Workin' Like a Dog

  Soooo… full-time jobs are for the birds. Or for the dogs, rather. Madeleine has mastered the purpose of life: marathon naps punctuated by blueberry gluten-free treats and strolls by the water. Meanwhile, I'm considering using my pager only for the purpose of blasting every nearby frequency with, 'May day! May day! SOS! I had to wake up at 6:30 AM and I need an emergency nap! And a soy latte!' I'm at least proud to say I am a productive member of society with a rewarding job taking care of critically ill children and not a Real Housewife of Miami…yet. I am also entitled to unlimited fountain diet coke in the cafeteria, so that almost alleviates the searing pain of waking up at 6:30 AM.
   JF says no one wants to hear fluffy tales of Madeleine and Monica's walks detailing all the cute puppies we encounter, and that I should offer more nutrition segments. JF knows nothing. But I will humor him, and let ye faithful audience know that in a recent study, researchers gave 48 people a breakfast of either Quaker Old Fashioned oatmeal or Honey Nut Cheerios. Obvs when I saw this my ears perked up like Madeleine's in the presence of a stuffed weenie, because those happen to be my two favorite breakfasts. Anyways, both breakfasts were equal in calories, but after eating the oatmeal, participants reported feeling less hungry over the next four hours than when they ate the Cheerios.
Hypothesis: oatmeal has beta glucan - a viscous, gummy fiber - that has been theorized to bind cholesterol in the body. Honey Nut Cheerios are indeed delicious and not a bad choice as far as cereals go, but you can bet your bottom dollar that I had oatmeal for breakfast the day I read that. My sincerest regrets to end our relationship, Mr. General Mills Bumblebee.
  My internet-trolling mother sent me this piece yesterday about staples all dietitians have in their homes:

http://www.marieclaire.com/health-fitness/healthy-eating-holiday-nutritionist-tips?src=spr_FBPAGE&spr_id=1449_34599451#slide-1
 
I had to agree with all of them for myself, but I'll break the dietitian code and confess to you that for the most part, we do not go around munching on kale and fair-trade almond milk. Certainly not this dietitian. I'm a gal of moderation so hell yes, when my friend NN set a plain white box on the dinner table last night that had tantalizing sweet dulce de leche/nutella odors wafting out of its cracks, you would be right in assuming that I dove in nose first. But, I had a few bites of each pastry and felt content enough to stop. And that is the beauty of having your cake and eating it, too.

Happily Ever After,

Mon and Mads (the unhappiest reindeer you ever did see)



Source: Nutrition Action Healthletter, December 2013, Page 7. Original Study: J. Am Coll. Nutr. 32: 272, 2013.

A Rather Cavalier Attitude

 I am desperate to like yoga. Truly. I want so badly to love it and to happily perform sun salutations at 6 AM in the mornings. I want to be the girl with a yoga mat perpetually slung over my sculpted biceps and who can recite the Sanskrit chakras on a whim. I want to have an excuse to wear Lululemon clothing. But alas, every single time I go, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and even shaving my legs for the occasion, I exit sullen and thinking, "Do I have to wash my hair as a result of this? Can I get away with the dry shampoo gimmick here? This was not worth the hair follicle sweat."
  Firstly, yoga is the absolute most excruciating thing you can do to yourself if you suffer from monkey mind, as I do. Practicing yoga is like pinching the wings of a dragonfly mid-flight. I feel suffocated, panicked, and confined, especially at the end of class when the instructor cooly tells everyone to just close their eyes and be still for 15 minutes. FIFTEEN GODDAMN MINUTES?! AND I'M JUST SUPPOSED TO SIT HERE?! Thinking of NOTHING?! The idle mind is the monkey mind's playground. That just makes my beehive brain even worse.
 To add insult to injury, literally, I'm as brittle as a a biscuit, and the 800 push-ups disguised as 'hatha flow' do not help my rotator cuff impingements, scoliotic pain, hip bursitis, achilles tendinitis, plantar fascists, and triceps epicondylitis. I just want to lie in child's pose the entire class and literally revert to childhood and force my orthopedic surgeon to surgically correct the double 23 degree curvatures of my spine so I wouldn't have to suffer enduring lopsidedness as an adult that lead to a bevy of orthopedic woes. JF kindly refers to me as 'Quasimodo.'
 And thirdly, 20 dollars per class? That's 20 Chobani yogurts when they are on sale at Publix at 10 for $10.00. Two classes is a blow-out. I'm done here.
   Still, I decided to give my antagonizing friend yoga one more chance on Wednesday evening. I walked into the gym, gingerly sat down in the waiting room, and was informed by the exuberant receptionist that the schedule had changed that week, and now the 6:30 class was no longer yoga, but boot camp!
 As I turned on my heels to leave and go back to my apartment to make whole wheat pasta with tomatoes and melted cheese and call it a night, I was intercepted by my friend RK who had also naively assumed yoga was at 6:30 PM. Having heard about the new class, she insisted we stay to try it. Let's just say that here I am, four days later, still recovering/begging JF to massage my trocanter muscle group and actually enjoying Madeleine walking all over my back in the middle of the night.


