This weekend the Maiden Metallurgist came for a visit and we go to talking about human nature and the such.

This is what we women do when we are together.  We talk about human nature and philosophy and life and liberty…between talking about Twilight and drinking champagne.

It came up as we were watching some awesomely bad VH1 special listing the top 100 hard rock songs of all time. “Smells Like Teen Spirit” was high on the list and we got to discussing Kurt Cobain, the effect he had on music in his short time, and what he could have done had he lived past 27.  Would there be a Justin Beiber? Black Eyed Peas?  I argue probably, but who knows.

A few minutes later, “Sweet Child of Mine” flashed on the screen.  I love GnR. It is fun, it is dirty, and they wrote some amazing songs.  I mean, come on now…”November Rain”?  Delightful. As I am the eternal parade pisser, I looked over at MM and said “Or Kurt Cobain could have become Axl Rose, shackled by his genius.  He could have just burned out.”  I made some Chinese Democracy and bad plastic surgery jokes as I am predictable like that.

Cobain and Rose were genius, but in the long run, they don’t seem to have made a lick of difference. Who does?
This then lead to the bigger question: is anyone special? Is anyone unique? Does anyone really change things?   We came up with a very short list of special people: Jesus, Madonna (Vogue, not the virgin), Babe Ruth, and Abe Lincoln.   Are there more?

I will go ahead and say that I am not special.  I am a white, educated, middle class urban dweller. I have a good job and good friends, but I am not bucking any trends here.  I am fairly entertaining at times, but I am not odd or out there or doing anything terribly unconventional.  I want to find someone to love and get married and pop out a few babies.  My aspirations are fairly conventional.  Anyway, I can’t take the burden of being special.  People would start expecting me to dry out and start doing something with my life other than buying obscenely expensive sunglasses.

So, this I ask: am I missing the point completely? Are we all special?  Are we all shifting the world in our little ways? Did Cobain change things?

Should I stop asking so many questions?

Yesterday, someone told me they were glad I resurrected the blog because they can count on me to not peddle canned, fake-happy bullshit.   It is true I am not one to see things glass half full.  I’m more “don’t drink the the last drops of water out of that filthy glass because it is fetid and will most likely kill you.”

It is a delightful coping mechanism I have cultivated over the years.  What am I coping with?  Who the hell knows.  I wasn’t born in to brothels and I do not posses a vestigial tail.   I have had some disappointments in life, some betrayals, some breeches of trust, but who hasn’t?

When dealing with a difficult or unexpected situation, I always seem to tap the well of pessimism.  I think it is easier to brace yourself for the worst then hope for the best.  I suppose I am more of a reactive type.  Why hope and wish and convince myself all will be well when in one quick thought, I can reject just about everything?

I have spent years dismissing men and friends who have let me down.  “Fuck them”, I say, “I expected it.” “I knew she would fail me”, I proclaim.  “Oh, of course it played out this way”, I think.  I always anticipate that there is one shaky domino, ready to set the whole world crumbling around me.

Yet, I continue to forge friendships.  I love those close to me hard.  I go on dates, letting that one shred of optimism I have peak through and lead me to another evening of canned small talk and one too many glasses of wine…because there is that hope. I sniff my niece’s head and allow myself to have a fleeting moment where I believe that kind of joy could happen in my life.  If I had completely given up I would happily sit home and continually shake my fists at the heavens.

I want to let that sliver of hope poke through the darkness, to resist the urge to snuff it out.  But am I ever going to be a ray of blinding sunshine?  I think not.  So, is everything perfect? Has everything in my life fallen perfectly in to place?  Hardly; I am not one to lie to myself or others.  I will be damned if I don’t try to embrace the shiny moments, though.

I am suffocating without an outlet.

And for fuck’s sake, nothing is more annoying than a blogger who retires and comes back, seeking adulation and applause.

So, just roll your eyes and snicker at me.  I deserve it.

I missed you.  Really. I am ready to do this my way.

Onward.

This is my last blog entry.

I’ve been writing this blog for over two and a half years.  Sometimes I look back and marvel on how much things have changed…yet still somehow remained the same.  I’ve grown, I’ve regressed, I’ve managed to piss people off…wash, rinse, repeat.

