I repeat: DO NOT DEVIATE FROM THESE INSTRUCTIONS!
At the request of my holistic health coach, Amy White, I bought my first Kombucha drink. It’s an organic tea that comes from the natural fermentation (warning: may contain alcohol) of a mushroom. Alcohol? Shrooms? Hardly my style, though just the beginning.
I enlisted Amy’s help to get some tips for taking in foods I never knew existed. Enter: Kombucha.
Amy’s knowledge of both nutrition and the body makes her extremely helpful for, if nothing else, providing me with some kind of ammunition to fire at [insert random person here] who knows what’s best for me and has taken a deep interest in my eating habits since I stopped eating meat. And I knew I’d found the right nutritionist when I learned Amy’s age, because when a woman looks a couple decades younger than she actually is, you know she’s gotta be doing something right.
“Don’t shake it.” She told me, with a look on her face that was the most serious look I’d ever seen her make. “Really. It will explode.”
The bottle has the same warning on the label, bold-faced and prominently displayed. Probably because upon picking up the bottle and noticing the bottom-most quarter inch of the drink has gooey clumps floating around, it’s counter intuitive to not shake it. The human instinct is to stir up the bottom floaties and intersperse them throughout the bottle, perhaps mixing them out of sight and mind.
What is the proper way to drink Kombucha? Well, first, DON’T shake. When it comes to this drink – oh sensitive, sensitive Kombucha – the word “shake” is certainly relative. “Shake” can mean slowly and carefully pulling the bottle out of the fridge and tipping it ever so slightly. It can mean driving over small road bumps with the bottle resting gently in a grocery bag on the passenger seat. While these circumstances seem harmless enough, you must understand that Kombucha is a sensitive drink. A drink that, if it becomes upset, will not hesitate to violently splatter all over you leaving you with a lingering vinegar-esque aroma. And then probably hold a grudge about it.
What made me so drawn to try this drink wasn’t so much that my nutritionist recommended it, which was most certainly a deciding factor. It was because my nutritionist recommended it despite the hard work that went into drinking it, which sent a clear message that the frequently-performed twist-and-run maneuver was, with every bottle, totally worth it.
She jotted down the name of the brand (Synergy, in case you’re wondering) on our consult sheet. She looked over at me as though she were continuing her thought.
“Then..” she started. There’s MORE? It gets more complicated than not EVER tilting the bottles and learning how to dodge violently spraying liquid?
“Have you heard of Chia seeds?” I know what you’re thinking, and yes, she was talking about those Chia seeds.
“After you drink half, take a scoop of Chia seeds and pour them into the bottle.”
I nodded, my mind drifting toward trying to find an explanation as to why I have never in my life owned a Chia pet.
“It will be sort of like a volcano, which is why you have to wait until the liquid is halfway gone before pouring in the seeds. Put the lid back onto the bottle, and – listen, this is important – shake once.”
Wait, what?! Did you say SHAKE? How long have I been singing, “Ch-ch-ch Chia!”?
Hours later at Whole Foods I picked up six bottles – all different flavors. I’ve had two so far, and one sprayed out – Finicky citrus flavor. The second time I was successful and had a pleasant experience, which leaves me with a 50 percent success rate – hardly worth bragging about.
I’m happy I was introduced to this crazy drink because the health benefits far outweigh the hassle involved in the care and consuming of Kombucha: it’s laced with probiotics and enzymes, packed with vitamins, promotes digestion and a healthy immune system and it’s great for the hair and skin.
So far (meaning out of the two I’ve ever had) my favorite flavor is Passionberry, named for the drink’s equal parts passion and berry, which are then mixed with two parts awesome.
Yes, exactly like a fairy tale
While some are arguing that the name of ABC’s dramatic dating show “The Bachelor” be changed to “The Most Heartless Son of a bitch in America,” consider for a moment the circumstances of this show. Meeting the man of your dreams and forging a serious relationship on-camera while America watches along with the families of the 24 other woman your Prince Charming is simultaneously dating is not an ideal way to find a soulmate. I’m not sure it’s the ideal way to find a breakfast cereal. It’s not an accurate portrayal of how life goes. At least outside the land of Make Believe. And polygamy.
But take into account how, blame aside, Jason went with his heart. What? GASP! He made a mistake? AND admitted to it? WHAT IS THE WORLD COMING TO?! Isn’t a person allowed to change his mind? Isn’t there something to be said about his honesty no matter how ridiculously it all unfolded? And is he really the only one at fault here? Didn’t all parties involved understand what they were getting themselves into?
