I'm Having Blogger's Block

My husband reminds me that he is a REAL writer because he has TALENT. He sometimes encounters writers' block. But me, the blogger, who writes, uh rather, whines, about having to eat gluten free, is just a blogger. Not a real writer. So, I'm having bloggers' block today because I can't think of something great to write about.

You see, my husband believes that we, in the blogger world, engage in narcissistic rants. Online diaries. Not real writing. Real writers are talented, trained professionals. We bloggers are basically trained seals.



Ah, showbiz, now there's something to write about...

Do not for one minute think that showbiz folks are hip and cool. They aren't. Here's proof. I told my showbiz pals that I started a blog. Here's their responses:

"Wow, that's great. What's a blog?"
"How much did it cost to get this done for you?"
"What are followers?"
"Do I have to COMMENT? DO I HAVE TO USE MY REAL NAME???"

Yes, you have to use your real name so 6 zillion people will start sending you their scripts and resumes. This you see, is their great FEAR. The fear of being discovered. Of being tortured with "can you pleeeeeeezzzzzeee get me a job in showbiz??"

My showbiz pals live in their bubbles. Often behind secure walls with Ivy league secretaries. (They prefer "Assistants," but hey, a rose is a rose, right? Are they not schlepping coffee, rolling calls, taking notes? Why is it so demeaning to be called a Secretary, anyway?)



My showbiz gal pals are skinny and tough. However, I find it amusing that they hide cigarettes and God knows what else, in drawers and sneak puffs on rooftops, in order to maintain and perpetuate the image adhered to by John Molloy's "Dress for Success" disciples.



I'm still unclear about all this; do women have to act like men to survive in showbiz? Or can they be their voluptuous sexy selves? What would men like to work with in the workplace? (Ha-ha this oughtta be interesting!)



Lunches with my skinny girlfriends in showbiz starts and ends with salads. The kind with no dressing, no bacon, no egg, no cheese, no asparagus, no radishes, no anchovies, light on the chicken, but "could we have a little, just a VERY little balsamic vinegar? Oh, but ON the side, please? Oh, and an Arnold Palmer please, but very, very light on the lemonade, almost like an iced tea, but not quite, ya know? Okay? Could you read it back, please?"

Is it any wonder waiters suddenly have tons of fodder for their encyclopedia-like tell all books they are hawking on the morning talk shows now?



I'm especially intrigued with the way my pals EAT salads.

Step one: Dip fork into dressing on the SIDE. Ah, but just a little dip. NOOOO do NOT drench it. Hey, NO drenching the fork!! That's CHEATING.
Step two: Plunge fork quickly into salad while keeping micro drop of dressing ON the fork. (This oughtta be a Reality Show, I swear, "Anorexics on Parade.")
Step three: Now into mouth, but slllooowwwwlllly; you want to enjoy the rich and tart TASTEFULNESS of your delicious salad. --- sans bacon, egg, beans, radishes, peppers, cheese, chicken, dressing....I'm sitting there thinking enjoy WHAT TASTE? What is left in there to TASTE??

Meanwhile, I'm completely intimidated. I'm looking at everyone's salads, including mine, which looks dreadful. They are all eating in unison, step one, step two, and step three. What is wrong with me? I'm dying for a hamburger. A gigantic one with a whole bunch of french fries swimming in a bottle of catsup.



And these gals aren't even suffering from being the "gluten for punishment" newbie that I am, and STILL there is NO bread at this table. The waiter was shoved aside with threats of violence should a basket of bread appear within our zip code.

I'm starving and miserable, however suddenly thoughts of the new gluten free Red Velvet Sprinkles cupcake are invading my brain with excitement and pleasure.



I will soon be free. Free to EAT my heart out. My thoughts are only on the cupcake. Maybe not just one. Maybe two? It's GF free after all...(I know, I know, GF is NOT fat free, I discovered that on the scale...) But after suffering through this lunch, I deserve at least two cupcakes. My loins are on fire, my heart is racing, and I'm already figuring out the fastest route to the nearest Sprinkles.

There's a gal in my locker room at the gym who is clearly anorexic. Her bones protrude everywhere. I'm dying to just force a Whopper down her throat to save her life. I overheard her say, "Everyone thinks I'm anorexic. But, I'm not. I eat like a horse." Really??? I've seen horses eat, and she's no horse. In fact, she probably had a salad for lunch. ...or what is sometimes referred to as a salad....

A Guy Hit on Me Today -- Yay!

I am so excited.

A guy hit on me today.

A real live heterosexual guy.



I was at the gym, which, in itself is a major accomplishment - in the Cafe eating my yams (hey, they're supposed to be good for you..so ok, I got two, what the heck, it's a good carb, right?) Anyway, a guy started a conversation with me.