The past six months or so this blog has become more of a retreat than ever.  I finally started writing for myself, when and what I wanted to write.  But as things changed, I felt disconnected from certain elements of blogging and began editing myself more than ever.  There are whole blocks of my life–my family, work, relationships with men and friends–that I don’t feel the freedom to explore.  I realize these are contradictory statements, but it seems the more you want to open up the more you realize you cannot.  This is probably for the best; not every thought is meant to be spoken nor every feeling ripe for analysis.

Instead I have been focusing on myself, the Lexa away from this blog.  Shocking news that she actually exists!  But I do, thank God.  I got a new job five months ago and really hit it off with most everyone. I get along well with my boss and when he quit a few weeks back, he asked me to come with him.

Next week I start working for the food and restaurant industry. To say I am thrilled is an understatement.

As I don’t have a lingering desire to be dooced, to blow my career, stepping away from this space seems necessary.  It is time for me to live life away from the internet, to focus on something else.  I cannot imagine I will stop writing, but this is a chapter that needs to end. Maybe I will finally submit some of this. Perhaps I will show up sometime in the future with a completely food free focus.  Who knows.

I have met so many amazing people all over the country thanks to this act of narcissism.  I hope I can hold on to most of you and I have become a real person, more than just words on a page.  Let’s be honest though; the internet is not all joy and lollipops.  There are some real fuckers out there–sexist, racists, delusional man children with God complexes–and I have even had the distinct privilege of dating/fucking/loving a few.  To them, I say good luck with life!

There is a certain amount of hubris that goes in to writing a blog, or for that matter a “farewell” post.  I never claimed to be free of ego. What I can say is this: this blog has brought me more joy, support and laughs than you all can ever imagine.  Who knew people were as sick, twisted, and ridiculous as me?  Fuck, I will even miss the hate mail and nasty comments; it serves me well to be reminded of my flaws.

I will miss this, you…but it is time. To everyone, the readers, commenters, perverts, foodies, lurkers…thank you.

Hating animals and the outdoors has rendered me undateable.  

If you are a single woman, you know what exactly what I am talking about. The dating landscape is so mired with cliches, down right predictable that I can practically peg what a guy is going to say on a first date (or in his online dating profile…yes, I dabble online) before I even meet him.

Single men love the outdoors.  They want someone to go camping with and who enjoys the fresh air.  It is an “essential”.  Am I a crazy shut in? No, but camping ranks right below a colonic on things I want to have happen to me.  Yes, camping happens to people.  If someone wants to chase me around a god damn tipi in the woods to fulfill their Pocohontas fantasy, I am game but I sure as shit am not squatting in a hole on the regular. I don’t want to hike. This is why I live in a major metropolitan area.

And dogs! Men and their dogs. THEY LOVE THEIR DOGS.  ”You have to love my dog”, they will say.  Ya know what, dude? I may like your dog, I more likely will tolerate it and I might even fucking hate it. They show you pictures of their dog, expecting you to cream yourself.  They tell you cutesey stories waiting for a hearty laugh.  I have a heart and have loved some canines, but this is not the way to this girls heart.  Show me a picture of your flat screen TV or your niece.  Shit, show me a picture of the Guatamalan orphan you sponsor.  This is way more likely to get me wet.  I recently had a guy tell me his 5 year plan included owning an awesome dog.  SO, let me get this straight…your goal is to be a cliche, but you are not even there yet.

And dudes who love cats? No thanks. I like my men with a penis, please.

They all say “I am just your average guy”.  I don’t want average and I do not want to date someone who so easily bows down to the alter of average.  God knows no one is truly special, we are never as unique as we think we are, but please try.  Give me something, anything.  And you hipsters who name bands I have never heard of or who tell tales of spending summers in Nepal washing the feet of the elderly? You are just as average, just as boring.  An average guy takes off his khakis, fucks me missionary, drives me to the Olive Garden in his Ford Focus and sends me red roses the next day.

Maybe I am single because I am a judgmental bitch.  Maybe I should hug a tree and a dog. Perhaps I should embrace the comfort of breadsticks and sensible fashion.  But I can’t, I just can’t.  Call me tough, call me rigid, call me undateable.  I don’t care.  Give me leather, give me the city, give me a steak, give me something new.

I must admit that when I watch shows like “Half Ton Mom” and “Half Ton Virgin”, I find myself conflicted.  As I am drawn to human spectacle and gritty medical programming, I have a hard time saying no to these vignettes of true suffering. Without fail, I always feel a bit queasy afterwards.

