Memorial Day Weekend

Because it's a three-day weekend, naturally the weather sucks. But it's a good excuse to cuddle up on the couch with my furry juvenile delinquents and brush up on all the interwebs has to offer.

So it seems that Lindsay Lohan is having an affair with "gal pal" DJ Samantha Ronson and has been photographed wearing a diamond band. But can I say? That Ronson girl looks like a shifty-eyed no-good-nik. I don't have a good feeling about it. Oh, why doesn't Lindsay check in with me about these things?!

In other distressing news, thirty seconds after revealing her fourteen-year relationship with partner Cydney, Jodie Foster has moved on to her next girlfriend. Sure, that's life and relationships break up but next time maybe Jodie will publicly acknowledge her partner a bit sooner.

Finally, the usually impeccably dressed Cate Blanchett sported this monstrosity at the Indiana Jones premiere. I Dream of Genie meets Reynolds Wrap. Feh.

Hey, guess what? Ali over at Cleaner Plate Club tagged my post about salmon burgers. Check it out here and don't miss her new post on Vitamin Water. Grody!

I just got Marion Nestle's What to Eat from the library and am sure I'll have lots of hair-raising stories like Ali's to tell you, so stay tuned.

Over the Hump

Since I'm already a fan of Jezebel, it was just a short hop to Consumerist. Though I am conflicted about my own consumerism and think it would be cool to make everything, I can't even pretend to be one of those off the grid types since frankly I just love to shop. Indeed some things you can't make yourself--like plane tickets and car insurance. I feel better.

Anyway, Consumerist has taught me a thing or two, like how astronomical gas prices have made the formerly pathetic Geo Metro a hot commodity rivaling the uber-cool Prius, why you shouldn't trust the nutritional information posted by restaurant chains, and why AT&T should take a page from Zappo's customer service training manual.

So where the hell have I been that I've never heard of Rachel Maddow, Rhodes Scholar, political commentator, Air America host and all over cute button? If you've been in the same distant universe, check out her commentary on Republican hooker scandals. I've watched a handful of her clips on YouTube and enjoyed them thoroughly but much to my shock and dismay many of the commenters entirely bypassed her views to express unadulterated rage, homophobia, misogyny and transphobia. I mean seriously, it gave me an unpleasant jolt and a reminder that I live in an enchanted bubble where the mayor marries gays, the city's health plan covers sex change operations, and you know what? It's just the place I want to be.

Food Friday

Whew, after these two hot hot days my apartment is rather kiln-like so I'm in the hallway while Gus and Josephine enjoy some cool air after being cooped up all day (and night). I've just gotten back from hearing a talk by Raj Patel, whose book Stuffed and Starved: Markets, Power and the Hidden Battle for the World Food System has just come out in paperback. Not your typical Friday night dinner and a movie but let me tell you, the bookstore was packed, as in to the gills. Maybe because it's Berkeley, but how awesome that more and more people are concerned about the origins of our food, our health and the health of our families, how so many people across the globe can be starving and obese, and that despite the ever booming nutrition industry, we're sicker than ever. Grim realities aside, Patel is an engaging speaker: funny, irreverent and a bit of a potty mouth and I look forward to reading his book.

I guess you've heard by now that the California Supreme Court overturned the state's ban on gay marriage, which has opened the floodgates for the interspecies unions soon to follow. I'm so glad that in this uncertain economy, endless war, home prices plummeting, healthcare and food costs soaring, that conservatives are putting their energy where it really belongs: preventing disgusting homosexuals from fulfilling their secret agenda of wedding farm animals.

Ellen's announcement of her pending nuptials provides all the proof you need--but you'll need to look past the seemingly earnest and life-long desire to have her union legalized, the sweet smile of her girlfriend Portia DeRossi, and the cheering audience to see it. If you play this clip backwards, you'll hear the true message, which is, "When I say that Portia and I love horses, I mean we really love horses. Thanks for giving our forbidden love its day, SUCKAHS."

Maybe these concerned citizens might turn their attention to Lance Armstrong. The girls he dates keep getting younger and younger; I fully expect him to start hauling around a sonogram picture of his in-utero gal pal. But for now, it's Kate Hudson. Blech.

Go Whitney!

For the first time in the hallowed history of America's Next Top Model, a "plus size" gal takes the competition! Sure she's only a size 8 and all, which makes the size 12 average American woman ... Moby Dick ... but whatev! Girl's got some curves and she works 'em! No scarily jutting bones and I bet she menstruates, too!

This week I've been reading Michael Pollan's In Defense of Food. It's a slim book and thanks to Pollan's lively style, a fun read. His book takes aim at what he calls the "lipid hypothesis," that idea that dietary fat is associated with poor health outcomes, a thesis that had been debunked back in the 60s and 70s just as it was being introduced, oddly enough, just as the "nutrition industry" was taking hold. Turns out, the only fat that's really associated with these bad health outcomes are the very fats we were encouraged to eat instead of devil butter--transfats like margarine.

Since basically everything I've been told about what to eat by my doctors and the nutrition industry is wrong: no more than one egg a week! low-fat dairy products! skinless chicken breasts, I'm feel a touch at sea. Pollan's book has been helpful and next I plan to check out Marion Nestle's What To Eat.

Oh, sad news. I snapped out of my newfound Ciao Bella Gelato haze long enough to read the ingredients list and ick. Despite the fact that it's billed as "natural" and close to $5 a pint, it's filled with creepy non-food ingredients like corn syrup, locust bean gum, carageenan and other words I don't recognize. I wrote Ciao Bella a Dear John email, imploring them to alter their recipe. I'll keep you posted.

