I think maybe, I think maybe ...

I was standing in line at the grocery store and noticed the man in front of me had duplicates of all his items: two Frosted Flakes, two pies, two cocoa mixes. I thought maybe he was having company with exactly the same taste. But then the cashier asked which bag he wanted, and he said, "Paper's fine. Paper's fine." Then I got it. He has OCD and has to say/have two of everything! He probably shops a lot of two-for-one sales.

Freedom has its drawbacks.

In Sunday's New York Times, there was a story about a man who spent 16 years in jail for a crime he didn't commit. But that's not the awful part. The real tragedy is what happens after he's freed. He has no technical or social skills, no friends, no understanding of how to live on his own. He was committed at 17, and in many ways he's still that age. And there are no services to help him. Parolees receive job training, but people who are freed from the justice system entirely aren't give the same opportunities.

This part of the story especially broke my heart:

"In his loneliest moments, when he scans the few personal contacts on his cellphone and realizes he has no one with whom to share his angst, Mr. Deskovic misses the predictability of prison life, where decisions were made for him."

I've done that, but not to that level. I've felt lost and alone, like there wasn't anyone who I could call to just hang out. But to be truly alone, to not have anybody you can even call to talk about your day, that breaks my heart. Even in my worst moments, there's always one or two people, or my parents. But what about people who don't have that? Prison isn't the only way people end up in that situation. Friendships grow cold, and if I didn't live with my parents I don't know how often I'd talk to them. Once a week, for an hour? Would that eventually taper off, too?

I guess this story just made me realize it's important to reach out to people. If there's someone who doesn't seem to have many friends, maybe I'll invite her to lunch. If I haven't talked to my mom in a while, I should send her an e-mail. It's important that these people know there's someone in the world who would miss them if they weren't here, who cares about how they're doing.

A squirrely character.

This is kind of gross, but whenever I pass roadkill, I wonder if the poor thing is really dead, or whether everyone just thinks it is, so no one cares. Like, if someone hit me with a car and smashed my leg, chances are I wouldn't be dead, but wouldn't be able to move very well, either. I've only stopped to check a couple of times.

Once, when I was living in Avila Beach, I saw a squirrel flopping around on the side of the road. He wasn't walking, but more like flipping from side to side. So I stopped and went up to him, to see if he really was hurt, or just rabid or something. And it looked like his leg was messed up, so I went back to my car and got a jacket, and scooped him up. Because it's not like they're wild animals.

So I got him in the car and kind of wrapped him up and put him on the passenger seat. I drove home, then went into the house to call a vet. Apparently they don't take wild animals, but they directed me to a rescue. The lady was really nice, and told me to meet her that night at this school in San Luis Obispo. So I went back to the car to check on the little guy, and he had escaped the jacket. He was now hiding under the seat. I was scared to put my face down there to see him, so I waved a hanger around on the other side of the seat, to trick him into thinking, "Danger! Go the other way!" Well, it worked, but then he ran over to the gas pedal and then up into that little hollow area that leads to the center console, where he got his head stuck with his ass still hanging out. So I had to grab his poor broken body and pull him back out, all the while saying "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" So I finally got him out, and he tore up my arm for like a minute until I wrestled him into a packing box (lined with the jacket for his comfort).

That night I met the lady and she wanted the squirrel but not the box. She unceremoniously put him into a garbage bag and thanked me. I still wonder if he didn't end up as her dinner.

I am thankful for alcohol.

Thanksgiving is not my favorite holiday. Food is a tricky issue for me, and sitting down to a table at which mass consumption is expected is a little irritating. But this year, it was pretty great. It was just my parents and me, which brought down the stress factor significantly. I have like five people in my entire extended family, so it's never been a big event, but this was really mellow. My day pretty much went like this: wake up, work out, ready Sunday New York Times (that's forethought!), do four loads of laundry, wash cars with dad, make stuffing, drink wine, eat! Awesome.

I love to cook this one recipe for stuffing I found online a few years ago. It doesn't have much fat, so my crazy stomach can tolerate it well. It's pretty simple, but it involves some chopping and mincing, so I get to practice. And my dad likes to help, so we have a little time to ... not talk together. He's not a big chatter.