This never happens. I don't know about you, or where you live, but on the west side of Los Angeles, at the "Gym for Snotty Anorexics" no one initiates conversation with a stranger.



Especially a more "mature" (nee OLD DOG) like me. If anyone starts a conversation it's usually to complain about cutting in line or changing Fox News to CNN. (Hey, I never said I was perfect, or particularly SWEET either.)

Well, this lovely young man, (yes, thank you God, he was YOUNG, hurray!! And VERY handsome. I'm not kidding), invited me to sit with him.



(WAIT a second, he wasn't THAT young. Nor was he what rhymes with "young" either -- uh, not that I looked or anything..)

I thought, well he's very nice, but I'm MARRIED, (ugh) and I had "important' emails to read. But he insisted, "I didn't mean to hit on you." I immediately cut him off with, "OMG, are you kidding me? PLEASE hit on me. I have no problem with this. Hit away! I've been married for over twenty years, so this doesn't occur very often."

Turns out this lovely man has only been a member of the "Gym for Snotty Anorexics" a mere two weeks. Hence, he's not familiar with the perpetual scowl and disgust everyone extends to each other. Their version of a warm greeting. It's particularly detrimental if you dare talk, sweat, sneeze, cough, read, laugh, smell, stare, or breathe when you're on a machine.



It's considered bad manners. You certainly don't want to interrupt the intense workout of your fellow gym rat. So, this lovely guy is an innocent. A "Gym for the Snotty Anorexic" neophyte.

We had a lovely talk until........... he mentioned the dreaded...........

"I'm a trainer."



Ugh, I'm being solicited. Then came the card.

Gosh, is it THAT obvious? Does my body scream, "This gal needs a trainer, help her quickly." It shouldn't since I HAVE a trainer who I've been seeing for the past five years. (Hellooooo, Tom?? What is going on?? Why does this guy think I need a trainer, when I have YOU? What are YOU doing WRONG, Tom?? Apparently, I'm not exactly a great advertisement for you, am I?)

However, I couldn't tell my husband the GREAT news fast enough. I gleefully yelled into the phone, "A guy at the gym hit on me! Isn't that great??"



My husband wondered why, as my husband, this would be GREAT news for him? But I figure hey, isn't it great to know that another guy finds your wife attractive? My hub asked a lot of questions, beginning with, does the guy wear glasses? Ha-ha-ha. The GREAT news for him was that I didn't succumb to the sales pitch, and employ TWO trainers.

Oh well, I enjoyed it. Even if it WAS a solicitation. I'm gonna pretend that this guy really DID hit on me. Cause I want to believe that. So there!

Am I A Gluten for Punishment???

I'm going Gluten Free. But not because I want to.

Ever since my doctor told me to STOP EATING WHEAT, I've been trying to think of something funny to say about it. That's why I haven't posted in a while. I'm depressed.

I don't know what's funny about not being able to eat brownies, chocolate chip cookies, chocolate cake, cupcakes, pie, and bread when I've been addicted to these gems ever since I entered the world. I RELY on them to assuage the emotional upheaval in my very stressful (and sometimes stress-imposed) life.

Instead all I want to do is cry in my wheat.



When I'm happy, I reach for brownies. When I'm sad, I reach for cupcakes. When I'm bored, I reach for cake. When I'm tired, I reach for bread. When I'm stressed, I reach for cookies.

Give me an emotion, and I'll give you wheat.

The only GOOD news is that they haven't taken away my chocolate......yet!!!



Clearly, I'm a candidate for "Women, Food and God" by Geneen Roth. A book I've not read, but ordered instantly when I saw a quote from an interview between Oprah and Roth.

Oprah said, "A lot of us use food as a drug - to hide our feelings, to anesthetize ourselves, to escape...Geneen seems to understand better than anybody else how we torture ourselves over a number on a scale or a size on a dress when we'd be better off putting our energy into loving and understanding our real selves."

You can read the full article at: http://www.oprah.com/health/Geneen-Roth-Talks-to-Oprah-About-Women-Food-And-God

So, for my recent birthday, instead of getting the requisite pound of fudge, my husband knows is a sure fire gift, I had to settle for...are you ready for this? Gluten Free Muffins.

Ugh. Puke. Disgusto.

How can anything be the least bit tasty and worth any amount of calories unless it's drenched in flour, butter, sugar and chocolate? I mean one's birthday offers every reason in the world to gorge yourself silly and eat like a true Queen, right?



Well, after tremendous resistance, screaming and crying and throwing myself a wonderful pity party with my various sob sisters, (who screached, "wow, how great is this?? You will lose so much weight not eating carbs...wow, we're soooooo jealous.") I was jolted into reality by my two young god-daughters who believe their bodies are temples.

Excuuuuuse me?? We're getting religious now??



These pre-teens wont' go near wheat. They CHOOSE to be gluten free. Huh?

