What's a seven-year blog break, give or take? Listen, it doesn't count as true neglect if you resurface eventually to tackle a topic of very great importance to every-gender folks of a certain age: skincare.
For 39 years, I've been the exasperated owner of skin that's a genuine pain in the ass. It's reactive (formerly known as "sensitive"), dry in some places and oily in others, still breaks out regularly decades after puberty, keeps getting wrinkles in new places that please me none at all—and taking care of it has always been an expensive, time-consuming trial.
Dermatologists handle the chronic stuff, but for routine care I've spent the past 10 years or so conducting an exhaustive search for products that work on my skin. Here's the short but oddly tricky list of criteria:
1. 100% cruelty-free*
2. No strong fragrances
3. Doesn't overdry
4. Doesn't cause breakouts
5. Doesn't cost a million dollars (seriously, $60 max)
6. But looks like a million bucks
Finally, FINALLY, I think I've figured it out. And I thought I might save you some pain—and a lot of Sephora returns—by sharing my hard-won wisdom. So here goes.** Caveat: I don't use all these products daily, or my face would fall off. Pick and choose depending on your skin's mood.
Moisturizer
Daytime: Trader Joe's / Nourish Oil-Free Antioxidant Facial Moisturizer (TJ's, $5.99)
Nighttime: First Aid Beauty / Ultra Repair Cream (Sephora or Ulta, $30)
Anytime: French Girl Cosmetics / Crème Lumière Facial Moisturizer (French Girl, Anthropologie, and cute little shops on Orcas Island, $24)
Neck: IT Cosmetics / Confidence in a Cream (Sephora or Ulta, $48)
Toner
Dry or combo skin: Alaffia Face Toner / Purely Coconut (Alaffia, Amazon, PCC and other hippie grocers in Seattle, $9.49—strongish coconut scent)
Oily skin: Mario Badescu Skincare / Glycolic Acid Toner (Ulta, $18)
Exfoliation
Andalou Naturals / Lemon Sugar Facial Scrub (Andalou, Market of Choice and other crunchy grocers in the town where your dad retired, $14.95)
Facewash
CeraVe / Foaming Facial Cleanser (Target, Walgreens et al, $12.50)
Eyes
OleHenriksen / Banana Bright Eye Crème (Sephora, $38)
MD Complete / Eye Wrinkle Corrector (Target, $28.99)
Anti-aging
The Ordinary / Granactive Retinoid 2% in Squalane (The Ordinary, $9.60)
The Ordinary / Azelaic Acid Suspension 10% (Sephora or The Ordinary, $7.90)
MD Complete / Wrinkle & Radiance Remedy (Target, $39.99)
Breakouts
Dermalogica / Overnight Clearing Gel (Ulta, $51)
Kimberly Sayer / Deep Cleansing French Clay Mask (Kimberly Sayer, $26.13)
Foundation
Light coverage: Tarte / BB Tinted Treatment Primer (Ulta or Sephora, $37)
Medium matte: Tarte / Amazonian Clay 12-Hour Full Coverage Foundation (Ulta or Sephora, $39—IMO it's really medium coverage)
Medium dewy: Sunday Riley / The Influencer Foundation (Sephora, $42)
Full: Urban Decay / All Nighter Waterproof Liquid Foundation (Sephora, $40—moisturize well before applying)
Concealer
Light coverage: Wet n Wild / Photo Focus Concealer (Wet n Wild, Walgreens et al, $3.99)
Medium: Cover FX / Cream Concealer (Sephora, $28)
Full: IT Cosmetics / Bye Bye Breakout Treatment Concealer (Ulta or Sephora, $28)
Powder
Pixi by Petra / Flawless Finishing Powder (Target, $20.49—brush recommended, not the included puff)
Blush
Stick: Ilia / Multi-Stick (Sephora, $34)
Pressed: Tarte / Amazonian Clay 12-Hour Blush (Sephora, $29)
Liquid: Perricone MD / No Blush Blush (Sephora or Ulta, $35)
Brows
Anastasia Beverly Hills / Clear Brow Gel / Sephora, $22
Lips
Pixi by Petra / Lip Contour Liner (Target, $12)
Aveda / Nourish-Mint Soothing Lip Color (Aveda, $18)
IT Cosmetics / Vitality Lip Flush 4-in-1 Reviver Stain (Ulta, $20)
p.s. My favorite lipstick of all time is Revlon's Coffee Bean. If you've found a CF equivalent for this magical color, please tell me tell me tell me.
*Verified by trustworthy sources beyond the product manufacturer, such as PETA, Leaping Bunny, and Cruelty-Free Kitty.
**Prices and links are current as of five seconds ago. I'm not using those links that get you paid because I'm too lazy to figure out how, and also I'm a pragmatist with a normal person's social following. Please rest assured that every single recommendation on this page comes with zero outside influence.
April 21, 2018
February 02, 2011
Running the numbers
On the Slate site today, Meghan O'Rourke gives a succinct overview of a new study by VIDA about the breakdown of male and female writers in magazines, both mainstream and literary. Check it out for yourself to see all the stats, but here's a hint: XY > XX.
This doesn't surprise me much because, you know, I follow the news and live in the world. But my own professional experience in the publishing industry has been dominated by women to the point where it became a running joke to spot the guy—any guy—in the office. He was usually either the president of the company or delivering a package on his bike.
At San Francisco magazine, where I worked until last fall, the sole gentleman on the editorial masthead was the editor-in-chief.* In my current editorial department, at Apple, women outnumber men 2 to 1. Of the 12 bosses I've had since college, 6 are women.**
But here's the real question Slate's article raised for me: How does Canteen measure up? I've been there since the beginning, and I've helped select every word in its pages. So I tallied up the writers in our first six issues, and the count looks like this:
Issue 1: M9, F2
Issue 2: M6, F5
Issue 3: M6, F3
Issue 4: M7, F6
Issue 5: M7, F5
Issue 6: M11, F6
Total: M46, F27
Yikes. Despite my own background in womencentric publishing, have I sold my sisters short at the magazine that matters most to me—the one where I have the most power to make sure this kind of inequality doesn't happen?
I could admit fault, dust off the Friedan, and whack myself in the face with it. Maybe I should. But it's not that simple. We have regular conversations at Canteen about balance of all kinds: gender, race, geography. The last thing we want in a publication devoted to unveiling the creative process is a uniform set of voices.
Our core editorial staff spends months poring through unsolicited submissions, working with writers to develop original content, and weighing the mix for each issue. It's a slog. When I get to have the rare magic moment—and it is euphoric—of finding a gold nugget in the pile, I'm not thinking about who the author is at all. My only conscious thought is YES. YESYESYESYESYESYES. Which is exactly what my brain does when it reads anything great, whether it's for Canteen or not.
So what am I saying, that men write magic stuff more often than women do? My god, no. But at my magazine, at least, it's a challenge to keep gender equality topmost in mind when selecting work. I don't want Canteen to discriminate, and we do make an effort to include a range of perspectives. But in the moment of discovery, I'm not focused on making the magazine more feminist or even feminine. I just want it to be good.
At the New Yorker and the Atlantic, the editors aren't combing through the slush pile at midnight. They get to cherry-pick pieces from the finest writers in the world. I like to imagine that if I were in that position, I would have the freedom—the responsibility—to promote the work of all genders equally. To magazines at that level, I say: Step up. You have the luxury.