The dinner was ham, stuffing, sauteed mushrooms and cranberry ice. The ice was my grandma's recipe, and involves a couple of hours of boiling cranberries, blending, adding stuff, blending more ... you get the idea. My mom and dad make a project out of that, and she's been trying for a while to make some that lives up to grandma's. Poor thing. But this year, it came out pretty well. It's like a sorbet, I guess, but not as sweet. And the wine, of course. This year, it was Trader Joe's Charles Shaw Valdiguie Nouveau. No idea. But I'm thinking it's like beaujolais nouveau. It was decent, and did the trick. I enjoyed dinner and was pretty bubbly. We lingered for like an hour and a half, talking about random stuff. At one point, I asked my mom if she'd ever had duck, and we ended up talking about parties my parents' friends used to throw, and how they at one time owned a share in a vineyard in Lodi. They sold it, and now have a car. That's something to be thankful for.

Overheard.

In a small bookstore in Manteca:

"Yeah, I heard they're going to make it into a strip mall, and put in some places to eat, maybe a Mexican place and some pizza."
"Oh, great. I was just thinking we didn't look enough like the Bay Area."

Right. Because adding two other generic food joints to a farm town is going to turn it straight into a cosmopolitan mecca of culture and fun. If only.

Girls gone wine.

I know it seems like I talk a lot about wine lately, but I promise I'm not becoming obsessed. After this post, I'll try to cool it a bit, maybe talk about beer.

On Saturday, a few girls and I went to Vino Piazza, a little outdoor winery collective in Lockeford. There's been big talk about this place for a while, and there's always events going on that sound pretty sophisticated. So we were surprised when we showed up at what looked like a big barn surrounded by dirt. My dad dropped us off (how cute is that? my own chauffeur, like in high school) and we kinda peered around trying to find the "entrance." We ended up just walking into the closest building, and decided to start with lunch.

This place, Gigolo's, totally understands that it's the only game in town. The food is fine, Italian bistro style, but a little overpriced. My penne with marinara was like 13 bucks, and the tomato sauce was pretty Prego. And Parmesan from a green can. Interesting choice. But the server was nice, and it was a nice primer for the day.

After that, we started out at Boitano, the only place I actually bought something. The other three girls were going to "expand their palates," read: inexperienced, so it was kind of like the blind leading the blind. I thought we should start with whites, but that table was overcrowded, so went to the reds. The one I got was a beaujolais-style sangiovese, fermented in steel barrels instead of oak, so there weren't any tannins. It was nice and smooth, and something totally different, which justified it for me. The other girls weren't impressed, so we moved on.

At the next couple of places, I got the impression that wine to novices is grody. I got this impression because of the faces that were being made during tastings. I think "grimace" would be appropriate. Or maybe "being killed slowly by strangulation." My feeling is, you know sort of what you're getting into, so be prepared that it's not going to be Kool-Aid. And please, don't do it in front of the winemaker. Because then they'll ignore us and we'll wait 10 minutes for our taste of muscat. And I love dessert wine.

At one place I was irritated by the server. One girl wanted to try the white port, a dessert wine, so she asked for it first. She hadn't had much luck that day. After she tried it, she wanted to taste the chardonnay. The pour came, but the woman said, "It's going to taste really sour. You did it in the wrong order." You know, I understand there's a protocol in tasting, but first, not everyone does, and second, her role is to teach, not intimidate. And who's going to buy something after they're made to feel dumb?

The last place, Pasos, was the best. We got to pick which olives we wanted the owner to open, and he brought out crackers, too! Snacks after drinking are always appreciated. So we sat there for a minute, but since dad was coming soon, we exited and sat outside and talked about boys while we waited. See, totally high school.

A blast from the past.

MySpace is crazy. You can find old friends, new friends, and people you were hoping to forget. And they can find you, too. Which is what happened to me recently (the first part, not the last part). My friend Jeff, who I haven't seen since my freshman year at Cal Poly, sent me a message, and it turns out he's living in Dublin, about 20 minutes from Walnut Creek. So we had dinner last night.