As someone who has struggled her whole life with her weight–and has been on both the losing and winning ends of the battle–I understand these people.  I can completely imagine getting that large; in my heart I believe I can put away 5,000 calories a day and I have done my damnedest to achieve this task at times.  I have an amazing ability to power through the uncomfortably obvious moments of overcosumption in order to stuff more food in my face. Food, to me, is one of life’s true joys.  Add to the mix my practice of using food as an emotional crutch and a coping mechanism and there I have it; a literal recipe for disaster lays at my feet.

But what I hate about these shows is how damn smug it makes me feel.  How can people let themselves go like this?  When these people  are making their own clothes because they cannot even be purchased in stores, why don’t they stop? When they have to quit their jobs because they can no longer move, why don’t they cry uncle? If they cannot enjoy their children, why don’t they make some changes? I watch these shows and I commend myself.  I feel proud I am not that big, that I righted my path, that I can still pass as average even when I am in the trenches with my weight.

I’ve never watched “The Biggest Loser” until this season and I don’t really know why I started. Boredom? Poor programming? A sick schadenfreude?   I watched last night as they tortured folks with food, waving candy in front of their faces.  They shamed folks with replications of the pre-Biggest Loser meals, mocking the calorie counts on the plates.  The trainers screamed in their faces in an attempt to break them down.  All the while, I really hated myself.  I hated myself for feeling such a kinship with these people, yet feeling oddly superior at the same time.  Watching it seems a particular exercise in self loathing I will no longer participate in.

Is life about being so fat you can’t move? Or so unhealthy you are one flight of stairs away from a heart attack? No, it most certainly is not.  But I know it isn’t shame and every last M&M standing as some kind of final nail in the collective coffin.  It really is about doing the best you can, every day.  Some days you’ll reach for the chocolate and it isn’t emeshed with a greater meaning…but most days, hopefully, mercifully, you can find the strength it just eat your greens and make the right choices.  The biggest part of life isn’t how much you can lose, it is what you have lost when every bite is a judgement.

Garlicky Kale

Splash olive oil

2 cloves minced garlic

Fed pepper flakes, to taste

6 cups kale, cleaned

Salt and pepper

Sprinkle parmsan

Heat oil in large pan over medium heat.  Add garlic and sautee for 2 minutes. Add red pepper flakes and stir several times.  Add kale, salt, and pepper.  Cook until wilted, about 6 minutes. Sprinkle with parmesan.

On the “I am a selfish asshole, I don’t give a shit about anyone but myself” scale, I would say not showing up for a reservation ranks a solid 7.

When you make a reservation at a restaurant, it effects the flow of the evening.  Hosts take the time to set the table.  Servers stations are seated and shuffled in accordance to your reservation.  When you don’t show up, the table is undoubtedly held, holding up everyone.  Money is taken away from the restaurant and the server.  I am particularly sensitive to this as my father was a bartender and our family depended on the constant flow of customers. It is a supremely dick move when all it takes is a 20 second call to cancel a reservation.

This being said, it has come to my attention that several local restaurants (Firefly, I am looking at you) have started requiring a deposit when making reservations online.  In this economic climate, when restaurants are struggling and people are holding on tighter that ever to their cash, this seems a bit petty.  God knows I find the world to be lacking in manners, and I have certainly shamed rude people more than my fair share.  Yet, when restaurants are begging folks for their cash, is it really the best policy to condescend?

I spend a lot of time day dreaming, making hypothetical plans, conjuring up fantasy scenarios.

I wonder if I should get Lasik even though I am freaked out by anything touching my eyes. I panic out about a laser touching my eyeball and envision the whole surgery. I work myself in to a lather, practically break out in hives, over a completely fabricated scenario.

I decorate a future apartment I have never even seen, fantasy shop online for a place that doesn’t exist. I think of color schemes and fabricate art work for the walls that does not exist.

I envision running in to a certain person and telling him exactly what I feel. There would be yelling and shaming and perhaps a kick in the shin.  I haven’t chosen between the shins and the balls.

I run these scenarios over and over again in my brain. I’d say I need a hobby, but it IS a hobby.

But one scenario I know will be true?

When I die, I will be buried in short ribs.  It will be divine.  It will be right.  It will be everything I have always wanted.

It may not be these short ribs, though these short ribs are stellar.  They are way less complicated than my go-to recipe, so this also scores them point.  Eternity buried in these would, in fact, be a real delight.

