We're Disgusting

Last night was a spectacular night. Oh so spectacular.

Being the modern woman that I am, I decided that it was high time I took the Minimalist out on a date. Being the modern, broke man that he is, the Minimalist accepted. So after he got out of class (because apparently he goes to class, despite my by efforts to convince myself he doesn’t) he came over, drank a beer, and we were off.

After hearing that Mellow Mushroom had vegan cheese I decided that I needed a pizza smothered in it. When I mentioned that to my day, I think he was more than apprehensive, but I won some points by choosing to sit outside and because there was an extensive beer list.

I scored even more points when I suggested peppers, onions, and mushrooms on the pizza. Apparently, his mother doesn’t like any of those so he is constantly surprised when a girl likes them.

At least I know it’s not an entirely Freudian connection.

We even did the couple thing with his side, her side meat—Italian sausage for him, jerk tofu for me. Are we sickeningly adorable, yet?

Just wait.

Dinner continued wonderfully. The pizza was damn delicious. And when he ordered his second beer there was a mix-up and I got one, too. I was wary at first, but it didn’t take much prompting to get me to drink it. I even shared a few sips with him.

Disgusting? It gets worse.

Once we ate our fill, drank our beers, and stayed until they started cleaning up around so, we walked back to my car. I parked a few blocks away so we spent the entire walk back with our arms around each other, laughing and chatting. He even carried my box of leftovers.

We have gotten so disgustingly cute over this past year. Just think, I used to ignore him at parties.

Wait, I still do that.

I guess I haven’t matured that much yet. But I did win this date.

Paris, Love

Oh Paris, how I love thee!

You’ll be happy to know that I was able to put aside my puppy problems and really enjoy my time in gorgeous, romantic, magical Paris.

Want some highlights?

Of course you do!

Instead of camping out at the local Best Western (because I’m pretty sure there was one in Paris) Papa decided that a family of 5 needed more than 2 standard rooms—we needed an apartment. So we rented a 3 bedroom, 3 bath apartment with 2 sitting rooms, kitchen, dining room and laundry room overlooking the Seine and Pont Sully (one of the bridges that leads to Ile St Louis).

Pretty freaking fantastic, right?

Another little tidbit about the apartment that’s worth mentioning—the woman who lived below us.

Ever see people with dogs in little suitcases on airplanes? Well most of the time (when people can afford to shell out the $100 for a bag and $120 each way to bring the dog onboard) those bags are Sherpa Bags and the woman who lived below the apartment—Gayle Martz—just happened to invent them.

All the celebrities carry them, so you know she’s made a pretty penny. Actually I’m positive she’s made a pretty penny because she made a point of telling us that she owns homes in southern California, NYC and Paris.

Life outside the apartment was pretty great, too.

We wined.

We dined.

We champagned.

We strolled down small cobelstone streets lined with adorable shops selling everything from glass figurines (Twin’s present), wines from a vineyard in Dirty Dirty’s sister city in France, every kind of kitchen dish and utensil imaginable (including knives that say “pizza” in the blade), to mountains of spices.

Though my favorite store was easily Shakespeare and Company.

It's quite possibly the most famous English bookstore in all of France and was once a favorite spot of Hemingway's.

We saw the last stage of the Tour de France, which was lovely despite the fact that Contador won.

No one likes a bitch, Contador.

And I even got to drag the family through the Louvre for a few hours, all the while impressing them with my newly acquired art history knowledge.

^On the other side of this wall is only the Mona Lisa. That attention whore.^

Though the highlight of my trip was my personal picnic in my favorite park—Place de Vosges.

What made this picnic so wonderful?

I got to explore the city by myself in search of a pita full of falafel, which I ate on a bench in the sun while watching some of the cutest kids run around the park.

Why is it that children screaming is so much less annoying when they’re speaking French?

Overall, it was a fabulous trip that I wish had lasted longer, especially since the real life that I returned to is far from thrilling or even pleasant.