I was really nervous going into it, because, after nine years, who's to say we'd even like each other? Or have anything to talk about? Or what if he didn't have a sense of humor and I ended up causing a scene because I stuck a fork in my hand to wake myself up?

Thankfully, none of these were the case. We met at an Italian restaurant in downtown Pleasanton (p.s., which is totally cute - a little Main Street USA, all lit up and full of people), and I had no trouble spotting him outside. He looked exactly the same - tall, blonde, very All American. The minute we sat down we were both like, "Ohmigod, what, 10 years, what's been going on, who are you now?" And from there, we were fine. We started with him: international travel, move to Hawaii, sub-prime market crash, acceptance to pre-med at Berkeley. Me: I'm a good listener.

We started by talking about careers, then ended up discussing who we are in the world and whether we're happy. It's nice sometimes to talk with someone who understands things from exactly your point of view, and can offer some reassurance, or at least offer comfort that you're not the only one who worries about this stuff.

It's weird, because I had the biggest crush on him for a while in high school. He didn't quite return the favor. But I won, because I ended up dating a hottie named Jason who was totally more awesome. (No, I'm fine with it!) And now I'm trying to wrap my mind around whether new Jeff and I are going to be friends again, after all this time. Can boys and girls just be friends? Should I start thinking things about him saying, "You can get the next one?"

I'll keep you posted.

So, does a transgender's wait depend on pre-op sex?

Slate.com today shares a recent study that concluded women wait an average of 20 seconds longer than men for their orders at coffee shops. The researchers hung out in eight shops and noted that when the employees were all men, women waited longer (whether due to flirting or contempt is unknown).

While 20 seconds seems like hardly anything, the fact that there's a difference at all is disturbing. Why would it be acceptable to dawdle when preparing a woman's drink order? Because she's less likely to speak up? I know I wouldn't ever yell at a barista to hurry the hell up. But I also don't know many men who would feel comfortable doing that. The study was done in Boston, so maybe big-city boys are more aggressive.

Is it really still a man's world? I sometimes wonder, when I'm sitting at a budget meeting in the morning and see two other female faces at a table of 10. I don't know if fewer women are ambitious, or if they see family as a priority over their career, or they're just smarter than I am and not going to the meetings. Now that I'm a manager, I see the appeal in a route of less responsibility. Sometimes I wish I could have a set schedule, or not have to take responsibility for quality control. But I also love that I don't always have to ask permission to do something. So I guess it all comes out in the wash. And whoever does well at the end of the day, man or woman, gets to keep his or her job. Hooray.

There's trouble afoot.

Today I went to see a podiatrist because I've been having some pain in my foot, which started after I started to integrate running into my soccer-mom fast-walking workout. I haven't been able to do any exercise, which is really frustrating, especially when I was just starting to get into it. It turns out I have a neuroma, which is a thickening of nerve tissue between my metatarsals. I also have high arches and I pronate like a mother, which is the reason for my weird-looking feet. (Well, one reason. The monkey toes aren't related.) The pronation means my whole leg is out of whack, giving me knock knees and a bit of bowing in my tibia. Awesome. Throw in pigeon toes, and I'll be set.

The one great thing about this is that I got a podiatrist, on the record, telling me that I should be wearing heels. Flats aren't good for my arches. She didn't sign off on the stilettos, though, but chunky-heeled platforms are cute, right? Or maybe some Frye boots? I wonder if I can take a doctor's note to Nordstrom and get a discount.

Te amo, pinot.

I fell in love today. With a pinot noir, but whatever. If a woman can marry a dolphin, I can love a wine.

The Deloach 2005 pinot noir is the heartbreaker. At $25, I can't say it's a bargain, but it's worth the pennies. Today's wine class was focused specifically on pinot, which was made famous in the movie "Sideways." (It also panned merlots, which I happen to love and now have a complex about ordering in restaurants.) Five out of the six pinots were not anything I'd like to drink. It's weird, because the varietal is so built up, but the wines themselves must take a more educated palate than mine to appreciate. Most were tannic (give you a puckery feeling), thin and didn't taste like much. This one stood out, though. It was round (thicker, more syrupy) and had a great taste and no pucker. It would be excellent by itself. I'm thinking about buying one for Thanksgiving and one for myself. It may age well, teacher guy said, but why bother? It's delicious now.