At Canteen, we often don't. Our resources are far more limited. So here's my basic criterion: If what you wrote makes my brain explode, I will ask you to let us publish it. And if you happen to be a woman, all the better.
* Save the occasional mantern. Yes, we called them that.
** And half of those are named Nancy. We'll need to do another study to figure that one out.
This doesn't surprise me much because, you know, I follow the news and live in the world. But my own professional experience in the publishing industry has been dominated by women to the point where it became a running joke to spot the guy—any guy—in the office. He was usually either the president of the company or delivering a package on his bike.
At San Francisco magazine, where I worked until last fall, the sole gentleman on the editorial masthead was the editor-in-chief.* In my current editorial department, at Apple, women outnumber men 2 to 1. Of the 12 bosses I've had since college, 6 are women.**
But here's the real question Slate's article raised for me: How does Canteen measure up? I've been there since the beginning, and I've helped select every word in its pages. So I tallied up the writers in our first six issues, and the count looks like this:
Issue 1: M9, F2
Issue 2: M6, F5
Issue 3: M6, F3
Issue 4: M7, F6
Issue 5: M7, F5
Issue 6: M11, F6
Total: M46, F27
Yikes. Despite my own background in womencentric publishing, have I sold my sisters short at the magazine that matters most to me—the one where I have the most power to make sure this kind of inequality doesn't happen?
I could admit fault, dust off the Friedan, and whack myself in the face with it. Maybe I should. But it's not that simple. We have regular conversations at Canteen about balance of all kinds: gender, race, geography. The last thing we want in a publication devoted to unveiling the creative process is a uniform set of voices.
Our core editorial staff spends months poring through unsolicited submissions, working with writers to develop original content, and weighing the mix for each issue. It's a slog. When I get to have the rare magic moment—and it is euphoric—of finding a gold nugget in the pile, I'm not thinking about who the author is at all. My only conscious thought is YES. YESYESYESYESYESYES. Which is exactly what my brain does when it reads anything great, whether it's for Canteen or not.
So what am I saying, that men write magic stuff more often than women do? My god, no. But at my magazine, at least, it's a challenge to keep gender equality topmost in mind when selecting work. I don't want Canteen to discriminate, and we do make an effort to include a range of perspectives. But in the moment of discovery, I'm not focused on making the magazine more feminist or even feminine. I just want it to be good.
At the New Yorker and the Atlantic, the editors aren't combing through the slush pile at midnight. They get to cherry-pick pieces from the finest writers in the world. I like to imagine that if I were in that position, I would have the freedom—the responsibility—to promote the work of all genders equally. To magazines at that level, I say: Step up. You have the luxury.
At Canteen, we often don't. Our resources are far more limited. So here's my basic criterion: If what you wrote makes my brain explode, I will ask you to let us publish it. And if you happen to be a woman, all the better.
* Save the occasional mantern. Yes, we called them that.
** And half of those are named Nancy. We'll need to do another study to figure that one out.
October 19, 2010
When clever people have too much time on their hands
Mia Lipman fails to understand why nobody has invented a dance called the Chana Masala.
10 hours ago
Joe Ona, Ben Wurgaft, and Żanna Spacetraveler like this.
Brian Bussiere because it can only be done to the naan bread beat.
10 hours ago
Joe Ona, Ben Wurgaft, and Żanna Spacetraveler like this.
Brian Bussiere because it can only be done to the naan bread beat.
October 17, 2010
Digitized
The summer after my sophomore year, I spent almost every weekday afternoon in my high school photo lab. The photography teacher, Mr. Couch—this was prep school, so we called him Couchie—was a genial, absent-minded fellow with a kind smile and a wandering pair of glasses.
The semester before, I'd taken my first class with Couchie. He taught us the basics of framing and shooting, then each step of the development process: rolling back the film, measuring out the chemicals, and my favorite part—the heart-pounding few minutes in the dark when you load the film onto the spool, feeling around for the right angle, trying not to touch the delicate face of each square and ruin the roll.
I learned to take pictures on my mom's old Pentax, a satisfyingly heavy silver and black box with a manual winder. When I graduated from college, she got me the slightly updated version of the same camera, a Pentax ZX-M. It worked faithfully from day one; the most I ever had to do was replace the batteries, the filter, and (countless times) the lens cap.
The Pentax never stopped its tireless march from country to country, state to state, recording my life in piles of matching Walgreens albums with faux-gold lettering. But I did—reluctantly, nostalgically—send it into early retirement when I finally entered the digital age this past summer.
My new travel buddy is a Canon Rebel XTi. The endless menus and settings are mystifying, and I know it can do a thousand tricks I don't think to ask of it. Nothing is left to chance anymore, and that's a loss, but I've been pleasantly surprised to find it hasn't changed my eye or the excitement of capturing time and space in a frame.
And when I miss the adrenalin rush of slipping open the envelope at the camera shop to see what turned out and what didn't, I can always pull the Pentax off its pedestal and take it on a field trip. I just hope I don't forget how to load the film.
New York: Traipsing through Brooklyn
Chicago: Richard & Caralyn's wedding
Cape Cod: Patricia & Richard's wedding
Western Mass: A family visit
San Francisco: FallFest, Lit Crawl, Open Studios
F3 at the Cotton Mill: An art show in Oakland
The semester before, I'd taken my first class with Couchie. He taught us the basics of framing and shooting, then each step of the development process: rolling back the film, measuring out the chemicals, and my favorite part—the heart-pounding few minutes in the dark when you load the film onto the spool, feeling around for the right angle, trying not to touch the delicate face of each square and ruin the roll.
I learned to take pictures on my mom's old Pentax, a satisfyingly heavy silver and black box with a manual winder. When I graduated from college, she got me the slightly updated version of the same camera, a Pentax ZX-M. It worked faithfully from day one; the most I ever had to do was replace the batteries, the filter, and (countless times) the lens cap.
The Pentax never stopped its tireless march from country to country, state to state, recording my life in piles of matching Walgreens albums with faux-gold lettering. But I did—reluctantly, nostalgically—send it into early retirement when I finally entered the digital age this past summer.
My new travel buddy is a Canon Rebel XTi. The endless menus and settings are mystifying, and I know it can do a thousand tricks I don't think to ask of it. Nothing is left to chance anymore, and that's a loss, but I've been pleasantly surprised to find it hasn't changed my eye or the excitement of capturing time and space in a frame.
And when I miss the adrenalin rush of slipping open the envelope at the camera shop to see what turned out and what didn't, I can always pull the Pentax off its pedestal and take it on a field trip. I just hope I don't forget how to load the film.
New York: Traipsing through Brooklyn
Chicago: Richard & Caralyn's wedding
Cape Cod: Patricia & Richard's wedding
Western Mass: A family visit
San Francisco: FallFest, Lit Crawl, Open Studios
F3 at the Cotton Mill: An art show in OaklandJuly 25, 2010
Five and time
It took me almost 10 years to become a runner. I used to hate anything beyond a quick soccer or squash sprint. Then, over the course of who knows how many sweaty, uncomfortable, oh-god-let-this-end, slow-down-or-you'll-die miles, I reached a point where nothing else felt like exercise, or meditation, or health.