Sideways

Not the movie. Which was good and you should check it out if you haven't seen it yet. But I mean sideways is what happens when feelings want to get out and you don't particularly want them to.

I was picking up The Mama yesterday to go for a hot tub and sushi experience. I accidentally parked myself in someone's driveway a little bit and as I got out, a man came out of the house belonging to said driveway and very nicely informed me that I was in his driveway and since he was planning to leave soon could I please move?

If you live in the suburbs or don't own a car then perhaps you're not acquainted with the giant pain in the ass it is when you can't get your car out because some nincompoop doesn't know how to park, or maybe does and was just too damn lazy to circle the block one more time or just park on the sidewalk like all the normal people do, but it's rilly rilly annoying. That he was so nice about it speaks volumes about him, or maybe he was that scary calm people get right before they go homicidal bonkers. I hadn't considered that possibility until just now.

Flustered, I apologized, got back into the car and BWAH HAWHA the waterworks came on accompanied by the ever-helpful self-flagellation: I'm such a bad parker! How could I have not seen the driveway! I shouldn't even have a license! I have NO BUSINESS being behind the wheel! etc.

All the while the tiny voice of logic reminds me that this isn't really about parking but it's so much easier than thinking about that Other Thing that I really don't want to think about: it's Mother's Day and I can't call or send a card or feel guilty because I forgot to do one or both of the above things in fact I can't do anything but be sad and frankly that doesn't feel very good at all and in no time I'll be thinking about my dead grandmother and dead cat and understand viscerally why people abuse substances.

So yeah. Sideways. Grief is tricky like that and though I know there's no way but through, sometimes I still want to fight about it. Maybe I can win if I make a big scene and yell a lot, all intimidating like, "Death, I am so sick of your ass! I don't want to see you around here anymore, you hear me?" and Death and Grief will skulk off and pick on someone else, big fucking bullies.

But I know, oh I know, you never win that fight. Not for long, anyway. Pay now or pay later, and later can mean in the dressing room at TJ Maxx where you can't comprehend HOW FAT MY ARMS LOOK IN THAT SHIRT BWAH HAWHAHW. Yup. Sideways.

Weekend Smorgasboard

Thank the Maker it's the weekend. Come Wednesday morning I have no idea how I'm going to make it through the rest of the week, but somehow, I do. We do.

A lot of folks are stressed our right now, with good reasons. Where to start? The state of the economy is hitting everyone now, whether working for corporations with tanking profits, social service non-profits losing critical public funding or simply figuring out how to feed a family in light of soaring gas, food and healthcare costs.

Right now I'm fighting what I suspect will be a losing battle with the medical group that did my breast biopsy. I received a $200 copay bill which was a surprise since I had done my due diligence (so I thought) and checked my insurance benefits on the much-ballyhooed "member services website" precisely so I wouldn't get this kind of surprise. The ensuing conversation I had with a representative from my insurance company entered the realm of the surreal, unpacked its suitcase and settled in for a long visit.

In a nutshell, I have this $200 copay because the procedure was coded as being performed in a hospital. Now, I don't know the exact definition of a hospital and maybe this is where my problem lies, but I lived in San Francisco for about ten years and feel like I have a good grasp of the hospitals contained in those seven square miles. I'm also very confident that people in the throes of a heart attack are not whisked off by ambulance to the Breast Health Center.

The rep said, "but they coded it like it was in a hospital" and further explained that had the procedure been performed in a doctor's office, it would have different copay. What would have been different about this procedure had it been performed in a doctor's office? Would the magazine selection in the waiting room not contain recent Oprahs but only tattered Good Housekeeping? Would I not receive any Novacain shots? Perhaps I would not have been sent off with my little goody bag of bandages , bottled water and granola bars?

Her answer: it would be coded differently. I gave up on this line of questioning.

I'm trying to reach the medical group. You're no doubt surprised to hear that I've never been able to reach a live person, messages left in their general voicemail box are unreturned, and a promising email with a real person's extension on it did not work, either. I'm still trying.

$200 won't break me but it stings, especially since like many people, I'm spending a lot more on everything else. But at core what sucks about this is I'm a fully insured person. I have "good" insurance, for which my employer and me together pay $400 a month. Such is the state of healthcare. I'm lucky--I'm not even sick! Can you imagine trying to wend your way through this maze when ill and scared?

Reminded me of Michael Moore in Sicko wandering through a British National Health Services hospital, trying to find the billing office, not believing all the doctors, nurses and patients smilingly explain to him, no one pays for anything, and only uncovering the cashier who did not collect money, but reimbursed patients for travel costs to get their medical care.

We're so, so far behind where we need to be.

Sorry to be such a bummer, reader. Since it's important not to get dragged down to the point of paralysis, I offer you this truly uplifting story about a Bay Area doctor. And as always, Pot Psychology can make you laugh, though always NSFW! My gift to you, happy weekend.

Miley Whatever

A little behind the curve but I just got my Vanity Fair and here's what everyone forgot to mention: it's a hideous picture. Miley doesn't resemble a femme fatale as much as the Vampire Lestat. She looks like she's had the blood drained from her, then dabbed across her lips. Awful. And the pictures of her with her achy breaky dad are even worse, downright creepy. It's way grosser to have a 15 year old laying in her dad's crotch than for her to pose alone with a sheet draped around her. And she's what ... 15? Brooke Shields was 14 when she told us nothing came between and her Calvins.



Brooke owns it and she's totally hot. None of this wussy ass 'I'm so sorry I let my fans down' bullshit. Take notes, Miley.