I just need to invest in a little vacuum so that I don't pour half the bottle down the drain just because I'm a lightweight and only drink a glass every two weeks.

Ma and Pa editor are so proud.

Something pretty great I noticed yesterday and today was how excited everyone ELSE was about my food story. At the budget meeting, my supervisor made a point to let everyone know it was my debut, and when I was reading the page at my desk later, people kept coming by to look at it. Then after deadline, the managing editor brought the page over, and I thought he'd have some corrections. But he just held it up, and was like, "This looks really great." Then he laughed and told me not to look so worried every time he came over.

Then this morning, people kept saying how nice it looked, and that the story turned out great. And it was just a 6-incher with some art. But it made me really happy that a lot of people genuinely cared that I was doing something different that I was excited about. Colleagues really do turn into family after awhile.

Food debut!

http://www.recordnet.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20071114/A_LIFE/711140302

It's like wearing stripes, and everyone asks, "What, are you a referee?"

I love Target. I love their cute ads, commercials with good music, Michael Graves kitchen supplies. I don't, however, love the fact that their uniform has taken away a wardrobe option for me. I'm wearing khakis today, and I had two options for a top: red or black. I love the red/khaki combo, but I always feel like now it's outlawed. Is that dumb? I especially hate that I can't wear it on any day I want to go to Target, because then I'll be asked a hundred times, "Excuse me, where's the toilet paper?"

The apple doesn't fall far from the family tree.

This weekend, mom and I undertook another episode of "Organizing Piles of Shit."

We have a ton of photographs from our old house (we moved about five years ago) as well as many from the estates of three of my grandparents. (When I say "estates," I mean "closets.") So last week I was reading a local calendar in the paper, and there was an item on genealogy, and I remembered my mom was working on our family tree. So I proposed the idea, and she accepted. Or shrugged. Whatever.

The first batch was from our family mostly, and I unearthed some greats:

I had that deer-in-the-headlights look even back then.

Always an exhibitionist.

We also found some of my parents, in what was a weird "Wow. They had a life before me." moment.

My dad, on a ship somewhere, looking pretty cute.

We also found some evidence of hotness way back in the genes.

My grandpa, left, was quite the guy, huh?

Grandma Ruth was a totally betty, and always stylish.

All in all, not a bad way to spend a Saturday. It may be even better than a family tree.

If you can't take the heat, you're a journalist!

I love my new job! Well, the new parts to my old job. I did my first photo and video shoot today, and it's so nice to be doing stuff that gets me out of the office. And not just because I'm out of the office.

A little background: My first story is about main course alternatives to turkey for Thanksgiving. The ones I chose are duck, fish and venison. So I talked with local chefs and bought fish from one and duck from another. (No one sells venison, so wire photos stand in for that.)

First stop was the fish. I walked in, and the guy at the host stand was beau.ti.ful. No joke. Tall, tan, and shiny bald. I was so thankful I'd worn my big girl shoes and cute jeans. My first time out in the public, and I was being extra cautious. He wasn't chatty, which was a bummer, but maybe he was shy. I probably shouldn't be flirting on company time anyway.

At the next place, however, I got tons of attention. Unfortunately, it followed the story of my life: three dad-types getting drunk at the bar. After I explained I didn't want a job ("Too bad!") and I was there to pick up something ("A man?"), I finally found the guy I was looking for: chef Scott, who had prepared the most beautiful duck l'orange for me to take back. (That duck was my get-out-of-jail free card when I took too long in the photo studio, pushing back someone else's assignment. Best way to make amends: free food.) So I grabbed the duck, ran back to the paper, and stuck it under some hot lights for flattering photos.

An hour later, I went back to the second restaurant (with a clean plate - thanks Ian!) for a video shoot. If you've never been to the back of a restaurant, it's roasting. I know this seems obvious, but I never really thought about it until today. All those ovens and flames, and the chefs have to wear coats with sleeves. Lord. I was about to pass out in my cap sleeves. It's funny how people freak out over a camera. Chef was a minor celebrity for about 15 minutes ... everyone was oohing and aahing and laughing. But we got great shots of him explaining how to make the duck, and I think having a visual will add a lot to the story.