Mother refuses to do anything about Luke. And I have to miss a trip to ChiChi’s beach condo with all my friends because I’m having my surgery then.

Super fun, right?

Dog Barf

Sorry for my absences recently (I feel like I’m saying that a lot). I’ve been…somewhere doing something I’m sure. At the moment I feel like dog barf.

Why dog barf?

Because you know what’s in shit. You know what caused shit. Dog barf, on the other hand, is a complete mystery.

I’m chalking it up to a good ole fashioned hangover and blaming warm beer, keg beer, unset Hello Jello, vodka and old tequila mixed, and a little bit of Hennessy plus a night of dancing, getting sweated and stepped on (hello possibly re-broken foot. Is this the 3^rd or 4^th time we’ve met?), too many cookies and not enough water, and my constant state of stress and sleeplessness for my current state of dog barf.

I even look a little like dog barf.

Yes, I did just take that this morning. Yes, I am still wearing last night’s dress.

If you can’t tell, yesterday was a rugby day, hence the Hello Jello.

Unfortunately, I made this batch on Friday night after having a drink or two so I think (and by think I mean definitely) I added too much Hello (vodka). That threw off the delicate scientific balance that is Hello Jello and I wound up with it on my hands the next morning when I went to take it out before the game.

It later got drank through a straw (bad idea).

From there I went to an off-campus party with some friends (including Arch Enemy). I danced. I drank. I’m pretty sure I had a nip slip or three. And Arch Enemy proposed…with my own ring. It fit perfectly, though (imagine that), so I took it as a sign and said yes. I think we’re going to Vegas after finals.

Rewind who knows how long.

I lost/blacked out and hid my purse containing my school ID and room key. So I’ve been living off the grid for a week now. The Minimalist’s parents were in town so we spent another Sunday afternoon at his brother’s house with them. The difference this time, though, was that Sunday became Monday and we hadn’t left yet. Him and I ended up sharing a quickly deflating air mattress in the living room after I ate ham

(super duper bad idea, I was sick till Wednesday), drank whiskey and had a heart to heart with his father. Yup, I’m that kind of girl.

We also went to dinner with them on Friday, though that meal was far less exciting. The only story-worthy happening was his father practically dancing on the table to the Indian music videos that were playing.

And his mother, who hates me less, invited me to Vermont in August. I, of course, intend to block out that commitment for the next couple of months.

I’m sure some other things have happened since I last wrote, but the only other noteworthy thing I can think of is…

I got an internship!

An awesome internship!

The greatest internship ever!

I’m going to be writing (yes, actually writing all by myself) a column for a food and culture magazine in my Dirty Dirty town.

What will this column be on?

The vegetarian and vegan food scene, of course!

Talk about made to order perfect.

I’m jazzed beyond belief and can’t wait to get home and start eating. And I don’t really have to wait that long to get home because May 6th is the magic day.

Yup, just 11 short days before my freshman year is over. And now I’m hyperventilating.

Off to find a paper bag to breath/barf into.

In The Words of Perez Hilton: Amazeballs.

The date was great. (Great enough that I didn’t even bother to fix the silly little rhyme I just made.)

I ran out the door a few minutes after 7 fearing that I was late and everyone was waiting on me (a perpetual fear of mine) only to find that ManLove and Babs had yet to shower, everybody had to dress and the restaurant we were planning on going to (the Melting Pot) was closed for renovations so we had to pick a new place. No worries. That gave me some time to compose myself before what felt slightly like the most important interview of my life.

We finally left the apartment a little before 9 with a well past hungry Babs and only a vague idea of where we were going. Finally we decided on sushi (which, as I’ve mentioned before, is a HUGE deal) and it only took us 20 minutes of parking lot driving to find the place.

We were served by the funniest little Asian woman (she started off intimidating us, forcing both couples to engage in romantic behavior, and by the end it seemed she had adopted us as her children, even giving us free food).

