Distorted Body Image

It has been a while that any one has heard from us. I have decided to break the silence with something that irritated me beyond belief. I have recently begun to make lifestyle changes to reduce my pound-packing. I am exercising more, trying to get my heart pumping and my feet moving. I am eating less food. Yeah, no more trips to Philippe's. At least for the while. I might have a bit of a horrible body image of myself but that's because I have a legitimate reason. I am undeniably overweight.

Just now, I finished my lunch. I had a diet green tea and apparently diet drinks aren't too great for you because of the fake sugar, but I honestly don't care. It's diet. I'm drinking it. At least it's not soda. I also had a California Roll from the Sierra Center at CSUN. Yummerina! As I was searching for a place to feast on my lunch, I noticed that the Sierra Center was quite packed today. In fact, for some reason, lots of people decided to go to school today. There was a mad traffic rush on campus. Go figure. I was stuck with a two-seater table outside on the balcony of the second floor CSUN. I was searing in the hot sun, my back as my only shield from the light. To my right, I was overhearing two fellow students' conversation. It was one girl and one boy. At first it was insipid, the type of thing you listen to but just roll your eyes because it doesn't concern you.

I ate my California Roll quite happily. They were discussing school. She said "my god, I was so late, it's so bad" blah blah. He asked "why were you so late? where do you live?" She went on to say "oh you know, I'm a girl, I have to get ready, do my makeup, yadda yadda" bleggablahblah. She then went off on how "FAT" she was.

"I weigh 120 pounds," she said with a heavy, lazy, San Fernando Valley accent. "God, I'm like so fat."

He went on to say. "Damn, you are fat. You're lucky I'm even hanging out with you."

I thought they were just being sarcastic, because that Valley accent has a real nasty sarcastic, cynical tone to it. However, she kept going on about how thin she was in high school, how much muscle she had, the sports she played. He did the same as well.

I had never felt fatter in my life. I almost didn't want to continue to eat my delicious California Roll because they had made me feel like me at my weight which is um...above the 120 pound mark that I shouldn't eat one more thing because it will add much more. I was disgusted at them and disgusted at myself.

Then I realized that they are the ones with horrible body image. I finally took a glance at them and they looked dishevelled and unkempt. They are the products of Boringville, population: THEM. I am the one who is so proud of myself because I had shaved off a good four pounds in the last three weeks. I am the one who always wants to look presentable because I realize that I am worth it.

The state of being fat has to do with the mind. I might be classically called "fat" because I look like it but I don't think I'm fat because I am changing my attitudes. I am working towards a healthier lifestyle. While people like those two I encountered today are "fat" because they believe they are. It is all in the mind. If you like to continue thinking that way, you will stay that way unless you change that negative vibe you are putting out there.

:D And smile, for goodness sake!

Myra's Favorites: Going Bra-less.

And no, not other women's bras. I mean my own. Non-sexually. Most men don't understand the feeling of their chest being trapped in a wire encasement. After a long day of upper body immobility, it's such a feeling of liberation and freedom to unhook one's bra and let it all hang loose (that is if you can hang, unlike me, I just barely protrude) in all their glory. I'm glad I have little ones because sometimes when I don't feel like wearing a bra, I can just wear a sweatshirt and be fine without having to worry about my little berries saying hello. But that's just me.

(This is the first entry in a new series of posts entitled: Myra's Favorites.

Funny bras:

San Diego Traffic

(Note: This post is long, with no images and less humor than I'd like there to be because I started getting really angry as I continued to rant. So I don't care if you can't muster up the patience to read it, it's not my problem since stupid San Diego drivers are.)

I’m going to assume that most of the readers of this blog are Los Angelenos, so I’m going to write about something completely irrelevant: San Diego traffic. So, if you ever plan on taking a small excursion down south or even living there in yet another Californian blonde and tan infested city, here is your how-to guide in surviving the stupidity that is San Diego drivers.