You can see all this online Wednesday at recordnet.com. Hooray!

Next up: Gift guide.

Breakfast of champions.

I'm reading "Why Do Men Have Nipples?" and it is full of random shit. Every page, I'm like, "I always wondered about that!"

The best one I've found so far: Is sperm nutritious or fattening?

The answer makes sense. Sperm is what we're made of, so it's full of nutrients. Well, as full as a teaspoon of anything can be. (I know, it seems like so much more when you're trying to choke it down.) It's about 5 calories, mostly protein, with some Vitamin C and zinc. If only it could be engineered to taste like cherries.

I think my mom has "Grey's"-dar

No joke, she can be dead to the world, and with 10 minutes give or take, she's back up at 9. I don't know what it is, maybe she's not really asleep and she's conscious of around what time it is each time she opens her eyes, but it's uncanny. I wish I had such an internal clock. Maybe I'd get my ass up in time to exercise in the morning.

Get pregnant or risk your life!

Your cholesterol meds can stop your heart. Red wine can be healthy, but not too much! Jog, but don't run a marathon, 'cause that can kill you, too.

Every day it seems, there's another story about conflicting health studies. Today the New York Times reports that birth control pills can clog your arteries when taken for more than 10 years. Crap. I've been on and off them since I was 16. (No, I'm not a hooch! I have really bad cramps. At least, that's why I first went on them. Now ...) And also that they double the risk of cervical cancer.

So what's a girl to do? There are other methods of birth control, but the side effects lists on those are just as long. Hormone-replacement therapy is linked to cancer, but it also reduces the possibility of osteoporosis. So how do you choose?

At this point in my life, it's more important that I'm able to escape the baby boom than avoid artery cloggage. I eat heaps of vegetables, I exercise ... shouldn't that good behavior allow me to have worry-free sex? And I know there are nonprescription options like the Sponge (do they even make that anymore?) or the IUD (sorry, but sticking something that looks like a metal barb up my vajayjay freaks my shit out), but those failure rates are way higher than the pill. And neither of them would clear up my skin.

But studies like that do get my attention, because after a while taking a pill becomes so routine that I don't even think about what it actually means anymore. It's like a vitamin. Except not at all, apparently.

Just call me Bizarrobin.

I sit next to a guy who writes about hip-hop, and he gets a lot of calls from rappers and managers. And they all have ridiculous nicknames. The past three calls he's gotten have been from:

1. Nsane
2. Nutso
3. Cigarface

Suddenly, Snoop Dogg doesn't seem so far out.

Craigslist makes me wonder.

I was looking on the Activities board on Craigslist, and there was a random posting: "Seeking a best friend...."

How sad is that?! The girl is a recently divorced transplant, which I can only imagine must be doubly hard, but it just sounds so desperate! I wouldn't want to call her up because it sounds like I'd be her only friend, and who wants that responsibility? Wouldn't it be better to say "Dance class partner" or "Running buddy"? I mean, even those are kind of offbeat, but I think you have to show you have something to offer if you're going to try to get people to hang out with you. I'd rather meet up with someone to go to a concert than just be like, "Oh, you're lonely and bored? Me too!"

Craigslist in general is just wacky. Like the "Missed Connections." Why would I want to sit around and browse postings to see if someone who thought I was cute but didn't have the balls to approach me now wants to talk about it? I know it's hard to hit on someone, and being hit on by nasties sucks too, but aren't the odds higher if you actually speak?

And this is to say nothing of the personals. (Yes, I read them!) Even the platonic ones are guys looking for dates. And the actual personal personals are too disturbing. They should all just have the headline: "Come over. I'm horny."

Do the kids even say horny anymore?

Go Gavin!

In the history of dreamy politicians, JFK obviously holds the crown. But Mr. Mayor of San Francisco, Gavin Newsom, comes in a pretty close second. Is it the preppy image, all suits and smiles? The bad boy tendencies (sleeping with his best friend's girl!)? The cajones to stand up to the right-wingers who believe the Bible should be law and declare City Hall open to same-sex couples who want to get married? All of the above, I think.

