Archive for April 26th, 2009


Master cleanse, Day III: olfactory hallucinations

The talk of the people I was staying with out in California, the Master Cleanse is a 10-day torture in which you drink nothing but lemonade. Water, freshly squeezed lemon juice, a couple tablespoons of maple syrup and a dash of cayenne pepper, and voila—that’s your menu for the next week-and-a-half. For fun, you can also drink decaf herbal and/or laxative tea.

Day III is supposed to be the hardest, according to Charla, a veteran of this particular procedure. On Thursday, my last day in LA, she came out to lunch at the famous Nate & Al’s Deli, and just drank tea, which seemed particularly tortuous to me, to be in a place like that and denying yourself matzoh ball soup (a favourite since I was a kid) and a big fat corned-beef sandwich. I guess it was a form of food tourism, watching others eat, but I don’t see subjecting myself to watching others eat at fine restaurants over the next week.

Charla, a former Vancouverite now living L.A. with her husband Ed, is already pretty thin. So I don’t know what she’s trying to do—losing weight is probably the last things she needs to be doing, but then, what do I know? Women are funny about their bodies. I know why I’m doing it which is, yes, to lose some extra pounds brought on by too much Belgian beer and that one potato chip I had out in Palm Springs. Well, maybe two.

One thing I’ve noticed on my cleanse, is the smell of food. Maybe it was an olfactory hallucination, but I thought I smelled bacon when I was walking down the hall of my apartment building. Last night, I went to see a play that was, unfortunately, being put on in the back of a restaurant. To get to the theatre, I had to pass by diners consuming some awfully tasty smelling menu items. And then, one of the running themes of the play—it’s called Stop Kiss, and it’s set in New York—is food, since one of the protagonists, Callie (Missy Cross) knows all the good restaurants, and her friend Sara (Joey Bothwell) is new in town. Ouch!

One ironic thing about this whole cleanse is that, with the renos finally complete and the kitchen finally finished, my only “cooking” type activity is squeezing lemons, measuring out maple syrup and adding cayenne.

Fortunately I don’t have too much food around my condo unit to tempt me. This a.m. I found a chocolate bar I’d bought for the Twister, which she’d left. I bought some raisins in Palm Springs, and I have some dried cranberries and granola, but otherwise my figurative pantry isn’t overflowing with temptation. However, the Texas Twister, who is in Portland on her way to continental Europe to start her new job, did leave me with a parting gift:



Age is just a number

I know that 50 is supposed to be the new 30, but that doesn’t mean I want to start dating across the generation gap. Unfortunately, it seems that the majority of 50-something men I meet don’t think this way, and assume that it is me they should be trying to pick-up instead of women of their own age. Last weekend I was in a bar with a good friend, lets call her Angie, who is 53, and after she put a considerable amount of effort in to talking to a good looking guy a few years older than her he turned and asked for my phone number. She was pretty pissed off, especially when it kept happening. And I should state that my friend is a stunning looking woman who is in much better physical shape than I am!

This doesn’t just happen in real life, online I’d say that 90% of the man that contact me are at least as old as my dad. Some try to hide it, others make a joke out of it, but most don’t think its an issue. One guy lists his age as 48 but in the body of his profile admits he does this because he has such a young soul and simply cannot date women of his own age. Another told me that he was like cheese, and had gotten better with age. Oh please, give me a break! There are so many gorgeous, fantastic women out there who are past 40 and not getting a look-in because these silver foxes think they are too good for them in some way.

There are many reasons why I’m holding out for a man of my own age (32) or at least within ten-years of me, too many to list probably, but the major one is that I want more children. Unfortunately so do some of these men, and they see me as some kind of last chance saloon in which to donate their sperm. I know that May to December romances work for some people, but unless you are Sting, Perry Farrel or Pierce Brosnan there is no way you are getting my number.

* Feel like I should put a disclaimer here. I love Sting for his past achievements, not his recent ones. And if I were to make sweet love to him I would recall his body in the movie Dune or as ‘Aceface/ Bellboy’ in Quadrophenia and pretend not to know about all that awful Elizabethan revival lute crap he put out a few years back.

April 2009
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