A lot of the conversation was dominated by the Minimalist and ManLove speaking inside joke-code and reminiscing about past sexcapades, but I didn’t mind. It was funny (and a little endearing) to see him acting the way he was. Babs wasn’t so happy about the ghosts of hook-ups past, though (nor about ManLove buying a pack of cigarettes on the way home).

Once back at the Minimalist’s place we drank some whiskey (ManLove was shocked when he saw me drink from the Minimalist’s glass, saying that he never thought he’d see the day).

ManLove was leaving in the morning so there was a bit of an emotional g’bye. Everyone hugged everyone. Tentative future plans were made. And by the time he walked out the door (despite not spending too terribly much time with him) I was quite sad to see ManLove go.

If you don’t remember, allow me to remind you: in the Minimalist’s circle, going on a sushi date means that you’re officially dating. I didn’t exactly push for a clarification on “officially dating” and I don’t want to. Some may scoff at the situation I have worked out—the presence of affection, but lack of a title.

I don’t care. It works (oh-so-wonderfully) for me. And him. So I don’t know what “officially dating” means. I won’t put it on FaceSpace or start calling him my boyfriend. I don’t suddenly expect him to start calling me every night before I go to bed or carrying my books. I don’t want/need that. To me, titles are often based on insecurities and a desire for status and gloating rights.

I’m confident in what I’ve got going.

And now onto another piece of business:

I got an email tonight. An email that I had been very nervously expecting all day. Or, at least at the back of my mind, all week. This was an email from my editor-in-chief. This email contained my fate for next year: the announcement on whether or not I got the forum section editor position.

When I submitted my application I felt like I was qualified, but still a long shot.

So tonight, after a wonderfully relaxing shower, my blood pressure once again shot through the roof as I saw The Email waiting for me in my inbox.

Oh god. Oh shit. I can’t. I want to so badly. But shit.

With more than a little trepidation I clicked the highlighted message.

“The Editorial Board is pleased…”

Pleased to crush my dreams? Please to announce they found someone better?

“…to accept your application for Forum Editor.”

Holy fucking shit goddamn balls!

I got it! I got it! I screamed/squealed/made a sound like a dying pig, and probably scared the shit out of Roomie and whoever she was on the phone with at the time.

You have no idea (or maybe you do; I don’t know your life) how happy/intimidated/shocked I am. It probably won’t fully hit me for a while. I’ll let you know when it does.

Until then…I don’t even know.

Counting the Days

Praise Jesus and Allah and all their cousins!

At approximately 11:07AM I walked out of my last midterm into relative freedom. Spring break is still a few days away, but those few days will be filled with readings and short write-ups, not hours spent clicking through art history slides until I can’t close my eyes without seeing pictures of Transitional, Early and Late Classical Roman statues. No longer will I drive the Minimalist out of his own bed by listing off Egyptian tombs and artifacts.

^Imhotep, the stepped tomb of King Djoser from the Old Kingdom in Egpyt^

You know what I’m doing instead?

Reading interview transcripts of Quaker Conscientious Objectors during WW1 who volunteered to be semi-starved so the government could study starvation and rehabilitation. Creepy, right?

^Here’s one of the participants.^

Only slightly better than comparing cave paintings, but at least it’s something different.

Speaking of something different, there have been a few changes around the ole dormstead:

My rugby season has ended early. Very early.

It started when I would get short of breath at practice. I’ve always gotten short of breath (especially during sprints), but this was more than normal. I chocked it up to getting out of shape over Christmas break. Well, practice continued and my ability to breath continued to get worse. Very counterintuitive. So after spending the last part of far too many practices standing on the sidelines trying to get rid of the spots that were clouding my vision a equally-asthmatic ruggirl suggested that the cold must be aggravating my asthma.

Hell, the cold was aggravating all of me, but no other parts of my body were refusing to work. Damn asthma.