San Diego drivers. Do NOT. know the basics of freeway etiquette. Granted, when you signal, most let you in instead of speeding up to block you like they do in Los Angeles. I appreciate that. But I don’t appreciate about 25% of the population who drive under 40mph in every single lane each freeway provides. I honestly don’t understand why San Diegans can’t comprehend that the further right lanes are the slow lanes and the further left ones are the fast lanes. Traffic would go much more smoothly if you follow this simple concept.

And let’s go on to their traffic lights. Every single major intersection in San Diego has arrows. This means when you’re stopped at a light, you can guarantee you’ll be sitting there for 5 minutes until it turns green again ‘cause you have to fricken’ wait for the left turn people to go through their arrows. It’s absolutely unbelievable. It takes FOREVER. There are moments when there are NO cars going through the intersections in either way because of the green arrows for non-existent left-turning cars. Inefficiency can really bug me! At least in Los Angeles, left turners can turn when the coast is clear instead of having to wait for the man to tell them to make a left. Left turn arrows are only implemented in high-traffic intersections where there are many many cars who need to turn left and yielding is therefore no longer efficient.

Oh and before I move on, here are more tips on traffic lights. Freeway entrances are hell by 3pm. It WILL take you 10-20 minutes to even enter the freeway that’s averaging 55mph because freeway entrance stoplights begin operating by 3pm and are turned off by 7pm. These lights are supposed to control the numbers of cars entering the traffic infested freeway going the hellish 55mph, but in reality, it just makes you infinitely later to where you’re supposed to go, just for the hell of it.

Now onto the sensors. Aren’t sensors supposed to help you? For example, I know a few sensors in Los Angeles that when they sense you and the arrow is red, it will turn green almost instantly. In San Diego, there are many lights that turn yellow, right when I’m rolling over a sensor. Or when that green arrow finally shows itself to me, on the street that I turn left on, the light turns yellow right before I am able to reach it. You would think that since a light adjacent to it is letting cars down that way, that it would be programmed to turn green for all these vehicles. But no, they turn yellow and back up traffic which causes lots of annoying gridlock.

People wonder why I say I miss L.A. traffic. To drive in L.A. does require some skill and intelligence in order to not die. I do feel there are more accidents in San Diego. Whether that is true or not, Los Angeles drivers can at least weave around without getting themselves killed. At least when LA drivers pull off some ridiculous stunt without crashing, I am impressed on the road and mildly entertained. ‘Cause God Knows if anyone in S.D. tried that sh*t, it would be Red Asphalt all over the place.

(Sorry for lack of images. San Diegans don’t like to have evidence of poor driving.)

Movie Review: Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street (2007)

*This entry has been brought over from my Facebook account, where I had written a movie review via the Movies application. I watched Sweeney Todd when it was first released in theaters back in December. It will be released on DVD and Blu-Ray, pun intended, on April Fools Day, 2008.


It was a mixture of elements that echoed Moulin Rouge's digitally fabricated city, a torn and twisted soul like Phantom, and a rehashing of a few memorable Harry Potter actors (Alan Rickman, Helena Bonham Carter, and Timothy Spall), this film is a hodgepodge of a stunning spectacle. When Johnny Depp p...(read more)ulled out the razors, his "friends," I even caught a glimpse of Edward Scissorhands in there. Perhaps an ode to the old character he portrayed? After all, Tim Burton directed both Scissorhands and Sweeney. One cannot ignore the blatant similarity between Edward and Sweeney based solely on the fact that they were blade wielders.

As a huge lover of musical theatre, I anticipated that Sweeney Todd had "singing." I had heard of people being put off because they had expected to see a horror film and did in fact cringe with horror when watching it. They cringed in horror when Johnny Depp started to sing. If you don't dig musicals or can't get over yourself to hear Depp sing, then I suggest you watch the film anyway just to get over it. It's an easy film that bridges between both art forms. I promise you that you won't start belting The Sound of Music tunes the next day just because you watched one musical.