When I was their age I was eating McDonalds and Dairy Queen and after a good, "Im-so-full-I-could-die" feast, I'd easily pour myself into my size 2 jeans without a scant of muffin top....(Those days are clearly over...ugh..the joys of aging...bring on the brownie..)

Well, I have to applaud these gals, cause guess what they showed me? Gluten Free Chocolate Chip Double Fudge Cookies that are actually.....GREAT.



I was stunned. You can actually enjoy these little darlins' and get fat at the same time.

Imagine getting inspiration and healthy advice from the next generation. Hmmm...maybe they're on to something??

Do I Look Fat???

Ok, a show of hands….Who thinks “bald” is sexy?

No, not THERRREEE, you sleezy guys who read my blog…..On top of your head…

Ya know Yul Brynner, Mr Clean, Telly Savalas, geesh, aren’t there any younger, (and living) actors to reference? Yikes. Well, anyway, you get the point.

Well, I think bald is sexy. (Note to husband; if you suddenly lose your hair, never fear, I’ll still be here.) I also think dreadlocks are sexy. So, go figure.

So, what am I ranting about now????

Well, my physical therapist had the unmitigated gall to “suggest” I was fat. Can you belieeeevee that? My husband would be shot in cold blood for ever using the word fat in the same zip code. He knows, he’s been trained, that fat and me do NOT go together. That whenever he gets the proverbial and CONSTANT question, “Do I look FAT?” – Without even looking in my direction, by rote, his answer is always, “absolutely NOT.” I beg him to LOOK at me and say it. But either way, his answer is always the same, and I take it as gospel.

But generally, there is a pattern. I do not look fat in the first mirror. However, in the sixth mirror on the second floor in the back, with the best light, I finally see that I do indeed look fat. That particular outfit is thrown to the ground never to be seen again. And let the fashion parade begin until we’re late, and he’s screaming “you do NOT look fat, hurry up; we’re late as usual!!”

Now, does this EVER happen to YOU???

My physical therapist is a handsome young man with a bald head. I’m curious about this, cause we girls fix everything. We have a wrinkle on our forehead, we add filler. We have a muffin top, we lipo it. We have gray hair, we color it. We have too much hair, we shave it (okay, one for you guys!).

So, I simply commented about his bald head which led to a scathing (and somewhat defensive) reply suggesting that discussing his baldness is like saying I’m fat. What??? Huh?? You’re calling me FAT? You think I’m fattttt?

I suddenly morph from my young, beautiful, sexy, “don’t-I-look-skinny-in-this-outfit” self into Elsie the Cow.
OMG, was it the four brownies I stuffed down two nights ago? Or the rice krispie bars that are only 100 cals each? Or was it the Peeps I can’t seem to get enough of? (Ya know they ARE in season..and those little lavender ones are hard to resist..)

I’m obsessed. And now my poor young “what-is-wrong-with-this-crazy-patient-of-mine” physical therapist is begging for forgiveness, suggesting I didn’t hear him correctly, that he did NOT say I’m fat. Realllly? Didn’t I HEAR him utter the word "FAT" in my presence?? Doesn’t he know never to say that word in front of me??

Having just watched the Anorexic Oscars, I’m feeling mucho fat. And, being a veteran of show biz, I know that every one of those skinny gals was poured into her dress, and starved for weeks. Yet, I think I’m fat cause I’m not skinny like they are.

Well, help is on the way, cause guess what? I discovered fat porn. Who knew that some men are really and truly into fat and wanna get their crank yanked by a buxom broad? How great is that?

Imagine their lives. When those gals look in the mirror and say, “Do I look fat?” The response is, “Yeah, baby, bring it on, you look sooooo faaaaaat soooo delish…I wanna…” Well, you get the idea…

Meantime, take a look at this article, "Debunking the 10 Myths of Dieting" It's VERY good.

http://bit.ly/avKdRT

Diet Coke and Eating….It’s The Real Thing…

I spoke to a film and TV class last night.

I made it through without eating myself into oblivion, because, I’ve discovered nirvana: DIET COKE.

I know, I know, its bad, puke, awful, full of cancer causing chemicals, caffeine, addictive, etc. And yet I don’t seem to care, because it seems to curb hunger. And it keeps me awake.

And I needed both last night.

So, what’s this bit about speaking at a class?

Well, I’ve been around showbiz a while, many years, in fact. And it’s time to give back. To offer some advice, help, solace, insight, to a new generation eager to pursue their dreams of becoming producers, writers, and directors.

As I looked over the class and took in all the pupils, I couldn’t help but notice how great everyone looks in their twenties. Great skin, hair, bodies, clothes. (Probably great sex too, but that’s another blog, or posting, whatever…)

I doubt many were in Spanx, and I didn’t see one gray hair. Aging and weight gain certainly rears its ugly head when confronted by youth. I guess aging and weight gain is the “real thing” but one that so many of us would like to avoid. Yet another good reason to eat and drink diet coke…

I met a lot of excited, energetic, enthusiastic kids eager to make their mark on the world. Eager to start at the top. Eager to get outta school. Eager to make money. Eager to pitch their stories. Eager to blast through the ranks.

