Kaosamai mobile truck with “peanut sauce really good” slathered all over.



• Don’t stare too hard when a buck-naked 60-year old walks by without any clothes on and a raging boner that is bouncing lightly while brushing up against innocent bystanders in the crowd.

(Sorry. No pic provided for the last. I want to keep all the good porn to myself.)

Currently Feeling: Charmed.
Currently Anticipating: Sunshine.
Currently Hating: Silence.

I Can Bake Piezzzz

When I worked at World Vision, it some how came out in a conversation once with my boss that I had never baked a pie. (Nor did I know how.)

“WHAATTT?!” was her reaction… You’d think that she just figured out I wasn’t really a devote Christian and had been masquerading the whole time.

“Every girl needs to know how to bake a pie!” she continued. “It should be the one trick in your bag!”

Uh…why? So I can win a pie contest at my local fair?!

Pies are great and everything—my mom make spectacular pies in various fruit, pudding and sugar-loaded combos all the time. But, they always seemed so gingham, doilies and daisies to me. Don’t you know I’m all leather, vodka and heels!

However, I wanted to do something nice for my boyfriend on Father’s Day since he’s a dad, but I didn’t want to make a huge deal about it because he’s not my dad nor the dad of my children. So, I thought… why not do a simple but thoughtful gesture like making his favorite dessert? (Marionberry pie)

I searched three grocery stores before finding one very expensive bag of frozen marrionberries ($13.99, who knew?!) and enlisted the help of my pie-experienced mother, who I’m sure was just pleased as punch that I asked for her help. I’ve always thought I was never quite domestic enough for her…

Two cups of flour, one cup each of lard and sugar, six cups of marrionberries mixed with grated lemon peel and a pinch of a few other ingredients, and I had a real home-baked pie on my hands. I would have never guessed it, but I was pretty damn pleased by my handmade confection. It was like I had birthed the pie myself. Maybe this is what having children feels like?!

Currently Feeling: Like I’d do anything to be outside and not at work today.
Currently Anticipating: The Mariners game tonight with my work.
Currently Loving: The quiet of my office this week cause everyone is in three-day meetings but me!

Death to Skinny Bitches

I recently cut aspartame out of my diet in a search to figure out some weird mood problems I’ve had lately, which I swear are diet-related.

I think most people think I’m crazy. Like they won’t say you’re crazy, but when you’re explaining your theory to them they’re nodding and looking at you with an expression that says, “Outside I’m nodding, but inside my head I think you’re totally nucking futs.”

The fact that I’m a total hypochondriac doesn’t help my theory much. Last month it was cervical cancer and the month before that it was a hormone imbalance. So, when this month I claim, “Aspartame Poisoning!” I can understand why some people smile, nod and don’t believe a word I say.

BUT, I’m not crazy. I swear. There’s something more than a bit fishy with this whole aspartame crap. I had done some Internet research that led me to believe some of my mood concerns could most definitely be linked to aspartame. Then, I picked up the New York Times Bestseller, “Skinny Bitch” by Rory Freedman and Kim Barnouin on a whim at Target, and read the following in the first paragraph about giving up soda/pop:

“Now don’t go patting yourself on the back if you drink diet soda. That stuff is even worse. Aspartame (an ingredient commonly found in diet sodas and other sugar-free foods) has been blamed for a slew of scary maladies, like arthritis, birth defects, fibromyalgia, Alzheimer’s, lupus, multiple sclerosis and diabetes. When methyl alcohol, a component of aspartame, enters your body, it turns into formaldehyde. Formaldehyde is toxic and carcinogenic (cancer-causing). Laboratory scientist use formaldehyde as a disinfectant or preservative. They don’t fucking drink it. Perhaps you have a lumpy ass because you are preserving your fat cells with diet soda. The Food and Drug Administration (FDA) has received more complaints about aspartame than any other ingredient to date. Want more bad news? When aspartame is paired with carbs, it causes your brain to slow down its production of serotonin. A healthy level of serotonin is needed to be happy and well balanced. So drinking soda can make you fat, sick and unhappy.
–Page 13-14 in “Give It Up: Skinny Bitch”

This is officially the end of an era for me—no more Diet Vodkas. (Which are aptly named Skinny Bitches.)

Unhappy in Sushi Land

Conveyor belt sushi is unbelievably terrible.

Prior to my sushi-loving days of late, I’d get drug along for dinner at a conveyor belt sushi restaurant and everyone would exclaim, “Oh, it’s so amazing!” Since this was before I could even stomach California rolls, I grabbed the orange plates with edamame, pot stickers and tempura. I was never really that impressed. It wasn’t until I was introduced to sushi restaurants with lovely, detailed menus and options, did I really become a fan. And since I’m terribly spoiled with places like Chiso, Kisaku, Dragonfish and Wasabi Bistro in Seattle and Sam’s Sushi right down the street from my house, shying away from what I deemed the “fast food” of sushi proved to be effortless.

But last night I was in Redmond, searching for somewhere to eat before the evening showing of the new scary movie, The Strangers, and I was craving sushi. If you want to get rich quick, open a decent sushi place in Redmond. Apparently there’s only one conveyor belt sushi place and one buffet-style Japanese place, which rumor has it, features mediocre rolls. Since the conveyor belt sushi restaurant was right next to the theater, we opted to try it out, against our better judgment.

Oi vay.

Where do I begin?

The wait was terrible. People were standing all around the perimeter of the restaurant, and the empty spots weren’t being cleaned or sat till approximately 10 minutes or more after people left.

The service was terrible. My “refillable” ice tea was never refilled nor could we find anyone to help us or answer questions.

The general appearance was gross. The big pot of wasabi was crusted around the edge and dry, and there were crumbs, napkins, chopstick wrappers and plastic plate toppers all over the floor.

The sushi was S-I-C-K. There was no way to tell if something had been sitting on the conveyor belt all day or not. And a lot of it certainly looked like it had. The rolls could not be deciphered from the menu in front of us, nor did half of the menu ever make it to the belt. The whole time I was waiting for a tempura shrimp roll, a veggie roll, a house roll—something—to make an appearance. But all that ever circulated was California rolls, made with what looked like imitation crab coleslaw, and nigiri—various logs of white rice with slabs of fish lying on top. Then there were the rolls that scared me beyond belief—corn in some sort of white mayonnaisey sauce, stuffed in seaweed, and tuna salad stuffed in seaweed. Since when does sushi include food you’d find at a barbecue or ingredients you’d find sandwiched between two pieces of whole wheat?

“Fast food of sushi”—pshaw. That was being nice. I now deem conveyor belt sushi the sushi outlet store.

Currently Feeling: Hatred for the G.D. weather.
Currently Anticipating: This Monday being over. I woke up on the wrong side of the bed.
Currently Loving: These. I’m ordering them immediately.