I, too, was completely enveloped in this dramatic season and went with him on all the twists and turns that were the rose ceremonies – dismissing each girl one by one, until there were only two remaining (which, on any other reality show, wouldn’t have been the last two standing).
And when one got dumped, she whined like a baby only to reunite with her man six weeks later when he dumped his fiancee – still on national television – and she then whined like a baby. I know that this is, eh em, real and all, but hello? ISN’T THIS WHAT YOU SIGNED UP FOR? Can’t you just eat your drama sandwich and make peace with the fact that no, this is not in fact normal. No, this is not an ideal dating situation. And no, you might not be the person he’s looking for even if you are an adorable Canadian with personality to spare and legs to die for.
Apparently Jason and I have differing taste in chics.
Overdue
Finally ditched the quaff that made me look like some boring teenager who spent her weekends re-shelving books at a library. Now I’m a grown up again. Except for the shirt, which belongs to a fourth grader.
Everything but diapers
I’m five months away from celebrating an anniversary – a five-year anniversary marking the date I met Kya. This relationship is the longest relationship I’ve had with a creature that’s not blood-related to me, and it’s one that I couldn’t be more proud to be a part of. It’s a relationship that has in nearly every way, shape and form prepared me for motherhood.
What’s that? You don’t think so? I didn’t either, at first. In fact I hated when people would get dogs “as practice for parenthood.” Well, now I know differently.
I’ve dealt with all of it: bed wetting, toy stealing, wrestling matches during bathtime, fighting, pouting, sneaking treats when I’m not looking, the works. I’ve even heard people offer unsoliciticed advice about my dog-raising skills, such as, “You shouldn’t have your dog’s collar so tight, you’re going to strangle her.” Which, in my mind, is hardly different than going to the park and hearing an old woman say, “You really should put a hat on that baby.”
After having boarded Kya for a week while we were out of town planning our wedding (read about the trip on our engagement blog), she had a bright red, oozing eye. I recognized and diagnosed the problem right away, but scheduled an appointment with her vet just in case. Suspicion confirmed – conjunctivitis. It’s like having a kindergartener – I dropped off a perfectly clean, healthy dog and by the time I picked her up her fur was clumped and matted down by a drool mixture belonging to her and all of her new friends. Who knows what kind of snot-nosed brats were hanging around and infecting my dog. When I called to check in on her, they explained to me that she not only made a bunch of new friends, but she had gotten herself a boyfriend. And pink eye. I guess it could be worse – she could have gotten herself a boyfriend and chlamydia. We’re luckily not at that stage yet, but I guess this is preparation for the time I pick her up and she’s wearing a face full of makeup and a pink halter top I told her she absolutely couldn’t buy.
We got home that night and unpacked her things – toys, food, her blanket – and found an extra little surprise. It was a plush bear toy with shakers in all the limbs, and Kya went nuts for it as soon as I pulled it out of the bag. I tried to explain that she can’t steal a toy and keep it, so it had to be returned.
The kennel employees were surprised that such a maneuver was even possible for Kya, because the dogs are well supervised and are only allowed to have toys in their own respective rooms. Which means that sometime during the day when the dogs were all making a trip to the outdoor play area was Kya cunning enough to sneak into a neighboring room and do a bit of shopping.
I called ahead to the kennel to let them know I was coming to return the contraband, and when I got there I felt like I was doing the walk of shame – like a mother walking into the principal’s office at an elementary school after her kid just punched another kid. Then bit him. Then destroyed his art project made specially for his sweet, old grandmother.
They were kind and understanding about it, I was humiliated, Kya was bummed out that she lost her new favorite thing that she found all by herself. That is, until I got home from work and she slathered my face with kisses. Had she been a child of the human variety, she would have stormed off to her room, slamming the door behind her. Follow this with months of little to no interaction aside from muttering hateful things under her breath. Fast forward further to her adult life where she’d spend countless hours of therapy determining that all of her life’s problems stem from me and this very incident. Then she’d harbor endless amounts of resentment until I was old and decrepit, and she’d finally get her revenge by putting me in a home. And stealing my favorite sweater. Then she’d wag her back end on the way out and turn back only to scream, “IT WAS ONLY A FUCKING RATTLE BEAR, GOSH!”