It took less than a year of not being able to run for my legs and lungs to revert back to the same burn I used to feel doing time trials in college. But that decade of training for distance left a tiny legacy: the feeling that I really ought to run farther, that I genuinely want to. At this point, a few months after deciding that my abdomen can finally handle more than stairs, I can run about four miles at a tortoise-plus pace before discomfort (aka The Twinge) kicks in. It's not anywhere near the same kind of rush, but it's something.
It seemed like time to try a race. The idea of reinjury makes me very nervous, and The Twinge is an impulsive and unpredictable master, so I signed up for a 5K. That's 3.1 miles—half of a 10K, obviously, and 10.1 miles less than the second half of the San Francisco Marathon, the course I feel most attached to. It's shorter than my usual morning run, at least as of this month, but a year ago it wasn't close to possible. A year ago it hurt to walk to work.
This is how my brain spun it to make the short jog—in the marathon or half-marathon mindset, that's all a 5K is, a roll around the block—sound like an accomplishment. I'd never actually run a 5K before. It's a weird distance, like one lap of a track. You can't sprint it flat out, you'll crash way too soon. But if you take it too slowly, schoolkids breeze by you, giggling.
This 5K was inside the San Francisco Marathon. On Friday, I went to the race expo to pick up my official shirt and everything else sponsors throw in the faux fiber bag (best: smoothie coupon; weirdest: miniature bottles of olive oil and balsamic vinegar, because real runners eat very, very small salads), feeling a little resentful about going to the Fun Run table instead of the serious Half.
The tent was full of wiry, tan families speaking all sorts of languages. The men had short hair and thin, clean-shaven faces; the women had strong calves and brightly colored visors. Everyone looked deeply healthy.
Yesterday, I didn't run. I tried to go to bed early, but the thing about 9:45 on a Saturday night is that my body has zero interest in rest. It decided midnight was more like it. Fun times.
This morning, I got to the starting line about half an hour early. It turns out the ragtag 5K runners are a different breed than the expo families. We come in a wide range of shapes and sizes, ages (toddler to ancient), outfits (spandex, jeans, wool sweaters), and accessories (fanny packs, backpacks, digital cameras). At two minutes till, a few serious-looking teenagers pushed up to the front. Everybody not sporting a fanny pack or a walker started bouncing on their toes. One gray-haired woman shuffled back and forth, punching her hands up and out, over and over.
Running in a herd isn't fun at first. Then comes the natural spread, and you find your small open place. The energy of the group shifts into a catalyst. So do the mile markers, the water stations, the hired hands clapping at prescribed spots with genuine, heart-twisting enthusiasm. The whole process is extremely organized, but it manages to feel like a spontaneous surge. Suddenly the city streets are full of people, thousands of them, all running in the same direction. It's clear there's a shared purpose to it.
Here's how a 5K feels to The Twinge and me: The first mile is nothing; the second mile is epic; the third is driven by the anticipation of stopping; and the last .1 has to be a sprint, even though it's probably a stupid idea, because I've sprinted the home stretch of every race I've ever run. There is nothing, anywhere, like a finish line.
I had a few moments where the run felt too long, like my ability and will have regressed to 10 years back; but for most of the time I spent moving, and for the rest of the day afterward, it felt like a blink. Next time I want it to take much longer for my eyes to close, then open.
It took less than a year of not being able to run for my legs and lungs to revert back to the same burn I used to feel doing time trials in college. But that decade of training for distance left a tiny legacy: the feeling that I really ought to run farther, that I genuinely want to. At this point, a few months after deciding that my abdomen can finally handle more than stairs, I can run about four miles at a tortoise-plus pace before discomfort (aka The Twinge) kicks in. It's not anywhere near the same kind of rush, but it's something.
It seemed like time to try a race. The idea of reinjury makes me very nervous, and The Twinge is an impulsive and unpredictable master, so I signed up for a 5K. That's 3.1 miles—half of a 10K, obviously, and 10.1 miles less than the second half of the San Francisco Marathon, the course I feel most attached to. It's shorter than my usual morning run, at least as of this month, but a year ago it wasn't close to possible. A year ago it hurt to walk to work.
This is how my brain spun it to make the short jog—in the marathon or half-marathon mindset, that's all a 5K is, a roll around the block—sound like an accomplishment. I'd never actually run a 5K before. It's a weird distance, like one lap of a track. You can't sprint it flat out, you'll crash way too soon. But if you take it too slowly, schoolkids breeze by you, giggling.
This 5K was inside the San Francisco Marathon. On Friday, I went to the race expo to pick up my official shirt and everything else sponsors throw in the faux fiber bag (best: smoothie coupon; weirdest: miniature bottles of olive oil and balsamic vinegar, because real runners eat very, very small salads), feeling a little resentful about going to the Fun Run table instead of the serious Half.
The tent was full of wiry, tan families speaking all sorts of languages. The men had short hair and thin, clean-shaven faces; the women had strong calves and brightly colored visors. Everyone looked deeply healthy.
Yesterday, I didn't run. I tried to go to bed early, but the thing about 9:45 on a Saturday night is that my body has zero interest in rest. It decided midnight was more like it. Fun times.
This morning, I got to the starting line about half an hour early. It turns out the ragtag 5K runners are a different breed than the expo families. We come in a wide range of shapes and sizes, ages (toddler to ancient), outfits (spandex, jeans, wool sweaters), and accessories (fanny packs, backpacks, digital cameras). At two minutes till, a few serious-looking teenagers pushed up to the front. Everybody not sporting a fanny pack or a walker started bouncing on their toes. One gray-haired woman shuffled back and forth, punching her hands up and out, over and over.
Running in a herd isn't fun at first. Then comes the natural spread, and you find your small open place. The energy of the group shifts into a catalyst. So do the mile markers, the water stations, the hired hands clapping at prescribed spots with genuine, heart-twisting enthusiasm. The whole process is extremely organized, but it manages to feel like a spontaneous surge. Suddenly the city streets are full of people, thousands of them, all running in the same direction. It's clear there's a shared purpose to it.
Here's how a 5K feels to The Twinge and me: The first mile is nothing; the second mile is epic; the third is driven by the anticipation of stopping; and the last .1 has to be a sprint, even though it's probably a stupid idea, because I've sprinted the home stretch of every race I've ever run. There is nothing, anywhere, like a finish line.
I had a few moments where the run felt too long, like my ability and will have regressed to 10 years back; but for most of the time I spent moving, and for the rest of the day afterward, it felt like a blink. Next time I want it to take much longer for my eyes to close, then open.
June 06, 2010
This is a story about control
It occurred to me recently that I hadn't had a real group discussion about birth control since college, when everyone was just paranoid about getting pregnant. But then my women friends and I took a decade or so to grow up, and we had all kinds of experiences, relationships, scares, pleasures, and kids along the way.
We clearly needed a poll. One simple question (in two parts)—What's your favorite method? Ring, IUD, diaphragm, patch, pill, chanting at the full moon?—inspired an onslaught of thoughtful, funny, and wise replies. The 35 women I asked range all over the map: married, single, partnered, straight, bi, pregnant, moms, post-hysterectomy, health professionals, one-method-only, every-method-under-the-sun. But they were uniformly curious to hear what the rest of the group had to say.
Everyone enjoyed the conversation so much that several participants asked me to publish the poll somewhere, so they can share the link with their own circles of women.
Ladies, this one's for you. Thank you for your voices.