And it seems this love is shared by most everyone in the city, and everyone knows it, so few political rivals have emerged for today's mayoral elections. But the ones who have come out to challenge are worth mentioning:

"It's not that Newsom doesn't have competition on the ballot. In fact, there
are 11 challengers. But none is considered a credible rival.
They include a sex club owner, a homeless taxi driver and a nudist rights advocate."

It reminds me of the good old days of the gubernatorial election, when porn star Mary Carey and Gary Coleman were challenging Arnold Schwarzenegger, and no one knew who was serious and who was a joke.

Biting off more than I can chew.

I have a feeling that being food editor is going to be like a Sour Patch Kid. Really sour to start, then really sweet. (I don't have an analogy for the gummy part.)

One of my first "assignments" is to create an online database of restaurants in San Joaquin County. Oh. My. God. I thank the lord for the education that kept me from being a data-entry clerk. But it'll be worth it when I get to put on my resume that I created it from scratch. And didn't go catatonic. And it's frustrating, because there really is a lack of diversity in the Stockton scene. I mean, sushi is still trendy here. There's like four Thai restaurants and a million Burger Kings.

But it's fun to really have a say in what goes into the section. My editor is pretty laissez faire about the whole thing, so creatively, it's a great outlet. I want to start a column where people taste two different items and give them a review, like the Supertaster on Chow.com. And also, we're thinking about getting reporters and readers to submit their favorite recipes, and stories to explain why they love them. Like, "This was my grandmamma's best roasted chicken, and every Sunday before she got drunk on moonshine she'd show us how to carve it up!" Fun.

Oh, and I may actually get to expense alcohol! Doesn't that just seem wrong? I'm doing a story on cocktails for New Year's, and I asked if I could really make the stuff so we could do studio photos of the drinks, and my editor said yes! It's amazing how quickly they'll agree to forking over $20 for a bottle of vodka if it means they don't have to hire a new writer. Score on that one.

Wine gets nerdy.

Since I started my wine class, I've developed an interest in tasting and buying. But not so much drinking. I now have 12 bottles of wine, and they're just sitting there. But I love to buy the stuff! I was at BevMo the other day buying a birthday gift, and had to consciously restrain myself from buying more. I know it ages well, but I live in a studio, and it's just getting ridiculous.

I'm also getting into reading about it. Not so much the true highbrow take on it but more the fun, unpretentious gurus of guzzling. A columnist at Wired magazine recently came up with some fun gadgets that would make enjoying wine more accessible to the everyman. One of these is a Tooth-Mounted Flavor Sensor, which would send signals about a wine's flavors directly to a speaker in the ear.

"At last, you can with full confidence declare a glass of wine to have 'a wispy touch of pear and loquat, blended masterfully with a strong chord of pepper and cinnamon, all held together by COMPOUND NOT IDENTIFIED -- PLEASE CHECK FOR DRIVER UPDATES.' "

How awesome would that be?! Finally, all snootiness would be erased from the wine world, because everyone would have access to the same information. No single palate would be better than another. And sure, maybe it takes some of the fun out of the tasting, but you could also consider it educational. After a while, lose the earpiece and join the fun.

Accomplishing nothing around the Bay.

This weekend I had lunch with my friend Lindsey, who I used to work with at the Contra Costa Times. It's funny how after high school, you end up being true friends with people who are nowhere near your age. Lindsey is probably around 50, with a daughter who just started college. She and I have the same attitude about a lot of things, and she's just a sweetheart, so we've stayed in touch since I left the paper. We don't talk often, but checking in every couple of months seems to work. So we caught up on work stuff, and then she filled me in on her home stuff, including the recent disappearance of her kitty, Wally (age 17, may he rest in peace). I expected her to be upset, considering the cat had been with her as long as her daughter. But she was surprisingly pragmatic:

"You know, if he got caught by a coyote, it's instant karma. That damn cat tortured so many small animals in his life that this would be very fitting."

Well. So much for not speaking ill of the dead.