So here’s to nearly five years with my best girl who has made me laugh more, play more and has shown me that unconditional love is the greatest thing you could ever give another soul. May all of the relationships in my life be this easy.
Where’s the beef? Somewhere else.
Nine months ago I stopped eating meat. I know I know, you want to know why. OF COURSE YOU WANT TO KNOW WHY. Everyone who hears me say, “No thanks, I don’t eat meat,” asks me why. Actually, it’s more along the lines of, “Is it, like, a new diet thing?” People ask. “Or is it, like, because you love animals or something?” Which seems weird because I wouldn’t ever think of asking a meat eater, “What, do you, like, hate animals or something!?” And I just want to be all, “IT’S BECAUSE YOU TOUCH YOURSELF AT NIGHT.” But instead I politely tell them that it is, in short, for health reasons, which I begin to regret as soon as I say it because then I have to listen to all of the reasons why it is not, in fact, a healthy life decision.
I wish I could accurately convey my level of annoyance with the general population’s sudden interest in the nutritional content of my meals. “So, um… how do you get your protein? I just can’t imagine you get enough protein.” Then that’s usually followed by some statistic that’s made up on the spot, “Ya know, 74 percent of all vegetarians don’t get enough protein.” Realizing that I’m still not flabbergasted by their argument, they throw one of these out there, “And they’re likely to not live as long. Like, maybe die in their forties.” It’s usually at about this point in the conversation when I roll my eyes and explain that – GASP! Meat isn’t the ONLY source of protein in this world. FANCY! “But what about iron?” They ask. “Are you sure you’re getting enough iron? I mean, it’s impossible to get enough iron. You’re probably going to be anemic now. Eighty two percent of all vegetarians become anemic.”
This is when I smile, thank them for their brilliance and anemically prance my protein-and-iron-deficient body back to my cubicle.
The answer to the question “why” began with my acupuncturist, who made some dietary recommendations when I began seeing her in January of last year. She told me that among other things, cutting out red meat could significantly improve my anxiety symptoms by changing the energy, qi, in my body (especially my liver). So I did. I focused on eating only lean poultry and fish occasionally.
Months after I had cut out red meat, I was out to dinner with my Grandma waiting eagerly for the slab of ribs that was moments away from covering my hands and face in barbecue sauce (this was considered cheating, but it was only the second time in four months, so I figured it was ok). To my dismay, I was horrified when the plate arrived. Instead of looking at them with wide eyes and a rumbling hungry belly, my stomach started flip flopping at the sight of them. There it was – a dead cow. On my plate. It was a cow who had a mom. Maybe a name. Maybe a calf or two.
“Go ahead, eat up!” Grandma said.
Oh. Dear. God.
When I took a bite, I tasted a farm. It was like running up to a wild animal and sucking my face onto the side of it like a fish on the side of an acquarium. I became completely aware of the way the gristle felt in my mouth. I was chewing on something that was once alive. “Grandma, I’m going to take these home. I’m just really not that hungry.”
I went the next few days avoiding the meat all together, eating potato dishes, pastas and filling up on fruits and salads. When I finally tried meat again, it was the confirmation I needed. It was a piece of meat in a frozen bag of Chicken Voila ™ that made me sick this time. And all I could think of for the rest of the night was poor, poor chicken!
Here I am, nine months later, getting all of my nutrients from plant foods and chocolates. I make a great effort to maintain a healthy eating regimen, and I’m quite proud of the current state of my health. I’m not bothered by the fact that most of the negative comments about going meatless stem from people’s own insecurities. What does bother me, however, is that they feel the need to say anything at all. No one would ever feel compelled to walk over to me if I sat at my desk and crammed chili dogs in my mouth every day. Never would anyone think to approach me and ask, “You eat like this? How do you get enough servings of vegetables? How are you monitoring your cardiovascular health with so little exercise? Even more, what about your cholesterol? YOUR CHOLESTEROL!”
No, it’s not until someone makes a positive change that people question and discourage that person. Do you HONESTLY care where I get my protein? No, you don’t. And honestly, when you tell me that “vegetarians are actually some of the most unhealthy people, surprisingly,” because you think you read it somewhere once, well, we both know you’re lying. And even if it were true, we’re living in a society where a good portion of the population is malnourished somehow, and most are overweight. A society where it’s perfectly acceptable to walk into a McDonald’s and order a double cheeseburger – extra cheese, extra mayo, no lettuce – without the bun, and yet when I dare remove meat from my diet people gasp at the absurdity. And then point out to me that when I’m pregnant I’ll be taking a huge risk by depriving my baby of essential nutrients. What they don’t know is that a baby with two chins for ears is JUST WHAT I’VE ALWAYS WANTED!