A week or so later a doctor confirmed the diagnosis and prescribed A) lots and lots of medicine (mainly steroids) that make it nearly impossible to eat soup, climb into bed and other things that require stability OR B) no more outdoor activity until the weather warmed. As much as I lovelovelove rugby I wasn’t willing to put myself through more meds just for the slim chance that they wouldn’t sap all my energy and I would be able to play.

So I’ve gone from bruise-sporting ruggirl to support staff. I carry water bottles, pump up balls, and keep time. Far less fun, but at least I’m not ditching the team like other girls.

I’m also trying veganism.

Why, you (and Mother) ask?

Why the hell not!

(To which Mother responded that I looked thinner than normal in some recent pictures. Mother has thought I have an aversion to food practically since I started making my own food choices. Me? An aversion to food? Really? Exhibit A: FoodBaby)

But frankly, I’m always up for a challenge. And anything involving food always peaks my interest. So with a little help from Fresh Market, a large handful of vegan blogs (especially Peas and Thank You), and the vegan station in the dining hall I’ll be saying “veganize me, Cap’n” for the rest of the week.

For the last few days of this little foodventure I’ll be on…Spring Break! Woohoo!

Roomie-Dearest, Frenchie, Mr. Jackson and Westchester are all accompanying me to Vagina Bitch for a week of drinking, me cooking amazingly wonderful and healthy food, and relaxation. Maybe 1 or 2 other things thrown in there, but you’ll just have to wait and be surprised about those.

The Minimalist and his crew are going to the mountains for their break. I was invited to go (and I know it would be ah-maze-ingly fun), but I kind of want to do my own thing (don’t take that as a sign of problems. Everything is better than ever. I promise.) And I don’t know if we could handle each other for a week straight. No need to put undo stress on our lovely little arrangement. (Though their house rental ends early, so he may come up with a friend anyway.)

So until Friday, when my posse and I get to escape the little brick boxes we live in, I’ll continue reading about starvation (while snacking on trail mix, of course) and dreaming of the free laundry and bathtub that awaits me.

Family Bonding

Despite the fact that my room is in shambles (and Roomie-Dearest seems to have a complete aversion to cleaning it) this has been a truly amazing weekend. The amazingness of this weekend started way back when at the beginning of the semester when the Minimalist lamented that he was yet to meet my family. My little wheels got to turning and within a few days an invitation for a visit was extended to Papa and co and Brother. They agreed, a weekend was picked, and I began scouring the city for restaurants and activities with which to impress my visitors. And I began nervously anticipating the dinner at which the Minimalist and Papa would meet.

When Friday finally rolled around I almost couldn’t contain my excitement. Papa and co arrived from the north around 4 and headed straight to the hotel. Brother arrived from the south around 6 and headed straight to my (horribly and embarrassingly messy) dorm. From there he used his newly acquired Legal Drinker status to load him and up with beer (a 24oz of Fosters and a 6-pack of Dale’s Pale Ale for him, a 6-pack of Rolling Rock and a 6-pack of Natty Green’s Guilford Golden Ale for Westchester and I to split, and a 6-pack of Heineken for Roomie-Dearest) for all the weekend’s festivities.

From there we returned to campus in time to meet Papa and co outside (he would not be seeing my dorm if I had anything to do about it) for dinner. We went to a design-your-own pizza place, where we caught up, ate too much bread, I saw a picture of Papa shooting Das Boot and began planning our summer vacation. (We’re thinking Paris during the Tour de France.)

After dinner I spent some time at a party at the Olds* with the Minimalist, Westchester and Hookar** before retiring to my bed, thoroughly exhausted and eagerly anticipating Saturday.

Why was I so excited about Saturday, you’re probably wondering?

It was going to be the perfect day, of course!

Why is that, you ask?