As for Depp's individual performance, it is needless to say that he is, as expected, brilliant. However the supporting cast rounds does a splendid job of rounding out the entire film for the bacbone. There is an amusing appearance by Borat. I mean that Jewish English guy Sacha Baron Cohen as a conniving barber businessman that is on a mission to take Sweeney Todd out of business.

One of my favorite scenes was when Mrs. Lovett, played by Helena Bonham Carter, sings of her happiness and success of their meat pie business. The contrast of the lush background, ranging from a beach side picnic, to frollicking on a ship and their Gothic and stoic made for a beautiful juxtaposition.

One major problem I had with the film was with the portrayal of the young lovers, especially with Anthony, for they possessed the screen presence of melted wax: dull, flimsy, and utterly uninteresting. Anthony, played by Jamie Campbell Bower, does not possess youthful, handsome looks. He looks like a male Claire Danes.

Meet the stars of the revival of the sitcom Sister, Sister.

He is horribly un-sexy. If you listen carefully, you can hear the sound of thousands of girls pulling their panties up and clamping their legs shut. I say only mere thousands because there are probably an equal, maybe even higher number that find this effeminate creature a virile and drool-worthy young man.

Although I'd rather have the unknown actor play Anthony, rather than a Zac Efron type or whoever is "hot" right now, his acting was all urgency and no passion. I feel that the audience never truly gets to connect with Anthony, nor sympathize with his emotions. The character Anthony is trying to be chivalrous in order to save his love interest but Bower is unable to pull that through his character. On the plus side, the boy has pipes. His rendition of "Johanna," where he first lays eyes on his future booty call was pure, sweet, and innocent.

Johanna, played by Jayne Wisener, is much more unfortunate than our male. She looks like a poor man's Christina Ricci and her eyebrows looked like they had been humiliated by an acid attack from the Clorox Bleach company.

"Oh Anthony...your song about me is so lovely. Yet I cannot see you very well as there is such a sharp glare from my albinism-afflicted brows."

Someone tell Juliet that this chick is trying to copy her style.

A few more things to look out for in the movie: Watch Ed Sanders, who plays Toby, a young boy who at first works for Sacha Baron Cohen's character Signor Pirelli, and then later an apprentice for Mrs. Lovett. He has such a strong and emotive singing voice, full of control and power for someone so young. Be careful of the beggar lady afflicted with syphilis, gonorrhea, genital herpes, and psychotic episodes. The camera does close-ups of her and makes you feel like you can catch any of the above just by staring into her pustule-covered eyes. Yummy. She's the real reason for the R rating.

This April 1st, visit your barber in commemoration. Then buy a pizza with extra bubbly cheese that resembles pustules, sing on your way home, and invite your friends over. It's a movie night and when the mock you for renting Sweeney Todd, you will say "It's April Fools, bitches!" and pop the movie into your DVD player. And if they refuse, then...well...I have a meat grinder you can borrow...



:D

My Official Will

I'm going skydiving today in celebration of life.

With that said, this is my official will.

Unfortunately for you all, in the circumstance of my death, I won't have anything too awesome to hand out since I am $20,000 in debt with student loans. This obviously goes to my parents by default.

To compensate for this, I will therefore relinquish to them my prized green binky.



It's soft, it's warm, it's cozy, what better else to comfort one who suddenly has to pay off their own daughter's debt? I'm so considerate.



Nibbles, my beloved lil hammy. This little monster has been dear to my heart since my purchase almost three weeks ago. But careful, she bites. She goes to Mellie Grafil because she plays the guitar and I know her fingers can handle bloody hammy bites of love.



Cell phone/Macbook/Facebook account must go as far away from my parents as possible so they may never know the shenanigans their one and only precious daughter has ever gotten herself into... so how about to Africa, so may the little children there may lessen their impression on the holier-than-thou United States of America. We may be the land of the free and rich, but what use do we put it to? We create shows like That’s Amore, The Hills, and other brain deteriorators (I think I invent a new word every blog) that I am shamelessly addicted to.