Madeleine went on a lunch date with a younger man at Berrie's in the Grove. Winston is a 5 month-old cavalier with all of the sass of a young stud. His mommy, TB is a new friend introduced to me by my fitness-loving pals PV and NN, but it seems that TB subscribes more to my camp of "we'll eat cheese and drink wine from the balcony watching PV and NN complete their triathlons down below on Brickell Avenue." I know a kindred spirit when I meet one.

Pint-sized Winston next to Dame Madeleine

Food adventure of the week: chia pudding. Definitely a new texture, but I tend to love pudding/mousse concoctions so I was a fan. It did require some added honey for sweetness and I'm fairly certain you're not supposed to have more than 1/4 cup at time since it's so nutrient dense. Couldn't help but recall the 'ch-ch-ch-chia!' commercials of the '90s while eating it as well. I felt absolved of my eating mishaps this weekend after I ate it, since it definitely tastes healthy.

Vanilla Chia Pudding
3 TBSP Chia seeds
1 cup low fat milk/almond milk/soymilk
1/4 tsp vanilla
1 tablespoon honey
cinnamon to taste

Combine all ingredients and chill overnight. Add fruit/shredded coconut before serving.

Happily Ever After,
Mon and Mads

Howl-o-ween

I just returned from a futile walk (no pees no poos) with Madeleine only to discover my fly was down the entire time. This is merely my wardrobe malfunction du jour, as the other day my leggings were on inside out and everyone from behind knew I was a size 4 in LuluLemons. Which I am convinced are manufactured based on Bratz dolls sizes. Anyways, What was even more disturbing was the lack of any excreting from Madeleine, which I surmise is from the fact that she *forgot* to eat her noms this morning, which is downright strange since she usually inhales her food faster than a Dyson (btw, you know you're old when you're pining away for a Dyson Shark. 25th birthday in T minus 28 days. HINT). She's probably staging a food boycott until she gets some of the succulent rugelach purchased from the Pinecrest Farmer's Market yesterday. Along with the market was also the annual Howl-O-Ween celebration at Pinecrest Gardens. I've never seen so many chihuahuas in bedazzled wigs and pugs dressed as tacos, which greatly comforts me in knowing that I am NOT the crazy dog lady, as many suspect. Madeleine was outfitted in a skunk costume and Vienna was a plunder-seeking pirate. Vienna didn't quite grasp the concept of trousers and may have peed in her britches.
  Today is Halloween, a holiday I look fondly upon as I cherish the evolution of my Halloweens past, ranging from being toted around the neighborhood in a red wagon with my sister by my dad, getting to select five pieces of candy to be inspected by my mom and then consumed with the rest of the loot rationed every day thereafter (and unbeknownst to me, mostly consumed by the candy monster, CA, my mom), appreciating confections from an early age as I dressed as a life-sized 8 year-old Hershey's kiss complete with purple leggings and a giant pyramidical hat, purchasing my very first sundress in high school to dress as a Stepford wife, and enjoying the quintessential college Halloween: donning my Victoria's Secret "Miraculous" bra (it adds two cup sizes and weights as much as a brick) and purchasing a 60 dollar lioness costume that has been passed down through generations of my sorority and my sister. Postgrad Halloweens haven't been as climactic; I did rock a fabulous Katy Perry get-up during my first year of graduate school including a garishly huge engagement ring from my hubby Russell Brand, but that marriage dissipated and so did my affinity for the South Beach scene. The noses, the boobs, and the cocktails there were just too expensive. These days, I much prefer dispensing candy to the smushy children (one Reese's for you.. one for me.. one for me...one for me..) in my parents' neighborhood, exploiting Madeleine in her ridiculous skunk costume, and enjoying adult beverages with said parents.