After lunch, I went into SF to go to the library (that building is gorgeous, and I feel more educated just walking around in there) to get a copy of a magazine article. I know, why not just go online? Because Gastronomica is the one magazine in the world without Internet access to articles. But small sacrifice, to trek all the way out to my favorite city. So after a heart-pounding trip up five flights, I got the article, then figured since I'd driven all the way out there, why not stick around a while.

I usually get lost in SF; this is just the first time it was intentional. I was looking for North Beach, the area I think I might want to live (come on, big money!) if I move into the city. But first I saw Fillmore, and figured that sounded nice, so I turned left and found the mecca. That street is full of adorable shops and cafes, and lots of cute people to match. I'd really need to step up my game. So I drove around a while there, then ended up near the Presidio, so I figured the fastest way back out was the Golden Gate. Kids, don't try this at home:

Such a better idea if you're a passenger. But fun.

Anyway, I went into Tiburon, because I had time and I'd never been. It's actually a really dull place. Like one road that winds around, and no views of anything except the bay. Which is fine, but when you're used to shopping emporiums and the like, it's a little lacking. But I knew I was out of my element when I looked around at a stoplight and there was a BMW and a Benz in front of me, and an Audi in the other lane. I was relieved when I saw a Ford truck, until I saw it was the pizza guy. I do love Marin, though, because it's pretty low-key. All the rich people are hippies. It's like, when you're about ready to give a buck to the homeless guy walking toward you in a parking lot, he gets into the BMW you're parked next to. But money can't buy taste:

Do you really love your dog so much that you'll defile a beautiful Porsche? The dog probably pees on the wheels every morning and she has no idea.

Overheard

One old lady to another, while unpacking slightly nontraditional Christmas ornaments at the animal shelter thrift store:
"That's a nativity! Don't you recognize the baby Jesus?"
Other old lady:
"Well, not with those slanted eyes I don't!"

Wow. I guess the fact that Jesus was born in Israel, which is pretty much in Asia, escaped her.

Can't we let Atkins rest in peace?

On NPR today I was listening to an interview with Gary Taubes, the writer of "Good Calories, Bad Calories," and cardiologist Ronald Krauss. The gist of "Good Calories" is pretty much the same as the Atkins ideology: that calories from different sources affect a person's health and weight differently, and that insulin (which is secreted in response to carbohydrates) is really what causes weight gain.

Taubes has a lot of science to back up his claims, having discussed this with many doctors and studied many cases. Basically, he says that poor science has led to the USDA and health organization recommendations on diet, and that people follow those guidelines blindly because there's a lack of another way. But it's a little scary to think about freely eating steak sauteed in butter and covered in cream sauce. It goes against everything we've been taught. And maybe that's not a reason to avoid it, but it sure looks more like something that would clog an artery than my Cheerios.

Refined carbohydrates are obviously not something the human body was built to handle. If it comes in a box, you're probably taking a chance. But once those sugars are introduced, it's hard to live happily without them. Taubes says this addiction is the reason why many people are still fat. It's not that low-carb diets don't work, but that people can't stick to them. Because they're not fun! A life without some bread or a cookie or even some freakin' Lifesavers seems set up for downfall into "To hell with your moderation! I'm going to bed with Ben AND Jerry!"

I respect Taubes for speaking out against the collective thoughts, but then I also believe guidelines are what they are for a reason. Maybe I'm naive, and maybe the federal kickback for wheat is why we're told to eat high-carb diets, but I really think that being conscious of what you eat, whether it be pasta or steak, is what really matters. Have a happy table, put some effort into your meal, and just enjoy.

Thursday thoughts.

• Someone should do a study on the correlation between women who wear high heels and kidney damage. I just realized I've been holding my pee for like 20 minutes because my feet hurt and I don't want to walk to the bathroom.
• Why do advertisers try so hard to be cool? Gottschalks' new ad features the slogan "It's a G thing." Really? You think some suburban mom is going to see that and think, "Oh, that's hip! I should shop there, because obviously they know what's trendy in tapered jeans."
• On "Good Eats" last night on Food Network, Alton Brown was making French toast, and he used an infrared thermometer to take the temperature of the griddle. Then, on "Girls Next Door," the girls hired a paranormal investigator to come to the mansion, and he used the exact same thermometer to test for signs of ghost activity. Hmm.