Ipod touch go to Jenny Dolz so she may rock out with her cock out. And who doesn’t love a cock rockin’? ...Awkward sentence. Does hand motion of ‘awkward sentence’ similar to ‘awkward turtle’ except more sentence-like than turtle-like.



My unnamed Prius goes to someone who should be renamed who shamelessly attempted to name my precious car after him but failed miserably. I know he secretly wishes he had a Prius instead of his BMW. We all can’t have amazing tastes in motor vehicles such as I do.

Disneyland Annual Pass goes to Lainey since she somewhat resembles me (all Filipinos look alike!) and since she is being lame and isn't getting one this year! You’re already happy so I guess the only thing I can give you is the happiest place on earth, except on days these people go:



I could go on seeing that I have such wonderful possessions. But time's a'wastin' and I gots to jump out of a plane. So... everything else you can fight for in a battle of wits by playing Scene It: Harry Potter.

The Science of Sleep

I lie in bed curled up in a semi -fetal position. I'm surrounded by a pod of blankets and pillows. My thoughts are loud. They reverberate through my skull like an earthquake as silence vainly attempts to engulf me. I liken my thoughts to color. Though my eyes are closed, I see every hue scatter and dance across the center of my mind. Reds fire up, along with silvers and purples, but blues take all the glory. An assortment of cerulean thoughts skip in and out like the constant ebb and flow of a wave, never ceasing. Darkness heightens every sense. I feel the warmth of my breath as my exhalation hits the pillow. I feel the blanket on every inch of bare flesh, its softness nearly unbearable. The back of my exposed neck and shoulder are cold in comparison to the cocoon of warmth I’ve created around me. I hear my own heartbeat. I hear the blood flow of my body. I hear my breathing. My mind goes on and on and on. So much is happening in this idle state. It’s beautifully overwhelming. I feel like I’m about to burst. I open my eyes, and I write this.

Whoa, Pie!

(note of caution: This is a magnificently long blog, which will require the use of your attention span muscles.)

It is a surprising feat that my friends and I are not obese. We love to eat; eat often and a lot. Well I’m a pound-packer, but my friends are perfectly healthy and well-managed people. Our outings usually revolve around food, and if we do embark on an expedition that is non-food related, the chances are very good that food will appear somewhere along the way.

This last Wednesday I had a gut-busting tour of the heart of Los Angeles. My friend Jenny wanted to go to the beach and I wanted to get out of my roach-infested apartment. She also wanted to eat Pinkberry, the very L.A. chain yogurt place. Yes, that is an important detail. By the time, she reached my house, our meeting place for the day, the beach was out of the question. Traffic is shit by certain hours and the day was getting late. We needed to go somewhere else. She was ravenous, so I suggested Philippe’s, the famous French-dipped sandwich house in downtown Los Angeles.

Philippe’s is the home of French-dipped sandwiches in Los Angeles. Since 1908, it has been serving all of Los Angeles these juicy sandwiches, in addition to tasty soups, divine desserts, and um…beer. Woo! Now this place is not a delicatessen because it’s low on the Jewish food. No matzah bawlls or knishes. What you’re looking for here is real deal French-dipped sandwiches. The interior looks like it hasn’t changed in decades, most likely because it hasn’t. The walls are adorned with accolades and achievements from newspapers, magazines, the city of L.A., the world, and everyone who has taste buds. The floor is covered in sawdust to give the place its character and personality. So if you have some bizarre aversion to sawdust then you might have a reason to not go to Philippe’s. Weirdo.