It was a men’s rugby day, not a men’s and women’s rugby day. This meant 1) I could watch the game with all my friends, 2) I could social with all my friends (and the social would be better since it was the only one) and 3) I wouldn’t have to explain to Papa why I wasn’t playing in the women’s game (I’ve decided to leave him out of the loop for now concerning my little breathing problems).

Before the game the fam and I hit up a little lunch shop that I’d been wanting to try for some nom-ables and Harris Teeter for a 12-pack of Yeungling bottles and Solo cups so we could have a classy family tailgate.

It was so silly to me to be drinking in public with Papa, especially since he knew it was against the rules at school and I was the one that suggested the beer. I guess I’m becoming an adult.

After the game (which we won) Papa and co returned to the hotel while Brother stayed behind for some good rugby-day festivities. First, though, we loaded up on good beer from my room. Why drink Busch when you don’t have to?

The social was great fun! Brother fit in nicely with my friends (and got to meet the Minimalist in a less formal environment, which I think is part of the reason they got along so great). He enjoyed the songs, saw 3 people shoot the boot and was thoroughly amused by the sustainable living-themed house the social was hosted at.

Before we knew it, it was 6 (reservations at 7) so I had to dash back, change into a pre-determined outfit, try to rid myself of the beer stench, grab the Minimalist and drive Brother’s car (he was too tipsy) downtown to meet the rest of our party for dinner.

This was it! All the weeks of planning and dreading; all my worries about big steps and how everyone would get along, it was all for this moment, when Papa opened the hotel door and they got to meet my man.

Luckily, everything went swimmingly. Hell, it was fucking perfect. Brother was feeling loose and thus able to keep the mood light. Papa and co was nice. The Minimalist was pleasant and charming. The food was great. And we even held hands as we walked through the hotel at the end of the night (he’s become surprisingly and wonderfully affectionate lately). Like I said…perfection.

Originally, Brother was supposed to return to campus with me to attend a bonfire spurred on by the perfect weather. But after a full day of drinking he was spent, so he stayed behind, much to the dismay of the Minimalist and his friends (who seemed to quite like Brother at the social).

Despite the weather being (relatively) amazing and no other known parties that night the bonfire wasn’t as much of a screaming success as they usually are. That was probably part of the reason that, come 1:30am when I was tired and my toe were numb and I said that I was going to head back to civilization and suggested to the Minimalist that he follow, he didn’t give me his usual reason for declining—that he, being one of the people throwing the bonfire, was responsible for cleaning up and putting out the fire at the end. This time he simply found another host to man the bar and together we stumbled down the dark, uneven path towards campus.

The perfect end to the perfect day—me curled up with the Minimalist in his warm bed watching Burn Notice as we fell asleep. I promise, we’re not an old married couple (despite the boringness of that statement).

My alarm sounded bright and early at 9:30, which gave me just enough time to dress, run to my room to switch shoes and grab my keys before heading off to meet the family for breakfast. Brother was hung over as shit. Sister displayed her horrible knife skills when trying to cut her pancakes (1-she’s 9, why can’t she use a knife? 2-pancakes covered in syrup are the easiest things to cut, they practically fall apart when you look at them wrong). And Papa expressed his very positive feelings about the Minimalist.

After our hearty breakfasts we exchanged hugs and went our separate ways. My way: meeting up with Westchester, Roomie-Dearest, the Pollock and Boy Scout*** for breakfast (I didn’t eat, but instead stole a bunch of food which later became my dinner), after which I returned to the Minimalist’s bed to share and “celebrate” (wink wink) the news of Papa’s complete lack of dislike towards him.

Like I said, the most amazing weekend ever thanks to:

My family

The Minimalist

60 degree weather

Hopefully, this euphoria will carry over through tomorrow. I can’t really see myself stepping down from cloud 9, 10, 11, 12…anytime soon.

*Olds-the oldest apartment-style dorms on campus, usually reserved for upperclassmen. Due to their style and location, they’re a great on-campus party spot.