Pepe Le Peu and Jack Sparrow. Nothing says 'dynamic duo' like a small woodland creature and a seafaring sausage


   Today I took a tour of my new work facility, a large teaching hospital, with my boss. As if she already didn't think I was a total loon, a woman in the elevator with us mentioned how much she missed her dog and OF COURSE I chirped, "You should just FaceTime with your dog!" and my manager looked mildly horrified. I plan to win her over with baked goods and maybe she will overlook my canine insanity.
  Speaking of baked goods, yes, I eat them. In fact, I really eat anything I want. My nutrition philosophy aligns with mindful and intuitive eating within the realm of a healthy and balanced diet. Food is for both nourishment and pleasure. And I won't step foot in a gym. I am not a hamster on a wheel. It feels nothing but artificial and strained. And it smells bad and there's MRSA in there and people are grunting. Groty.

Happily Ever After,

 The Dietitian and the Dog




 
 
 

Dog Eat Dog Nutrition Conference

    With many illegal (exceeding 3 ounces) Justin's peanut butter single serve squeeze packs in tow in my carry-on (technically, they're not liquid, they're suspensions, take that, TSA) my chaffeur (JF) left me at the gateway to hell (Miami International Airport) and boarded a stinky plane to Houston for the Food and Nutrition Conference and Expo. The 20 person security line took over an hour because every federal MIA employee moved at a glacial pace, so I had to amble over to my gate with little time for lunch, leaving me to consume the very worst sandwich of my life from a BookLink cafe as I stood in line to board. I also didn't have time to #treatyoself to Cosmopolitan/Style magazines before boarding so I had to remit to perusing SkyMall and fantasize about all the 400 dollar dog houses with radar capabilities I would buy if I was a cash money baller.
  JF's sister, also JF, graciously hosted me at her Houston pad with her resident Cavapoo, Chloe. Chloe modeled her spider Halloween costume for us all. Her bumblebee costume no longer fits, but she was pleased because this year she got to upgrade from six legs to eight.

                  The scariest Cavapoo purple spider you ever did see


We decamped to Escalante's, an "upscale" Mexican restaurant for dinner. I am perfectly happy with hole-in-the wall Tex Mex with bottomless corn chips, so the concept of "upscale" Mexican where 14 dollar tableside guacamole and and 12 dollar margaritas are the starting course strikes me as a greedy farce and should really just be called "expensive" Mexican. After gorging on tacos the size of frisbees, I felt like a wet enchilada the next day as I made my way to the convention center for the conference. The seminars are informative and thoughtful; they present current research and trends in nutrition. I even had the opportunity to present my Master's research during a session, alongside with real people who have real jobs and aren't 24. The Expo, however, is a circus of Big Food hijacking our governing body (the Academy of Nutrition and Dietetics) and beating it to a pulp (pun intended). Monsanto, Coca-Cola, McDonald's, KFC, Pizza Hut, Taco Bell, General Mills, Kellogg's, Splenda, Kraft, ConAgra, Hershey's, Dupont, and hundreds of other companies were all in attendance with gargantuan lifesize displays of their efforts to keep America lean and healthy. While I enjoyed the free snacks (love me some Mcdonald's oatmeal and Three Musketeers bars) I couldn't help but feel there were snakes in my own backyard. While there was a lot of vicious arguing at the evening session on professional responsibility (http://www.expressnews.com/news/local/article/Dietitians-object-to-group-s-ties-with-Big-Food-4914965.php), I tend to a more benign opinion of the situation. Big Food runs America, and America runs on Big Food (and also Dunkin' Donuts, pumpkin spice latte GET AT ME). These companies are not going anywhere. If we want them to improve their menus and products, we need to pressure them to do so and recognize their efforts when they want us to see their progress at conferences like FNCE. Consumers need to rake through the muck and accept Big Food's promises and products with a grain of salt (but less than 2400 mg a day, thanks). Big Food can be incorporated, moderately and intelligently, into a healthy diet and we do not need to throw lamb's blood on Kraft Macaroni and Cheese a la PETA to make a statement. Viva la McGriddle. If you have never had one, you haven't lived. And yes, I basically threw myself at the US Director of Menu Development for Mcdonald's at the conference ("DANNY DEVITO, I LOVE YOUR WORK!!).