Pill: 10
“I kind of like my period. It reminds me of two things: A) I’m not pregnant, and B) my body is doing what is supposed to do.”
“I know there is a lot of newer stuff out there, but I’m sticking to what works.”
“I hate being on hormones. The last time I was on birth control pills, they became affectionately known as ‘bitch pills’ by all my friends.”
“The hard part for me is remembering to take the little suckers every day.”
IUD (Mirena): 4
“I love it. Never had a problem and I don’t even have spotting.”
“I am totally and utterly passionate about the Mirena hormonal IUD. No side effects except losing my period (who can complain?!), totally reliable, no action required, only local release of hormone rather than systemic, etc.”
“I had a great experience with Mirena. I had it for 5 years. There was cramping just when it was inserted.”
“I just got the Mirena myself, after a zillion years of pill use, and basically think it’s heaven. The insertion was uncomfortable but brief.”
“Love my Mirena! The insertion did actually hurt, but the pain only lasted for one full minute, and in exchange I get 5 worry-free years of protection.”
Condoms: 4
“I’ve been all condoms all the time for years now.”
“Condoms with spermicide are the way to go. You get used to it after a while, it is effective, and it has no lasting effects.”
Diaphragm: 3
“I am a big fan, Mad Men–ish as this may be. Noninvasive, cheap, takes two seconds to put in.”
“The only thing that I have found that is noninvasive and also has no side effects is the diaphragm. Drawbacks: It comes in a hideous package and you have to remember to have it with you.”
“I did the cervical diaphragm thingy based on a friend’s recommendation. She got pregnant on it.”
“I use a diaphragm, but I’m kind of retro.”
NuvaRing: 2
“You only need to remember it a couple of times a month, and no major hormonal effects.”
“Ring ring ring ring!!!! I love it. So easy, lowest hormones, and it cleared up my acne.”
“I tried the NuvaRing and liked it, but my melasma didn’t go away.”
“The NuvaRing is fabulous, but when I used it I got a lot of yeast infections.”
Recommended reading: http://motherjones.com/environment/2009/05/nuvaring-dangerous
IUD (Paraguard): 1
“Three of my coworkers sing its praises, and the bonus to Paraguard is that there are no hormones involved. It can also last for up to 10 years, as opposed to Mirena’s 5.”
“I have the Paraguard IUD and love the fuck out of it. It hurt like hell going in, but I’ve had no issues and no complications. My flow is much heavier, which I am happy with because it feels good to have that serious cleanse once a month.”
“The thing with the Paraguard is that it’s the only really good nonhormonal option out there, but it does tend to cause a lot of breakthrough bleeding and heavier periods.”
Rhythm Method: 1
“I don’t like to add any hormones to my body.”
IUD (unspecified type)
“I agree that it has many positives, but also some negatives...including really heavy cramping that is super painful for up to a couple weeks after they put it in. Another weird thing? The guy can sometimes feel it in you. It kind of bugged my husband.”
“My IUD had to be removed because of severe cramping and bleeding.”
Depo Injection
“You get it every three months, it’s low-hormone, it’s extremely effective, and you don’t get your period. The negatives I’ve heard is that it tends to cause more weight gain than other methods.”
“Research it carefully, as I believe this is what a friend of mine was on for about a year a few years ago, and she ended up with osteoporosis because of it. She wasn’t even 30 and was told she had the bones of an 80-year-old! Yikes.”
“Depo does cause a bit of weight gain, but we love a luscious lady. It also causes some decrease in bone density while you’re on it, but this comes back when you go off it again, so it's not necessarily a problem for a few years.”
Patch
“I had a friend who tried the patch and hated it. It was weird for her to have a ‘sticker’ on her all the time. She was off of it quickly.”
Sex with Women
“Let’s not forget the best, most natural, safest way to be sure not to get preggers...SEX WITH WOMEN!!!!”
Chanting at the Moon
“Fun, but you’ll be knocked up before you know it.”
“Interesting. Let me know if that works for you.”
We clearly needed a poll. One simple question (in two parts)—What's your favorite method? Ring, IUD, diaphragm, patch, pill, chanting at the full moon?—inspired an onslaught of thoughtful, funny, and wise replies. The 35 women I asked range all over the map: married, single, partnered, straight, bi, pregnant, moms, post-hysterectomy, health professionals, one-method-only, every-method-under-the-sun. But they were uniformly curious to hear what the rest of the group had to say.
Everyone enjoyed the conversation so much that several participants asked me to publish the poll somewhere, so they can share the link with their own circles of women.
Ladies, this one's for you. Thank you for your voices.
THE CONTROL POLL
The numbers indicate how many women said a particular method is their preferred form of birth control. Comments follow, both pro and con, plus any recommended reading.Pill: 10
“I kind of like my period. It reminds me of two things: A) I’m not pregnant, and B) my body is doing what is supposed to do.”
“I know there is a lot of newer stuff out there, but I’m sticking to what works.”
“I hate being on hormones. The last time I was on birth control pills, they became affectionately known as ‘bitch pills’ by all my friends.”
“The hard part for me is remembering to take the little suckers every day.”
IUD (Mirena): 4
“I love it. Never had a problem and I don’t even have spotting.”
“I am totally and utterly passionate about the Mirena hormonal IUD. No side effects except losing my period (who can complain?!), totally reliable, no action required, only local release of hormone rather than systemic, etc.”
“I had a great experience with Mirena. I had it for 5 years. There was cramping just when it was inserted.”
“I just got the Mirena myself, after a zillion years of pill use, and basically think it’s heaven. The insertion was uncomfortable but brief.”
“Love my Mirena! The insertion did actually hurt, but the pain only lasted for one full minute, and in exchange I get 5 worry-free years of protection.”
Condoms: 4
“I’ve been all condoms all the time for years now.”
“Condoms with spermicide are the way to go. You get used to it after a while, it is effective, and it has no lasting effects.”
Diaphragm: 3
“I am a big fan, Mad Men–ish as this may be. Noninvasive, cheap, takes two seconds to put in.”
“The only thing that I have found that is noninvasive and also has no side effects is the diaphragm. Drawbacks: It comes in a hideous package and you have to remember to have it with you.”
“I did the cervical diaphragm thingy based on a friend’s recommendation. She got pregnant on it.”
“I use a diaphragm, but I’m kind of retro.”
NuvaRing: 2
“You only need to remember it a couple of times a month, and no major hormonal effects.”
“Ring ring ring ring!!!! I love it. So easy, lowest hormones, and it cleared up my acne.”
“I tried the NuvaRing and liked it, but my melasma didn’t go away.”
“The NuvaRing is fabulous, but when I used it I got a lot of yeast infections.”
Recommended reading: http://motherjones.com/environment/2009/05/nuvaring-dangerous
IUD (Paraguard): 1
“Three of my coworkers sing its praises, and the bonus to Paraguard is that there are no hormones involved. It can also last for up to 10 years, as opposed to Mirena’s 5.”
“I have the Paraguard IUD and love the fuck out of it. It hurt like hell going in, but I’ve had no issues and no complications. My flow is much heavier, which I am happy with because it feels good to have that serious cleanse once a month.”
“The thing with the Paraguard is that it’s the only really good nonhormonal option out there, but it does tend to cause a lot of breakthrough bleeding and heavier periods.”
Rhythm Method: 1
“I don’t like to add any hormones to my body.”