So please, please…make one of my fantasies come true.  Bury me in these.

Braised Short Ribs

From the Pioneer Woman

* 8 whole Beef Short Ribs

* Kosher Salt & Pepper To Taste

* ¼ cups All-purpose Flour

* 6 pieces Pancetta, Diced

* 2 Tablespoons Olive Oil

* 1 whole Medium Onion, Diced

* 3 whole Carrots, Diced

* 2 whole Shallots, Peeled And Finely Minced

* 2 cups Red Or White Wine

* 2 cups Beef Or Chicken Broth (enough To Almost Cover Ribs)

* 2 sprigs Thyme

* 2 sprigs Rosemary

Preparation Instructions

Salt and pepper ribs, then dredge in flour. Set aside.

In a large dutch oven, cook pancetta over medium heat until complete crispy and all fat is rendered. Remove pancetta and set aside. Do not discard grease.

Add olive oil to pan with the pancetta grease, and raise heat to high. Brown ribs on all sides, about 45 seconds per side. Remove ribs and set aside. Turn heat to medium.

Add onions, carrots, and shallots to pan and cook for 2 minutes. Pour in wine and scrape bottom of pan to release all the flavorful bits of glory. Bring to a boil and cook 2 minutes.

Add broth, 1 teaspoon kosher salt, and plenty of freshly ground black pepper. Taste and add more salt if needed. Add ribs to the liquid; they should be almost completely submerged. Add thyme and rosemary sprigs (whole) to the liquid.

Put on the lid and place into the oven. Cook at 350 for 2 hours, then reduce heat to 325 and cook for an additional 30 to 45 minutes. Ribs should be fork-tender and falling off the bone. Remove pan from oven and allow to sit for at least 20 minutes, lid on, before serving. At the last minute, skim fat off the top of the liquid. (Can also refrigerate mixture, then remove solid fat from the top.)

Serve 2 ribs on bed of creamy polenta, spooning a little juice over the top.

I want you to take out a pencil and mark the date. I am about to say something that will blow your mind.

I am sick of food.

There was Vegas and the holidays and then a few good weeks and then my birthday. And there has been dinner and cake and treats from my friends and boy, it has been lovely. My friends know me. Dangle a steak in front of me and you will witness my heart soar, but I feel gross.

I have reached max capacity. I need a cleanse. I tried to post a recipe and I could not even face it. This is a crises, people.

I turn to you. I need help. What do you eat when you need a cleanse? Guide me, oh wise ones. I don’t often ask to be bossed around…well, at least fully clothed…so take this chance while you can.

Today, I am 29.

I fully realize there is nothing more grating than a woman who is still relatively young whining about her age, but this year has been hard. I feel like it is punching me in the face.  I am a glass half empty kinda gal and all I can do is think of the things I haven’t done or what I haven’t accomplished. I have been spectacularly dramatic about the whole thing, as to be expected.

I’m not one of those “but I feel so young!” kind of people.  I have earned my 29 years.  My heart has been trampled, my armor chinked and my defenses are hard earned. I am more scared at 29 than I ever was at 19; I was too stupid then to realize how shitty life can be sometimes. But since I am 29, not 19, I know I am not unique: we all feel this way.

Sometimes I wear myself out with my constant internal dialogue, the self scrutiny.  My issues–battles with my weight and extraordinarily unachievable goals of perfection–are here for the long haul.  I work on them, yes, but sometimes I don’t want to fucking work on myself.  I want to just be. I suppose I wish I didn’t know myself so well.

But there is the rub: I know myself painfully well and I would argue it is my biggest achievement.  Yes, I am intolerable and gluttonous and self important at times, but this is who I am.  I remember birthdays.  I am determined as hell. I will cut someone who screws with me.  I make ridiculous statements about my trampled heart and the hardness of life when all in all life hasn’t been so awful to me. I have deep and meaningful friendships, yet I am smart enough to know life isn’t a popularity contest.  I have a strong streak of vanity. I am the person people turn to when they are in crises. I listen, I am empathetic, but I will never tell people what they want to hear if it isn’t the truth. I am self assured.

The past few days I have been awash in love.  Cards have been filling my mailbox.  Surprise gifts have arrived.  I have eaten far too well as a queue of people has materialized demanding to take me to dinner. I have got to be doing something right.  I’ve worked 29 years to become the person I am today.  It hasn’t always been pretty but this is the life I earned.

I wouldn’t change anything.