                     Dietitians just want to have fun. And grape juice.

I returned home with an arsenal of snacks from the conference, but missing a certain spaniel. I abducted her from Pinecrest today (Camp Grandma) and she is snoozing next to me wondering when I'm going to feed her the Libby's pumpkin that the Libby's rep gave me to give her.

Happily Ever After,

Mon and Mads

Dog in the Miami Bog

The season of swamp ass is still upon us in Miami. If you're unfamiliar with the term, it refers to the lagoon of sweat my thighs leave behind on every seat and that I then clumsily mop up with a crumpled napkin in a crude effort to eliminate the evidence. Madeleine doesn't suffer from this phenomenon, since she simply sweats through panting/sneezing all over her mommy. Today she is sporting her new doggie Colts jersey in honor of Monday Night Football.

  This weekend was pleasant. Mads had a triple cavalier date with my friend JS and her two cavaliers, Gatsby and Hudson. Hudson took a liking to Mads and to be honest I thought he was going to produce a betrothal contract. Both parties pooped on the living room rug to show their affections while the humans dined on barbecue foods. People are always so skittish about eating around a dietitian, so I like to put them at ease by showing them that real women eat sweet potato fries with abandon.

                               Hudson courting Madeleine

JF (boyfriend/partner in crime) planned our entire day around Monty's happy hour and were adamant that we arrive at 4 P.M. when happy hour begins to ensure we got a parking spot. That tactic basically ensured we were sloshing like the ocean waves around us by 6 P.M. I was feeling Caribbean and got a Miami Vice which is perfect for the indecisive frozen cocktail lass, but I was really disappointed in that it tasted like cough syrup and produced an even more wicked stupor. We had REALLY earnest intentions to go out at night but the happy hour stymied any hope of that, so instead I happened upon a breast cancer fundraiser happy hour while I was walking Mads put on by my childhood friend MS at OTC, a favorite chow spot of mine. I resisted the pressure to drink any more, but I did purchase a $4.00 breast cancer cookie for the cause, which I stuffed into my purse and rediscovered on Saturday night at 2 A.M. to my delight after excursions to Brother Jimmy's BBQ and Blackbird. It should be mentioned that at Brother Jimmy's the bartender overheard me say that I hadn't been out in a while, which she interpreted as her prime opportunity to leap over the bar and rub her ample bosom all over my head/face. JF has never been so simultaneously shocked and pleased.
  Sunday was a day for my parents abducting me to visit my grandparents at the nursing home, which is always a treat. There is nothing more grim than a visit to a nursing home. We are all slowly decaying, but it should never be so condensed in a single building. I feel like when life has run its course, we should just...float away. Like balloons.

The only thing to cheer you up after that will be the following cocktail recipes:
 

The Rich White Girl - courtesy of JD
White wine (the sweeter [girlier] the better.. BEASTING OFF THE RIESLING, ya dig?)
ice cubes
splash of gin
:::I'm Samannnntha... I have sex with eeeeevery boy:::


The MHA (MAH if you're a monogram kind of chick. Lookin' at you, Junior League friends.) Also known as the "Gin-gin cran"
1 part Gin (Tanqueray or Bombay Sapphire. Homie don't play no "well drink" game. Also - ew... why does it have to sound like it came from a well?)
1 part Gingerale - Seagram's is my fav. I think it tastes the most authentically ginger. If you can find ginger beer, that's even better. But alas, it's kind of a boutique mixer and you can only find it at "mixology" bars.
1 part Cranberry juice. CRANBERRY COCKTIAL, Y U NOT REALLY CRANBERRY? If you've ever had REAL 100% unsweetened cranberry juice, you will balk at the cranberry "cocktail"corruption that you've come to know and love. Sometimes I carry my own 6 ounce portions of the authentic juice and weird out bartenders by demanding they use it instead of their abomination that is cranberry cocktail.