IUD (unspecified type)
“I agree that it has many positives, but also some negatives...including really heavy cramping that is super painful for up to a couple weeks after they put it in. Another weird thing? The guy can sometimes feel it in you. It kind of bugged my husband.”
“My IUD had to be removed because of severe cramping and bleeding.”
Depo Injection
“You get it every three months, it’s low-hormone, it’s extremely effective, and you don’t get your period. The negatives I’ve heard is that it tends to cause more weight gain than other methods.”
“Research it carefully, as I believe this is what a friend of mine was on for about a year a few years ago, and she ended up with osteoporosis because of it. She wasn’t even 30 and was told she had the bones of an 80-year-old! Yikes.”
“Depo does cause a bit of weight gain, but we love a luscious lady. It also causes some decrease in bone density while you’re on it, but this comes back when you go off it again, so it's not necessarily a problem for a few years.”
Patch
“I had a friend who tried the patch and hated it. It was weird for her to have a ‘sticker’ on her all the time. She was off of it quickly.”
Sex with Women
“Let’s not forget the best, most natural, safest way to be sure not to get preggers...SEX WITH WOMEN!!!!”
Chanting at the Moon
“Fun, but you’ll be knocked up before you know it.”
“Interesting. Let me know if that works for you.”
May 10, 2010
Notes from a small island*
So I wasn't kidding about yoga retreats—I really did go on one. In silence, for five days, on Marrowstone Island, in northern Washington.
Everyone asks about the silence first. Isn't it hard? For me, strangely, no. Not that I'm the quiet type, as you can attest. But I've lived alone and traveled alone and spent lots of time with myself, and there's no need to talk out loud then. I can hear easily enough.
But you know what is hard? Getting up at 5:30 a.m. every day to meditate. Meditating: also hard. Incredibly hard, in the same way that the last mile of a race is hard or drinking wheatgrass is hard—you can't wait for it to be over, but you know how good it is for you. According to our teachers, Jo and Jenny, everyone is always a beginner. All we can do is get better at beginning.
I wasn't one of those kids who loved camp. It's 10 a.m., they'd say. Time to swim! Thanks, but I don't really feel like swimming right now. I just got here. How about if I go read instead. You can imagine how that went over. Weeks of summer camp attended by me in the past 31.5 years: one. Five days, really.
I do love routine, though. When I travel, it's what I miss, and I'll go out of my way to create one—if you stop by the same coffee shop every day, no matter where you are, they'll know you by the third day. Familiarity isn't that hard to establish; connections aren't that hard to build. But I think it's only my own routines that I like, at least after the third day.
Still, if you asked (after asking about the silence and was it hard), did I like the retreat? I'd say yes. It stretched my brain and my hip and my concentration and made me want to sleep two days for each time I woke up before dawn.
But it's a gift to give yourself the time to do very little except reflect. Hike. Sit. Climb the stairs. Sit. Listen to the crazy wind storm, watch the rocking chair at golden hour, breathe air that doesn't know how to be urban, count the number of trees that look like dinosaurs and the open shells that look aerodynamic. Let someone else set the schedule, so you don't have to think at all about where to be.
* With apologies to Mr. Bryson.
Everyone asks about the silence first. Isn't it hard? For me, strangely, no. Not that I'm the quiet type, as you can attest. But I've lived alone and traveled alone and spent lots of time with myself, and there's no need to talk out loud then. I can hear easily enough.
But you know what is hard? Getting up at 5:30 a.m. every day to meditate. Meditating: also hard. Incredibly hard, in the same way that the last mile of a race is hard or drinking wheatgrass is hard—you can't wait for it to be over, but you know how good it is for you. According to our teachers, Jo and Jenny, everyone is always a beginner. All we can do is get better at beginning.
I wasn't one of those kids who loved camp. It's 10 a.m., they'd say. Time to swim! Thanks, but I don't really feel like swimming right now. I just got here. How about if I go read instead. You can imagine how that went over. Weeks of summer camp attended by me in the past 31.5 years: one. Five days, really.
I do love routine, though. When I travel, it's what I miss, and I'll go out of my way to create one—if you stop by the same coffee shop every day, no matter where you are, they'll know you by the third day. Familiarity isn't that hard to establish; connections aren't that hard to build. But I think it's only my own routines that I like, at least after the third day.
Still, if you asked (after asking about the silence and was it hard), did I like the retreat? I'd say yes. It stretched my brain and my hip and my concentration and made me want to sleep two days for each time I woke up before dawn.
But it's a gift to give yourself the time to do very little except reflect. Hike. Sit. Climb the stairs. Sit. Listen to the crazy wind storm, watch the rocking chair at golden hour, breathe air that doesn't know how to be urban, count the number of trees that look like dinosaurs and the open shells that look aerodynamic. Let someone else set the schedule, so you don't have to think at all about where to be.
* With apologies to Mr. Bryson.
April 14, 2010
On speed
I finally started running again. Very slowly, mind you, and not very far. But it's been about a year since the injury (less than that since the accurate diagnosis), and it felt like time.
The trick is making myself stop; the opposite of the tricks I used to play to make myself keep going, back when I was trying to transform from a sprinter into someone with actual stamina. Insidiously, it worked.
The reverse is much harder, since every part of me except a tiny stretch of my abdomen wants to go go go go go. And it never hurts while I'm running, only afterward. So there's a point during the workout—usually right when I hit my stride in mile two—when I have to second-guess my brain for the sake of my body. Still working on the balance.
When I haven't been running, I've been flying. First to England, as you know, for what turned out to be a lovely visit with family I hadn't seen for years. After the sadness of Grandma Rosa's funeral, we all felt grateful to spend the afternoon together in a comfy room, catching up and toasting and watching my criminally adorable new niece, Rosie, devour almost an entire salmon in her high chair.
And in a meteorological phenomenon still under investigation by the MI5, the sun shone almost every minute we were there. In Yorkshire. In March. If you're not half or three-quarters or 100% English, that won't excite you at all. But trust me—crazy times. Here, see for yourself.
The trip home was much less delightful than everything before it, unless your idea of delight involves a lot of turbulence, flavorless peanut noodles, and nine hours in the Atlanta airport. Nuff said.
Five days after touching down from that trip, I headed back to SFO for the second half of GrandmaFest 2010: Savta's 90th birthday in Maryland. Songs were sung, walks taken, brunches brunched, photos snapped, red slippers worn, and cellos played. The sun continued its freakish extended appearance, although the cherry blossoms weren't as cooperative.
Then I flew back across the country and collapsed in a grimy, jet-lagged heap on the floor. I'm still here. Please send coffee and yoga retreats.
The trick is making myself stop; the opposite of the tricks I used to play to make myself keep going, back when I was trying to transform from a sprinter into someone with actual stamina. Insidiously, it worked.
The reverse is much harder, since every part of me except a tiny stretch of my abdomen wants to go go go go go. And it never hurts while I'm running, only afterward. So there's a point during the workout—usually right when I hit my stride in mile two—when I have to second-guess my brain for the sake of my body. Still working on the balance.
When I haven't been running, I've been flying. First to England, as you know, for what turned out to be a lovely visit with family I hadn't seen for years. After the sadness of Grandma Rosa's funeral, we all felt grateful to spend the afternoon together in a comfy room, catching up and toasting and watching my criminally adorable new niece, Rosie, devour almost an entire salmon in her high chair.