**Hookar-a girl I’ve always been friendly with, but now that she no longer wants to transfer (and probably a couple of other reasons) we’ve been hanging out a lot more. She’s a bit of an acquired taste, but always fun.

***Boy Scout-a friend of the Pollock and Mr. Jackson. He’s a tennis player, a super-sweet guy, and a card-carrying member of the 6-pack club.

Thoroughly Modern Martha

This has been a thoroughly sweet, thoroughly V-filled weekend.

It started Friday night with Vagina Monologues.

Vaginas can talk? What?!

Pretty much. If you’re out of the loop Vagina Monologues is a collection of monologues and short skits that are re-enactments of actual women talking about their vags. Sound…interesting? It actually was. I walked away with a goodie bag of condoms and flavored lubes, a chocolate vagina lollipop and a desire to “reclaim my cunt” by wearing sexy undies and doing something dirty. So a very worthwhile experience.

Saturday was FINALLY a rugby day once again. Sadly, due to my newly uncontrolled asthma I was unable to play. That didn’t mean I couldn’t cheer on my teams (and yell quite a few obscenities) as they slipped and tackled in the mud. The men won. The women lost. We all drank. And I finally had to shoot the boot (for messing up a song). Luckily, I was wearing my rain boots so I was able to drink my own foot sweat, not somebody else’s. Lovely thought, right?

I woke bright and early Sunday morning so I could trek over to Starfucks (slipping on some ice and busting my knee in the process) in order to study. After which I spent a lovely afternoon laying in the Minimalist’s bed, watching Rescue Me and talking about which woman was craziest and which woman we would bang. Not terribly romantic, but enjoyable nonetheless.

One would think I would romance on the BIG day. The day far too many people are bitterly bitching about. To those people I say:

Shut the fuck up. Valentine’s Day was not created by Hallmark (though they may perpetuate it). It was not created as a way to mock single people for being unloveable/undesireable/ugly. If you don’t want to celebrate it, then don’t. But for the love of God and all things chocolaty, don’t ruin the holiday for everyone who wants to celebrate it with your constant complaining and woe is me attitude. Suffer silently.

I, as you can probably tell, adore Valentine’s Day. Not because I have a Valentine every year who showers me with handcrafted candies and roses and champagne. I had a Valentine once and I don’t even remember what we did. No, it is because I relish any opportunity to channel my inner cooler, more modern Martha Stewart. This year, I really went above and beyond.

I made my own Valentine’s candy. White chocolate covered pretzels, cayenne chocolate pretzels, white chocolate truffles, cayenne chocolate truffles. They were time consuming to make. The chocolate wouldn’t cooperate. I spent too much on supplies. But they can out wonderfully delicious, so it was all worth it.

I packaged them up in adorable little goodie bags for all my loves.

I decorated my room with cute little cupcake window gels. Because they were cheap and the little draddle window gel I stole was lonely.

I made my own cards. While the little packaged cards you gave out in elementary school are fun, I couldn’t find any that weren’t Twilight, Hannah Montana or SpongeBob. So I collaged my own. They were far cheaper (as in free) and not in any way annoying or corporate.

I’m wearing a pink shirt, pink bra, frilly pink undies and pink socks with little red heart-puffs on the back (a Valentine’s present from ChiChi a few years ago).

I helped Frenchie decorate her room. Honestly, it is bordering on nauseatingly pink and sparkly. I’m sure her roommate thoroughly appreciated it.

Frenchie, Westchester and Roomie-Dearest and I even had our own little party (in Frenchie’s room, again to annoy her roommate). We gave out goodies and played Secret Cupid. I pulled Roomie and gave her the softest little bear ever. Westchester drew my name and gave me a stuffed cupcake.

Adorable, right? There’s more.

It’s a pupcake!

And of course there were the usual plethora of candy.

Frenchie is gave out more equally adorable personalized M&Ms.