Carolina Mountain Dogs

This weekend, some fine ladies of UF's phi-nest sorority decamped to Beech Mountain for a reunion retreat deep, DEEP in the mountains of North Carolina. HG graciously opened her family's vacation home for the occasion and it was equipped with enough processed food to serve an army of say, 11 post-grad stress eating young professionals. After the connecting flight to Charlotte, DS, DG, SH and I rented a car (alas, DG and I are not yet 25 and legally unable to do so, thankfully, since I possess the driving skills of a houseplant) and made our way through 'The Hills Have Eyes' set inspiration with nary a human for 150 miles but many spooky solitary mailboxes and an occasional wooden church. Upon our arrival at Rosey's Roost, the Banner Elk home, we kissed the 55 degree ground in appreciation for surviving the treacherous drive and got to work absorbing Cape Cod Salt n' Vinegar chips and tales of each others' lives.
  We're a rather impressive bunch. Just over three years out of, what was a FREE education for most of us (take that, 50 grand a year private school hater$$), we are two practicing UF law school attorneys, two Teach For America alumni - now a charter school teacher and a nonprofit manager, an editor for Country Living, an advertising executive for New York Magazine, a United airlines executive, a corporate recruiter, a marketing manager of a W hotel, a Zumba corporate exec, and of course, a dietitian with a dog. And a partridge in a pear tree. Not too shabby for a group of girls who were freshmen in a year when we all had flip phones.
   We brunched, we hiked, we wine tasted, we conquered. We waxed nostalgic about college, chirped and gushed about our significant others, lamented about the miseries of being financially cut off from our parents, and whined about how much we missed our dogs. It was exquisite to be together again. It was clear that we've all grown, but have we grown up? When does that officially happen? On the way to the airport, DS and I were mistaken for high schoolers by a restaurant employee. If our youthful looks are any indication, I'd say we have a long way to go.

Happily ever after,

Mon and Mads

Real Housedogs of Miami

   My parents have decamped to the Northeast to "see the leaves" (not sure how this is a legitimate excuse to travel, but aight) and I've been left in supervision of the suburban house and the dogs. Their "dog," which I use in the loosest of terms, is a rescue creature from the streets who is the color of cinnamon with all the spice. She's a cross between a German shepherd, a long-haired dachshund, and a corgi. She closely resembles a sausage, so we dubbed her Vienna the Sausage. She also bears an uncanny likeness to the 80s muppet, Alf. What she lacks in height she makes up for in intelligence and spirit. She torpedoes herself onto surfaces of all heights and can somehow open doors. Every so often she emits a songlike bellow for no apparent reason. Whenever approached, she flops over onto her back with her stump legs straight up in the air, begging for tummy rubs. But I think it is all a ruse. My theory is that she is like Stewie from Family Guy and is actually an evil alien plotting world takeover from the confines of a canine body. While my dad was laying out cash for his trip, she sauntered over and gingerly grabbed something in her mouth and skulked off - it was a $100 bill. I posited that she is probably running a Russian gambling ring out of our guesthouse, but this hypothesis has not been proven. Yet.

                                                        Vienna the Sausage [Alien]


   I quite enjoy the suburban life. Upon coming home from dinner at Bonding last night, (wherein several diners got up in the middle of their dinners and began partnered salsa dancing, #miami), I tucked Madeleine into her crate, Vienna on the couch, and myself into my sister's bed since my room has been converted into a library (thanks Mom and Dad, love ya), awoke at 10 AM, let the dogs out for a romp in the yard, fed them, fetched the paper and the mail, Skyped with my dear friend from high school, EF, who lives in South Africa, watched Real Housewives of Miami (Joanna Krupa has two cavaliers, #spanielfame), grabbed a kale salad at Whole Foods, got gas, took the dogs for a mile stroll in the heavily wooded neighborhood, had a nap, a shower, and am now nursing a Diet Coke (my drug of choice) as I write. The Pinecrest life ain't bad. The only predators are the ubiquitous mosquitoes and the most ferocity you encounter lies in fighting for parking spots in front of the Cheese Course.