Are you now asking what the heck is a French-dipped sandwich, Melanie? Basically, you have a French roll, meat, and if you want cheese, you can have it. At Philippe’s they serve beef, lamb, ham, oven-roasted turkey, and pork. Since I neither eat pork, lamb, or ham, I go with beef. Turkey? Save that for Thanksgiving. It’s good, but this place is known best for their beef French-dip. The actual dip is beef au jus, which are the natural juices that are released from the beef when it is roasted. The sound of that might be off-putting to some people, but to me “natural beef juices” screams succulent deliciousness. Ohhh yes. They dip the bread lightly in the jus, top it with your meat choice (beef *cough*), and cheese if you want it. They also have side dishes like bag o’chips but that’s shit. Go for the cole slaw, potato salad, macaroni salad, dill pickles, pickled pigs’ feet. Whatever suits your fancy and whatever they have laid out in the display cases. They also have iced tea and lemonade, for the dirt cheap prices of $0.60 and $0.70 respectively.

That particular day, Jenny ordered a French-dipped, roast beef sandwich with American cheese and a lemonade. I had boysenberry pie à la mode; the ice cream came courtesy of Balian’s. I don’t know who Balian is and/or why that brand is special, but that is one kick-ass Armenian ice cream maker! I was quite filled up when I had my pie, but Jenny was hungry and she was loving her sandwich. Philippe’s lays out courtesy jars of hot mustard. (Read: motherfucking hot, tear your eyes out bitch hot). Jenny had quite the catastrophe when she opened the lid of the jar.

I said to her, “Oooh be careful. That’s hot stuff.” I told her with a coy grin.

She was wide-eyed and intrigued. “Really?” she asked while dabbing on a spoonful of the good stuff in a concentrated area of her sandwich.

I just love big beefy things.

Jenny's face became fire! Her eyes watered like a fountain and gushed like a geyser. Her eyes conveyed a sense of astonishment and overwhelmed senses, like the twinges of a person's first climax. My poor friend Jenny fell victim to the hot mustard that plagued every new customer of Philippe’s, myself included. Jenny described it as similar to a hit of wasabi, or mixed with horseradish. Don’t let the hot mustard scare you away from wanting to visit Philippe’s. It does not come with the sandwich, but as I had described, it comes in jars laid out on the tables. In small doses, the mustard is tasty and adds a tantalizing dimension to your already amazing sandwich. I didn’t want the rest of my pie, so she ate it. Mmmm betrayal to Coco’s never tasted so good!

After lunch at Philippe’s, we hit Olvera St. This place is old, too. Oh and historic. This street was one of the first. In the 1800’s through the early 1900’s, Olvera St. was the epicenter of the Mexican American community that had settled in that area. Up until 1877, the street was named Wine St, before it became Olvera. In the early twentieth century, the place had become run-down and dilapidated. In 1930, it became a marketplace. Today, it is the symbol of the olden days of L.A. and homage to the Mexican American community. Although homages to the Mexican-American community can be found all over LA, this is one of the few places where white people can visit and feel safe during their visit.

It’s a touristy place and the vendors sell a large number of kitschy items like fake guitars, shawls, and sombreros. They sell trinkets and Mexican candies like the infamous Pelon Rico, Lucas, and spicy mango lollipops. The old houses where people used to live still stand and you can take guided tours during the day time. Frida Kahlo and her unibrow are all over the place, so if you’re grossed out by caterpillar faces, I suggest you eat before you visit Olvera St. Of course, then you’d be missing out on all the food Olvera has to offer. There are many little shops that sell food like taquitos and taquito-type of things but there are three sit-down restaurants and sometimes you can have someone serenade you as you eat your meal. It was very romantic. Too bad it was Jenny and I. Neither of us have a man-organ, therefore nil romance. No penis, no romance? You betcha.

We visited the oldest Catholic church in Los Angeles, La Placita Church, or Our Lady the Queen of Angels. I admire the devotion of Catholics.

Last on the tour, you cannot forget Mr. Churro who deep fries and then buries your churro in sweet cinnamon sugar right before your eyes. Mmm long, crunchy, sweet, phallic things…

Two thumbs up to Olvera Street for a fun trip through historical Los Angeles and for the Frida Kahlo portraits. I’ve got enough eyebrows to last me a lifetime.