My point is it’s better to say nothing at all. Isn’t that what your mother always told you? If you don’t have anything nice to say, it must be because you’re acting defensively because you’re uncomfortable that YOU are not, in fact, living a healthier lifestyle so you’re making a choice to bring someone else down. Is that it? Are you feeling threatened by my positive life choices? Well, here, nuzzle into my bosom. AND LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER.
For Scarface
I woke up this morning with puffy eyes and a gloomy mood. Yesterday I spent a portion of my day at Orange County Animal Services – a kill shelter in Orlando. Also known as the worst place in the universe, where life hardly makes sense and all that surrounds you is a sense of unfairness and cruelty.
I rarely go to OCAS, in fact I avoid it at all costs. I know what goes on there and try my best to work with rescue groups that pull dogs from such shelters to know that I’m doing a little bit to save them. What’s hard is actually seeing the dogs – looking at them in their cages and knowing that some of them won’t be there tomorrow.
A coworker of mine decided that she was finally ready to get a dog. She and her husband had been talking back and forth about it – he really wanting to get a pet and she being apprehensive. So when she asked a few of us to go with her to look at dogs, we were happy to go along.
Rewind to earlier that day, when I accidentally clicked on an e-mail I had purposely not looked at. It sat bold-faced in my inbox, just seconds away from the trash folder when I clicked on it instead of the facebook alert below it. Immediately I saw his face – a face that will stick with me for the rest of my life. But not because of the e-mail, the e-mail alerting me to the fact that he had only 24 hours left in this world. No, I’ll remember it forever because I recognized it when I saw him later that day. At the pound. Awaiting his fate.
His name is Scarface, which I don’t quite understand because he doesn’t have any scars on his body. In fact, he’s hardly got an adult fur coat, and it’s absolutely flawless. He’s just more than a year old and hasn’t been around long enough to get laugh lines let alone scars. What a short life for a dog.
When I saw him, my heart broke. I wanted to give him one last bit of affection so that he knew that there was goodness in this world. I wanted him to know that if only for a few moments, he was loved.
I held his paws in my hands under the door of his cage. I told him he was a good dog, and I told him not to be scared. I told him that none of this was his fault. He gave me kisses, and I kissed his forehead through the bars of the cage. I kissed him goodbye.
It was one of the saddest moments of my life, and it filled me with anger. Even more, it filled me with ambition. One day I will have the means to help dogs like Scarface instead of just feeling hopeless and kissing them goodbye.
I will never forget his face.
Resolutions and so forth
Write more.
That refers to both on and off this blog. In fact, I hope that most of my writing is non-blog writing because I’d like to finish a project I’m working on by the end of this year. What is this project? I can’t tell you… er… my dog ate it.
Deepen the relationships I have with my friends and family.
This might offer some sort of explanation as to why I’ve been bombarding my best girls and guys with phone calls and e-mails. For all of you to whom this applies, please don’t change your numbers. It’s only because I love you. And also because I want to be in your good graces should you suddenly became incredibly wealthy.
Talk less. Listen more.
Inspired by my incessant need to walk into my boss’s office and tell her about the embarrassing moment du jour. After the long awkward pause I try to offer up an explanation in the form of a pole with which I fish deeper and deeper into the vast pool that is my social awkwardness. “Sorry, I should probably have kept that to myself.” Followed by, “It’s just that you asked how I was doing, and instead of spewing out ‘fine’ I figured I’d tell you about my personal problems that clearly aren’t work appropriate.” And then with, “At the time when you asked I thought I started to come out and say it, and then after I started saying it I started to think ‘oh, why am I saying this?’” And finally with, “Well now I’m just rambling.”
Become a better cook.
Because when we go visit my grandma and she says, “Patrick, you’ve lost more weight – Whitney! Aren’t you feeding him?” I can say “yes” and actually mean it.
Learn to sign.
I’d like to open my world to the beauty that is communication without words. And because my sister can’t always tell when I’m calling her a bitch.
Become more confident.
I plan to use clicker training. It certainly worked for Kya and all the dogs on her flyball team.
Take more photos.
It’s a good way to capture moments in time and also ensure that the camera I bought myself in November wasn’t a pointless investment.
Happy New Year. It’s nice to meet you, 2009.