Roomie-Dearest gave me a cute card. (For several reasons, some people call me Hampster, so this was relevant.)

And for the icing on my modern Martha cake:

I’m learning to knit.

Right now it looks like shit, but it will improve. Then I want to make a pair of the warmest, fuzziest socks ever (hopefully sometime before summer).

But for now, Martha 2.0 is exhausted. I hope your Valentine’s Day was lovely. G’night, m’non-bitter bitches.

Quick Note.

Dear friends,

First of all, thank-you for reading. Our time together thus far has been quite pleasurable, at least for me. Was it good for you, too?

As you may have noticed (and as I'm sure I've said many many times) I love everything about food. So much so that I doubt I could fit all that love in one tiny little blog (and I doubt you would always want to read about that love). So I've come up with a solution. Allow me to introduce you to my latest creation...

FoodBaby.

This is my blog all about food and exercise and nutrition. It's chock-full-o-super delicious recipes, food finds, and my daily food musings. If you like food(or just need it to survive)or want even more time with me, you should check it out.

Please and thank-you,

Kara Hadley

This is a Food Revolution, Not a Food Fight

Remember my onion flavored cake resolution about eating better? The one that included eating healthier food, more vegetables, less processed foods and learning to enjoy food? I realize it was a bit vague and I wasn’t sure how I was going to accomplish it.

All my questions were answered in the form of a Barnes & Noble gift card. After having the gift card for less than 2 days it was burning a hole in my pocket and my shelves were begging for another book so I headed over with no real intentions. Because it is January and other people have made similar resolutions (lose 50lbs so I can find my penis, get buns of aluminum because steel is too ambitious, cook 0 calorie food, etc) the display of books at the front was chock-full-o-diet and exercise books. That being a topic I’m always eager to learn more about, I began my happy afternoon of browsing there. It wasn’t long before I had seen enough books promoting a flat abs diet or (this is a first) a Christian approach to dieting to convince me that I would find nothing of use or interest. Right as I was about to walk away something caught my eye.

Could it be?

Why yes, it was her. Staring at me from the cover of a simple but elegant white paperback was none other than Bethenny Frankel, the non-housewife from Real Housewives of New York (a guilty pleasure). She is a self-proclaimed “ball-buster,” a well-respected natural food chef and a SkinnyGirl.

What’s a SkinnyGirl?

I had no clue either until I read the book cover to cover in something like 5 days. It was that good. So allow me to explain/persuade you to the SkinnyGirl lifestyle (no Kool Aid or track suits involved, I promise):

A SkinnyGirl is what we can all be if we learn to break our “Heavy Habits,” embrace new “Thin Thoughts,” and follow her rules to becoming “naturally thin.” I realize this sounds crazy and like every other diet or eating plan you’ve heard. Believe me, when I began the rules I was skeptical. And the first couple of times I encountered a “Thin Thoughts” blurb I had flashes to pro-ana, pro-mia websites (pro-anorexia, pro-bulimia-scary shit). But it didn’t take long for me to realize the simple wisdom in what she was saying.

The Rules:

Your diet is a bank account

You can have it all, just not all at once

Taste everything, eat nothing

Pay attention

Downsize now!

Cancel your membership in the clean plate club

Check yourself before you wreck yourself

Know thyself

Get real

Good for you

Obviously, those are a lot different from the usual no sugar, no bread, only grapefruit rules of most diet books. That’s because this isn’t a diet. Think of it as relationship counseling for your relationship with food. I know I’m beginning to sound fruity, but it really is the truth.

I could continue to gush about my newly discovered food-gem, but I know I’m going to sound crazy/gullible/hired/cultish. I suggest picking up a copy of the book if you’ve got the lovehate relationship with food that I always had. It’s worth the money if for no other reason than it includes some delicious-sounding recipes for Skinny cocktails, zucchini soufflé, and vegan coconut cupcakes.