And in a meteorological phenomenon still under investigation by the MI5, the sun shone almost every minute we were there. In Yorkshire. In March. If you're not half or three-quarters or 100% English, that won't excite you at all. But trust me—crazy times. Here, see for yourself.
The trip home was much less delightful than everything before it, unless your idea of delight involves a lot of turbulence, flavorless peanut noodles, and nine hours in the Atlanta airport. Nuff said.
Five days after touching down from that trip, I headed back to SFO for the second half of GrandmaFest 2010: Savta's 90th birthday in Maryland. Songs were sung, walks taken, brunches brunched, photos snapped, red slippers worn, and cellos played. The sun continued its freakish extended appearance, although the cherry blossoms weren't as cooperative.
Then I flew back across the country and collapsed in a grimy, jet-lagged heap on the floor. I'm still here. Please send coffee and yoga retreats.
March 05, 2010
Uphill all the way
This is for my Grandma Rosa, who died a few hours ago.
She was 95 years old, unmistakably English, stubborn, sweet, pocket-size. She told stories about the past that got more elaborate each time, but the unchanging factor was that she always starred in them.
Her mind had been on the way out for years. I hadn't visited her since the worst of it, and I don't know if she recognized who the Chanukah and birthday cards were coming from. I hope she did. I always included a recent photo with my brother's and my names on the back, hoping it would strike the match.
When I was in middle school, Grandma Rosa came to grandparents' day in her favorite black-and-white zebra-print shirt with a matching purse she'd made herself by weaving the extra fabric from the shirt through the chain handle. She was a huge hit. My friends and their parents and grandparents talked about her for years afterward.
Sometime—I don't remember how long ago—before she moved from her Sheffield apartment into a nursing home closer to my uncle and his family in Leeds, we took a long walk on the moors together. She wore a little wooly hat and kept reciting these lines by Christina Rossetti as we moved slowly, Grandma pace, along the path:
Last night, she went into the hospital with pneumonia. The same thing happened last year; she made it through. This time, she didn't. She lived a long time and died quietly in her sleep.
I'm not sure what else to say except that I haven't seen my Grandma Rosa in five years, and tomorrow afternoon I'm getting on a plane to England to go say goodbye. Only part of my heart thinks it's too late.
She was 95 years old, unmistakably English, stubborn, sweet, pocket-size. She told stories about the past that got more elaborate each time, but the unchanging factor was that she always starred in them.
Her mind had been on the way out for years. I hadn't visited her since the worst of it, and I don't know if she recognized who the Chanukah and birthday cards were coming from. I hope she did. I always included a recent photo with my brother's and my names on the back, hoping it would strike the match.
When I was in middle school, Grandma Rosa came to grandparents' day in her favorite black-and-white zebra-print shirt with a matching purse she'd made herself by weaving the extra fabric from the shirt through the chain handle. She was a huge hit. My friends and their parents and grandparents talked about her for years afterward.
Sometime—I don't remember how long ago—before she moved from her Sheffield apartment into a nursing home closer to my uncle and his family in Leeds, we took a long walk on the moors together. She wore a little wooly hat and kept reciting these lines by Christina Rossetti as we moved slowly, Grandma pace, along the path:
Does the road go uphill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Yes, to the very end.
Last night, she went into the hospital with pneumonia. The same thing happened last year; she made it through. This time, she didn't. She lived a long time and died quietly in her sleep.
I'm not sure what else to say except that I haven't seen my Grandma Rosa in five years, and tomorrow afternoon I'm getting on a plane to England to go say goodbye. Only part of my heart thinks it's too late.
January 31, 2010
Under the wire
What a neglectful blogger I've become. I could say it's because of my day job plus Canteen plus freelance work, but I've been juggling that same combination for years without slacking on the blog front. Must be something in the new decade's water.
Or maybe it's because I've been on the road: hiking in Jack London State Park, playing craps with a gay softball team in Vegas. What? Yes. I'm terrible at craps, by the way. But the penny slots and I get along famously.
Last year was international, this year is domestic. Next up: Savta's 90th birthday in D.C., then a weeklong yoga and meditation retreat in Port Townsend, then a double header of weddings in Cincinatti and Chicago. Then a long nap.
Speaking of Canteen, Issue Five is here! It glows in the dark. We'll throw a party for it one of these days. And we're having a photography contest—you and your shutterbug friends should all enter.
I'm thinking of trying to run again. Everybody's favorite abdominal injury has been resting for more than eight months now, and it's feeling the urge to move. We'll see how much leeway I can give it.
Two great friends are leaving town next weekend to travel for a while. Malaysia, Thailand, and China, for starters. I'll miss them something fierce, and I'm jealous of the adventure. But sometimes it's a gift to stay put. Especially when it's raining, and somehow almost February.
Or maybe it's because I've been on the road: hiking in Jack London State Park, playing craps with a gay softball team in Vegas. What? Yes. I'm terrible at craps, by the way. But the penny slots and I get along famously.
Last year was international, this year is domestic. Next up: Savta's 90th birthday in D.C., then a weeklong yoga and meditation retreat in Port Townsend, then a double header of weddings in Cincinatti and Chicago. Then a long nap.
Speaking of Canteen, Issue Five is here! It glows in the dark. We'll throw a party for it one of these days. And we're having a photography contest—you and your shutterbug friends should all enter.
I'm thinking of trying to run again. Everybody's favorite abdominal injury has been resting for more than eight months now, and it's feeling the urge to move. We'll see how much leeway I can give it.
Two great friends are leaving town next weekend to travel for a while. Malaysia, Thailand, and China, for starters. I'll miss them something fierce, and I'm jealous of the adventure. But sometimes it's a gift to stay put. Especially when it's raining, and somehow almost February.
December 31, 2009
Decembrist
At BCB headquarters, the past 12 months were more about pictures than words. We can discuss what each type of expression is worth another time. For now, a photo from—and in memory of—each slice of 2009.
My only selection parameter was that I couldn't repeat any of the images I've posted on here before. Harder than I expected, but more interesting than just choosing my favorites.
Happy new year to you.
october
november
My only selection parameter was that I couldn't repeat any of the images I've posted on here before. Harder than I expected, but more interesting than just choosing my favorites.
Happy new year to you.
in honor of jack pemberton, 1919–2009
octoberfiddle dog | northampton, massachusetts
novemberpaint cans | jan & phil's home, galiano island
December 22, 2009
Lingua mia
Words and phrases I use way too often, in no particular order:
1. It is what it is.
2. Definitely.
3. What can you do?
4. Horrendous.
5. Delicious.
6. No worries.
7. OK, great.
8. Sweet.
9. Right on.
10. Totally.
11. Pretty this / kind of that.
12. Absurd(ly).
13. It's all good.
14. Nice!
15. Hybrids I invent by adding random suffixes: friendiversary, New Englandish, etc.
I think this means I'm not exactly stealth about being Jewish, addicted to Bay Area slang from the late '90s, and a serious dork.
1. It is what it is.
2. Definitely.
3. What can you do?
4. Horrendous.
5. Delicious.
6. No worries.
7. OK, great.
8. Sweet.
9. Right on.
10. Totally.
11. Pretty this / kind of that.
12. Absurd(ly).
13. It's all good.
14. Nice!
15. Hybrids I invent by adding random suffixes: friendiversary, New Englandish, etc.
I think this means I'm not exactly stealth about being Jewish, addicted to Bay Area slang from the late '90s, and a serious dork.