After a trip to Mexico, Jenny and I went further on our trip around the world. We went to Little Tokyo, by way of Cuba. In Cuba, we stopped at a bar for drinks. I had water with lime, she had Yerba Mate soda. It was very Ernest Hemingway. Except we’re not Hemingway, we never went to Cuba, and we did not have any alcohol like Hemingway. But we did go to a Cuban restaurant, Cuba Central, after having just eaten Philippe's and a churro. Cuba Central was across the street from Little Tokyo. I really wanted Cuban appetizers and to take advantage of the Happy Hour mojitos. Alas, my stomach was already blossoming into heifer status. I could not take food, nor allow it into my system.

In Little Tokyo, we found a shoe shop and I was goofing off with the lady who worked there because she was telling me about the beautiful Crocs with the Fur at 20% off. Gee, I wonder why those stank factories are 20% off? Jenny and I continued to complain of our achingly full bellies when she quietly reminded me that despite everything, she still wanted to fulfill her craving of Pinkberry. We walked around Little Tokyo some more, and perused the sights. There was not much to see, apparently, or we had just gone to the wrong spot. All of a sudden, a tiny yogurt place called ceFioré and we were amazed because it looked exactly like Pinkberry and they served frozen yogurt on top of waffles. That’s fucking fat kid paradise. Not minutes later, we then turned a corner and lo and behold…

There was a Pinkberry before our eyes. We had no words until I finally broke the silence with a hand gesture and a happy grin: “There you go!” Pinkberry is here! We could do nothing but laugh. Our search for Pinkberry and we could not fit a single ounce into our bodies. Life is over.

But it’s okay because then we went to a skater shop that smelled like leather and weed. The guy that worked there was this dude with messed-up teeth. He talked to us about…absolutely nothing. Because he’s a stoner.

After we left Little Tokyo we weren’t sure where to go next.

“Let’s just get lost in L.A. then,” I suggested to Jenny.

“Sure!” she concurred. “What’s the worst that could happen? Unless you go to those weird places if you know what I mean.”

I thought about this for a moment. This is true. There are some pretty awful places to get lost in L.A. and I certainly didn’t want to take that chance. My only suggestion for a solution was to say:

“Well…you have instincts don’t you?”

After driving around, we decided to go to the Los Feliz area, the place of our adolescence. And because it reminds me of my friend Flo, who I miss. It was yet still early and the sun was out. It was much too early to go to Los Feliz at this hour and we weren’t even hungry yet!

“Want to go to the park and play?” I asked Jenny.

“Yes! And it’ll help us get more hungry,” she happily agreed with glee.

We played at a playground in Griffith Park, Los Feliz that we realized was a park built for able-bodied children and for disabled children, which I thought was just precious. I wondered if others must have thought we were mentally disabled, though, because we are 21 years old, we play at a park, and we squeal. It takes a huge amount of confidence and a cemented sense of identity to admit that you want to play at the park and actually do it. And squeal. If people stopped caring so much about what other people thought, we would do so much more of the things we want to do.

After the park, we exercised our brain at Skylight Books on Vermont Ave. Then we ate at House of Pies. We were hungry again and even though HoP is a shitty place for food, it's got a special place in our hungry little gluttinous hearts. Towards the final stretch of our meal, I spotted a bulbous piece of pie, burgeoning full of banana slices and whipped cream. The kind of pie that makes you want to throw in someone's face as a joke. Or lick off someone's body, I don't know, that's your fantasy not mine. When I saw that pie, and I thought of all the the things we did, the people we talked to, the volume of food we ate, I could think of nothing to say but, "Whoa, pie!"

In conclusion, did you ever wonder if Jenny got her Pinkberry after all? No, she didn’t. But that’s okay. We ate most of the rest of what L.A. has to offer, anyway. I'm glad we are hungry friends.