And, eager to eat everything in sight with little fear of gaining any real weight that can’t be taken off with one colon cleanse. (Something we old dudes would prefer over the colonoscopy with similar results, but far greater, and uh, mercilessly difficult, preparation…)

I tried not to inflict pain. Or realism for that matter. Because I can sometimes offer a too jaded view of what’s ahead for them in the world of entertainment. But I just couldn’t do that last night.

Instead I offered encouragement, support, and embraced their fantasies -- oh, darn, I didn’t mean that, I meant expectations, much better word -- (that jaded thing pops up every once in a while)—Yes, I wanted to embrace their expectations and offer optimism…

So, I drank my diet coke, didn’t eat, (maybe it was those skinny jeans on everyone that kept me from eating the two cookies now crumbled in my purse) and stayed awake.
I stayed focused on THEIR real thing…SUCCESS.

Remember that great 70’s commercial where everyone is singing that very catchy tune about how Coke is the Real Thing? Take a look at it again. Its such a lovely tune, once you hear it you’ll be singing it in your sleep.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dfU17niXOG8

I hope this new crop of kids entering show business will succeed. And I hope they won’t get driven out before they drive in, because it’s a tough take-no-prisoners business.

As these students leave their very protected and insulated cocoon to enter the real world, they will begin to experience the REAL “real thing,” or what some of us ol' farts refer to as: stress, killer competiveness, overeating, aging prematurely, psychosomatic illnesses, GERD, hyperventilation, panic attacks, exhaustion, envy, fury, maniacal bosses, life-is-unfair-deal-with-it syndrome, racism, sexism, ageism, tons more isms, insecurities, and the almighty sedatives and addictive painkillers that got us all through those very difficult times, the REAL, REAL THINGS -- FOOD and DIET COKE!!

So, here’s to the new graduates and their success.

And, here’s to food and diet coke.

And, don’t for one minute think those two cookies are still in my purse….

Peep Me Now

My husband…..

He did the nicest and most cruel thing today. He bought Peeps and Robin’s Eggs. He hid them both on the top shelf of the pantry. But when you live with Sherlock Holmes there is nooooo way these items can remain hidden for long.

I love the ads that say, “Peeps are not fattening.” Well, what if you eat the entire box? Then what??? Cause, guess what, that’s my problem. I can’t eat just one Peep!! Does anyone eat just ONE Peep???

I love Peeps. And now, I don’t even have to wait for Peep season. Cause Peeps are year round

So far, I’ve inhaled 5 Peeps. I feel good. But I’d feel even better if I inhaled 5 more.

But, nooooooooooo the Nazi nutritionist is pounding away saying, no, no, no more Peeps. Moderation, moderation, moderation. And yet my brain is saying, just one more, or two, or three, or lemme just finish this off!

Oh God, it’s a Peep Predicament.

I am yearning for more Peeps. They're perched in their little yellow Peep boxes screaming, “eat me,” “no me,” no meeeee!”

So, now do I go for the Robin’s Eggs? They are, of course more fattening. Those delightful pastel colored eggs with malted milk flavoring. YUM. Basically whoppers in disguise. But, they don’t have two little eyes staring at me. They’re not cute and cuddly. They’re not chirping. Instead they are safely secured in their heavy plastic bag.

I’m preparing for a pitch meeting. Because I work in the all important entertainment industry. This is the time when gallons and gallons of food can not satiate my need for emotional coddling. I’m looking for the perfect pitch; the perfect story. And the more I look the more I find Robin’s eggs and Peeps…

My husband knows this. He knows I struggle with food. He doesn’t struggle, he’s a guy. He doesn’t care. Mostly cause he doesn’t worry about the bulge over his waist, he’s more concerned about the one under it.

He’ll drop a dozen Robin’s Eggs while snuggled up on the couch in front of his 3 plasma TV’s so he doesn’t miss one single moment of a game anywhere, anytime. And when he’s done with those suckers, he’ll top it off with those five little Peeps that continue to stare at me through their broken cellophane window.

I’m gonna tough it out and ignore those little darlins and instead go for my scrumptious skinless boneless chicken breasts...

And then, about two hours later, when I hear the delightful sound of snoring, I’m gonna sweep in and steal those lovelies.…

And then I’m gonna hide the rest in a really good place, one that is so good, that hopefully even I wont be able to find them!

Meanwhile, I love this article in the Huffington Post..Take a look. What do you think???
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/hyla-cass-md/eating-disorders-the-nutr_b_478647.html