November 15, 2009
Argentina, captured
At long last . . . 170 moments have been scanned and dusted and posted and captioned, and now they're all yours: Argentina on Flickr.
Since I didn't write much on here about the trip, I tried to turn the photo sets into a mini narrative. If you'd like to read it, I recommend viewing the pics one by one, instead of in slideshow mode. (NB: Details are much easier to see in the slideshow.)
For those who prefer bite-size distraction, here are 10 of my favorites. But keep in mind you're only experiencing a seventeenth of the fun.
Passersby looked on in mild horror as I crouched to shoot this in Palermo, BA.
This shot in Congreso sums up BA's aesthetic for me:
gritty and colorful, with touches of elegance.
BA has exceptional graffiti. This curtsying girl is in San Telmo.
The spicy window display at El Gato Negro café, BA
Courtyard bench at my charming, musty hotel in Colón
Mi amigo poquito de Colón
Parroquia Santos Justo y Pastor, Colón
Mailbox on a side street, Colón
Bricklayer, construction site, Colón
I fell in love with these shoes in Colón on a Tuesday, brought them
back to BA on a Thursday for a photo shoot on Amy's terrace.
Rosewood, Cementerio de la Recoleta, BA
Since I didn't write much on here about the trip, I tried to turn the photo sets into a mini narrative. If you'd like to read it, I recommend viewing the pics one by one, instead of in slideshow mode. (NB: Details are much easier to see in the slideshow.)
For those who prefer bite-size distraction, here are 10 of my favorites. But keep in mind you're only experiencing a seventeenth of the fun.
Passersby looked on in mild horror as I crouched to shoot this in Palermo, BA.
This shot in Congreso sums up BA's aesthetic for me:gritty and colorful, with touches of elegance.
BA has exceptional graffiti. This curtsying girl is in San Telmo.
The spicy window display at El Gato Negro café, BA
Courtyard bench at my charming, musty hotel in Colón
Mi amigo poquito de Colón
Parroquia Santos Justo y Pastor, Colón
Mailbox on a side street, Colón
Bricklayer, construction site, Colón
I fell in love with these shoes in Colón on a Tuesday, brought themback to BA on a Thursday for a photo shoot on Amy's terrace.
Rosewood, Cementerio de la Recoleta, BANovember 01, 2009
Claro que sí
I hoped to have all my pictures posted before I started telling you Argentina stories, but it turns out scanning and Photoshopping 10 rolls takes kind of a long time. How about that?
So we'll go bit by bit, starting with New England (full set here). It's a little-known fact that all great tales of South America begin with hot cider—all great tales of anything, really. Here's yours:
You should bring it along to keep warm at the Paradise City Arts Festival, especially in the sculpture garden.
Watch out for the dog on a hog. He takes no prisoners.
The leaves were just starting to do their magic thing. In Vermont, for instance:
Wait, what's that you said? You want to see my ride?
Yeah, baby. There ain't no party like a Delaware PT Cruiser party. That trunk is plenty big enough to hold a few of these:
But I didn't think they'd survive the trip from Boston to Argentina.
After a big pile of hours and a minor adventure with the prepaid cab company, I reached Amy's place (sans pumpkins) in Buenos Aires. Her new kitchen is stocked with all the necessities.
She lives in Villa Crespo, near the city center. This is the view from her very pretty, very sunny terrace.
Someday, I'd like to have a terrace. Or even a window box. But in the meantime, all I have is about a million more photos for you. Coming soon!
So we'll go bit by bit, starting with New England (full set here). It's a little-known fact that all great tales of South America begin with hot cider—all great tales of anything, really. Here's yours:
You should bring it along to keep warm at the Paradise City Arts Festival, especially in the sculpture garden.
Watch out for the dog on a hog. He takes no prisoners.
The leaves were just starting to do their magic thing. In Vermont, for instance:
Wait, what's that you said? You want to see my ride?
Yeah, baby. There ain't no party like a Delaware PT Cruiser party. That trunk is plenty big enough to hold a few of these:
But I didn't think they'd survive the trip from Boston to Argentina.
After a big pile of hours and a minor adventure with the prepaid cab company, I reached Amy's place (sans pumpkins) in Buenos Aires. Her new kitchen is stocked with all the necessities.
She lives in Villa Crespo, near the city center. This is the view from her very pretty, very sunny terrace.
Someday, I'd like to have a terrace. Or even a window box. But in the meantime, all I have is about a million more photos for you. Coming soon!
October 14, 2009
Sobriquettish
The so-called BCB has spent way too much time stateside lately. Not that I'd trade in any of the past year's jaunts to Orcas Island, New York, Seattle, Spirit Rock, SoCal—but my alter ego can't be fed on domestic travel alone.
So tomorrow seems like a fine day for Argentina, doesn't it? But I stopped at the homestead en route, to say hi to my family and the color wheel of leaves and the chill that seeps into your bones. There's nowhere prettier than here right now.
Saturday: Boston. My cousin Shira showed me around Brighton, a quiet little neighborhood with the best twin bartenders a girl could ever shack up with. During dinner at Brown Sugar, the lights suddenly went out (not romantic dimming, but total blackness) and a green strobe light started up. Then a pulsing beat, then a Thai man singing a husky rock version of "Happy Birthday" to someone we couldn't see. For a full five or six minutes. Nobody reacted. Then the lights came on, and it was business as usual. Who's free next July 10? I'll see you there.
Sunday & Monday: Northampton. Blew a kiss to the old gray dog and picked up my sweet rental car, a metallic blue PT Cruiser immediately christened Skymall. (If you're looking for me, I'm the one in the pimp hearse. You can thumb wrestle Chuck D for shotgun.) Mom and I checked out the Paradise City Arts Festival, followed by a double-header of gorgeous, relentless biopics: Bright Star and Becoming Jane. They neatly reconfirmed my belief that the critical ingredients for British literary genius are shackled love and early mortal illness. (American genius = epic road trips and really good drugs.)
Tuesday: Vermont & South Hadley. Google Maps sent me on a complicated backroads route through Bennington with a turn every few minutes, mostly unsignposted but all pristine. Lunch with the Rabbis Boettiger and the samba dog. Back through the rain to Dad and Ann's, tested out my memory and took the Holyoke route off 91. Only got almost lost once. Rewarded with corn risotto and Scrabble.
Today has been lazy and logistical, tomorrow back on the bus and then the plane, a speed-demon layover in Miami and 10 more hours and hey! Good morning, South America. I don't believe I've had the pleasure before.
September 13, 2009
Fall cleaning
In late August, it was beginning to look a lot like cleanse season. I'm taking a few weeks off from the gym so my friend the abdominal tear can actually heal, instead of just pretending to, and a new month is always a nice, clean time to start a project.
At first, I thought I'd go the basic route: no caffeine, alcohol, dairy, gluten, or processed foods for two weeks. Not much fun, but not torturous. Then I remembered how great I felt after each 24-hour juice fast I've done annually for the last few years, usually combined with an overnight at some hot springs. How long could I keep that up? And how about a Master Cleanse, would that be head-clearing or demented? It's meant to last 10 days, but that sounded more like starvation than health. So I cut it in half. I figured I could handle anything for five days.