 A Haiku to Diet Coke
   Astringent but mild
   Caffeinate my heart through straws
    And great marketing

 A Treatise On Diet Coke
   People often recoil in horror when they find out that this dietitian drinks Diet Coke. Do lawyers break laws? Do you know any doctors who are overweight? Do dentists floss every night? Probably, they're nerdy. SIMMER DOWN, FOLKS. Diet coke is far more benign than a lot of things you are probably ingesting.  Your yogurt is probably flavored with crushed beetle skeletons. Seriously. Back off my bev[erage]. I'm not guzzling it like Cristal on bitches. I have, perhaps, one a day, preferably from a fountain (true fans know that this is equivalent to milk fresh from the teat) and otherwise stick to copious amounts of water, with some organic lowfat milk, soymilk, tea, fresh-squeezed orange juice from the Ritz, and the occasional soy latte with REAL SUGAR making guest appearances. Oh, maybe some Riesling or gin as well. On the Sabbath. Go ahead and squeal "Aspartame!!!" at me. What's aspartame made of? Do you know? Nope. You don't. Because you weren't subjected to countless biochemistry classes of death. It's aspartic acid and phenylalanine. One of those is an amino acid, a building block of protein. You're MUCH more likely to suffer adverse health effects from sugared fruit juice, alcohol (BEER IS NASTY), or coffee than you are from an occasional Diet Coke. And also how else are you going to find out the last name of your one true love? Coffee mugs don't have flexible can tops!

Happily ever after,

Mon and Mads (and Vienna the sausage dog)

Blenheim and Brunette Beauties

    Birds of a feather tend to flock together, and some alumni of UF's finest Jewish sorority gathered at the JW Marriott this weekend to celebrate the Bachelorette SB. All brunette and most with post-graduate degrees, this gaggle of Jewesses strutted down Brickell Avenue, armed with Ray-Bans during the day and Minkoffs at night. Personally, I find Bachelorette parties to be the epitome of cheesiness and will probably celebrate mine at the dog park, but it's nice to let loose for a couple of nights and allow the estrogen of seven women to engulf me and convince myself that I am a degenerate urchin whose nightly facial beauty regime requires only three steps.
  The member of the coven with the most solid head on her shoulders is the pint-sized SJ. SJ is an impressive little bug. For the first year I knew her when she was a sophomore and I was a freshman, I was downright petrified of her. She exuded dominance, ferocity, and a faint whiff of Viktor and Rolf perfume/vodka. As a member of Generation Y, my parents told me I was "special, that I should "follow my dreams" and "pursue what interests you" (see: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/wait-but-why/generation-y-unhappy_b_3930620.html?utm_hp_ref=fb&src=sp&comm_ref=false) and thus allowed me to major in Linguistics, which SJ had also done since she dreamt of becoming an Audiologist. So we shared many classes with whom I am convinced are the most bizarre human beings to exist - Linguistics majors. We bonded rather quickly over being petite brunettes who prized intelligence, wit, ambition, and Jimmy Choo equally, along with an affinity for analyzing peoples' speech. SJ ended up pursuing an accelerated Audiology degree at Northwestern and operates in a private practice in South Florida. She possesses a keen talent for judging character, behaving calmly under pressure, professionally in clinical practice, frugally during Bloomingdales and Saks sales, and wildly during nights out. Her only flaws are her propensity for waking up at ungodly early hours and  her dislike of animals, which I glean the hugest sadistic pleasure irony out of, since her parents own a 120 pound Rhodesian Ridgeback which routinely pins her to the couch and coats her in glimmering drool. SJ is one of a kind, and my soul sista. We shared a bed this weekend in a 5 star hotel, and will hopefully share many more happy moments (like the exquisite triumph of finding Chanel pumps for over 70% off) in life.
     Madeleine has been leaving the coy damsel act to the debutantes and has been engaging in some hardcore genital sniffing with a portly tricolor Cavalier named Harry who resides in the building next door, recently transplanted from Chicago. The Auslander women "sure do"love their Midwestern men. My handsome Hoosier returned from a weekend in Montreal with one of his college besties. He arrived home last night and presented me with a Lindt milk chocolate bar gratuitously provided to him on the flight (Air Canada > American Airlines) and made me the happiest dietitian in all the land.