The Master Cleanse people recommend two days of easing in before officially starting the program: one day of raw foods, then one of fruit and vegetable juices. The raw day was fine. I ate a lot of salad and got a little grumpy at work. But the juice day was rough, especially when I wound up at Papalote watching a group of friends get their burrito on. And my energy level was so low that I started to feel kind of loopy.
When I woke up on day three, I realized the Master route wasn't for me. There was no way I could function normally on a diet of spicy lemonade. So I decided to alternate raw days and juice days for the rest of the cleanse. This was over Labor Day weekend—the magazine gave us an extra day off, so the timing was right. It's much easier to follow strict food guidelines when you can make meals at home. The shopping and prep become part of the exercise. I spent quality time at Rainbow Grocery.
I don't have any hilarious anecdotes about the rest of the experience, but I survived. The evenings on juice days were the hardest and hungriest, so I went to bed early and slept longer and much more deeply than usual. In the mornings, I felt fantastic and had plenty of energy.
I broke the cleanse at Harbin Hot Springs with a peach-ginger muffin. To say it was the best muffin in the history of muffins doesn't do it justice. Let me tell you a story.
Seven or so years ago, I went on a first (and only) date with a short, tan man who decided we should go surfing. Note to guys: That's an extreme first date, especially if you don't tell the girl beforehand—you just show up and say, "Hey, I thought we'd go surfing in Bolinas"—and most especially if the girl has never surfed before and isn't all that interested in it.
But it was a beautiful day and I'm a trouper, so off we went. Another tip: Wetsuits should never be part of a first date. It took me 20 minutes to put the damn thing on, and I fell over at least three times. Local children pointed and laughed. Truly.
Eventually, we made it into the water, where I proceeded to spend two freezing, uncomfortable hours failing to stand up on the board. Mostly, I paddled around shivering while tan guy happily caught wave after wave.
When I couldn't stand it anymore, I chucked the wetsuit and took an epic nap on the beach in the sun. Being warm and dry, instead of clinging to a slippery board while encased in rubber, was like showering for the first time after a month in a mud pit. I slept so well that I felt like an entirely different person afterward. I forgave the mocking children; I even forgave tan guy his trespasses, although I don't remember his name. It was the most glorious nap of my life.
The muffin that broke the cleanse was the muffin equivalent of that nap. Food just doesn't get any better, especially if your head and belly know exactly what they've been missing.
At first, I thought I'd go the basic route: no caffeine, alcohol, dairy, gluten, or processed foods for two weeks. Not much fun, but not torturous. Then I remembered how great I felt after each 24-hour juice fast I've done annually for the last few years, usually combined with an overnight at some hot springs. How long could I keep that up? And how about a Master Cleanse, would that be head-clearing or demented? It's meant to last 10 days, but that sounded more like starvation than health. So I cut it in half. I figured I could handle anything for five days.
The Master Cleanse people recommend two days of easing in before officially starting the program: one day of raw foods, then one of fruit and vegetable juices. The raw day was fine. I ate a lot of salad and got a little grumpy at work. But the juice day was rough, especially when I wound up at Papalote watching a group of friends get their burrito on. And my energy level was so low that I started to feel kind of loopy.
When I woke up on day three, I realized the Master route wasn't for me. There was no way I could function normally on a diet of spicy lemonade. So I decided to alternate raw days and juice days for the rest of the cleanse. This was over Labor Day weekend—the magazine gave us an extra day off, so the timing was right. It's much easier to follow strict food guidelines when you can make meals at home. The shopping and prep become part of the exercise. I spent quality time at Rainbow Grocery.
I don't have any hilarious anecdotes about the rest of the experience, but I survived. The evenings on juice days were the hardest and hungriest, so I went to bed early and slept longer and much more deeply than usual. In the mornings, I felt fantastic and had plenty of energy.
I broke the cleanse at Harbin Hot Springs with a peach-ginger muffin. To say it was the best muffin in the history of muffins doesn't do it justice. Let me tell you a story.
Seven or so years ago, I went on a first (and only) date with a short, tan man who decided we should go surfing. Note to guys: That's an extreme first date, especially if you don't tell the girl beforehand—you just show up and say, "Hey, I thought we'd go surfing in Bolinas"—and most especially if the girl has never surfed before and isn't all that interested in it.
But it was a beautiful day and I'm a trouper, so off we went. Another tip: Wetsuits should never be part of a first date. It took me 20 minutes to put the damn thing on, and I fell over at least three times. Local children pointed and laughed. Truly.
Eventually, we made it into the water, where I proceeded to spend two freezing, uncomfortable hours failing to stand up on the board. Mostly, I paddled around shivering while tan guy happily caught wave after wave.
When I couldn't stand it anymore, I chucked the wetsuit and took an epic nap on the beach in the sun. Being warm and dry, instead of clinging to a slippery board while encased in rubber, was like showering for the first time after a month in a mud pit. I slept so well that I felt like an entirely different person afterward. I forgave the mocking children; I even forgave tan guy his trespasses, although I don't remember his name. It was the most glorious nap of my life.
The muffin that broke the cleanse was the muffin equivalent of that nap. Food just doesn't get any better, especially if your head and belly know exactly what they've been missing.
August 30, 2009
Summer photo roundup
It's suddenly almost September, which makes me feel like I took a wrong turn and tripped over a hole in the space-time continuum or the Flux Capacitor or whatever.
But the point is, I've been remiss in posting photos. Sorry about that. First, we have my favorite brother's beautiful wedding out on Orcas Island. Full set on Flickr, and here are some highlights:
Then I drove down to Santa Monica in my trusty green steed to visit Ms. Erin Jourdan, who was hosting a fundraiser for her housemate's lymphoma treatment. The sun shone the whole time, with nary a forest fire in sight. Full set here, highlights here:
If I ever break up with Gibson, it'll be for this guy. I call him Zipper.
But the point is, I've been remiss in posting photos. Sorry about that. First, we have my favorite brother's beautiful wedding out on Orcas Island. Full set on Flickr, and here are some highlights:
Then I drove down to Santa Monica in my trusty green steed to visit Ms. Erin Jourdan, who was hosting a fundraiser for her housemate's lymphoma treatment. The sun shone the whole time, with nary a forest fire in sight. Full set here, highlights here:
If I ever break up with Gibson, it'll be for this guy. I call him Zipper.
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Brian Bussiere *which has also yet to be laid down...
Mia Lipman Best get right on that, Red. Earn yourself a raita ovation.
Brian Bussiere my inspiration usually comes in the form of spitting lyrical fire. I shall leave the beats to those better fit...
Ben Wurgaft you've clearly got the raita stuff, Mia.
Mia Lipman Thanks, Ben - keep baingan that drum.
Brian Bussiere you'd better curry!
Ben Wurgaft Ah, I always curry favor with baingan BARTha.
Brian Bussiere tikka-tock, time is a-wasting!
Mia Lipman Ghee whiz, you two atta take this show on the road.
Joe Ona Is it similar to the Gulab Jammin?
Mary Burnham ahaha, love it!!! I'm gonna do the Chana Masala next time we meet, watch out!
Catherine Giayvia Alu people better tikka number, naan of you seem to get it. But that's neither paneer nor there. You roti to the left, then you roti to the right and then you shake your jalfrezie like a korma chameleon. Now, lassi you try it. Go, mango.
Mia Lipman Miss Mobtown for the win!
Catherine Giayvia *bows*