Happily Ever After,

Mon and Mads

Clean as a Hound's Tooth

     Madeleine's breath smells like a shrimp boat, so her mommy paid $175.00 she didn't have to have her teeth non-anesthetically cleaned by our wonderful vet this week. As soon as she realized that her walk had been extended for macabre purposes as we entered the office, she was shaking like a leaf and didn't even want to acknowledge the office Shih-Tzu, Pom Pom. But several hours later she was returned to me with a mouth full of white Chiclets and breath that didn't turn anyone to stone for once as she proudly pranced back to our building. She was abducted by my dad yesterday since I am attending SB's Bachelorette weekend today through Sunday, and my mom has already sent me a picture message zoomed in on Madeleine's telltale mustache with the caption, "Mom I think we need to have Dr. Kelly [our plastic surgeon] take care of this mustache. It's embarrassing." Sometimes, Madeleine returns from Camp Grandma looking like a patchwork quilt since my mother, Edward Scissorhands, gets a little scissor happy with the grooming. Hopefully Mads will survive the weekend and not ingest too many lizards or sneak off into the dining room and delightfully leave little turds on the thousand dollar rug, as she is wont to do.
   Yesterday, I attended NamasDay at the Epic hotel. It's a free event to celebrate yoga and the beauty of humanity in the world. I admit, I do not buy into the spiritual chakra hocus pocus of yoga, which is why I generally prefer Pilates, but this shit was free and I even got a free Kind bar out of it. Anyone who has ever bought a Kind bar knows that a box is worth more than your life, so this was a big deal for me and I carried it home defensively swathed in my LuluLemon yogabag ready to Heisman anyone who got near it. I downward dogged next to my friend PV, who is a major fitness disciple and is a secret sadist who likes to casually invite me to exercise events she leads me to believe are innocuous and they end up being so strenuous that I almost vomit/pass out afterwards and am taunted by the instructors. But I went to this event last year and I knew I was only in for some ohms and vigorous stretching so I agreed. It was truly uplifting and inspiring to be practicing yoga poolside on the 16th floor of the Epic hotel overlooking Biscayne Bay and the Miami skyline. It was during moments like those that I appreciated Miami for its elements and its grace as I bowed in reverent child's pose. Moments of SILENCE in Miami are rare. Soon after yoga, I athletic-walked (that means that I was wearing sneakers and spandex so it means I was basically Usein Bolt) to OTC to meet IK and friends. We witnessed a spicy Latina's car get nudged by a parallel parker in front of her and she chased him down the street in her stilettos with a legal pad.

Yesterday I felt at peace. Today, I feel arthritic and sore from the repeated plank positions but at least as I tucked myself into bed with a slice of homemade pumpkin pie from AT, I knew I was blessed with a good life.

Happily Ever After,
Mon and Mads

Raining Cats and Dogs

   The Miami summer is still upon us and late last night a torrential downpour trapped me, Madeleine, and my best friend ADT at Publix. Luckily, our night in shining Polo Ralph Lauren (my boyfriend, JJF) drove his chariot from our apartment to come to our aid, which gave us ample time to take advantage of the BOGO Multigrain Cheerios sale inside. Madeleine became damp and required a brief paw bath upon returning home since nobody likes little black paw prints on their monogrammed bedspread.
    The lightning and thunder shook the 35th floor windows of our apartment as I prepared yogurt parfaits (see recipe below) in the kitchen. Most dogs are petrified of storms, but Madeleine is so, aloof, (that's a nice word for 'dumb') that she barely noticed JJF and I periodically jumping when the thunder rumbled.
  This weekend, we acknowledged the Jewish holiday of repentance, Yom Kippur. Most lord-fearing people fast for 24 hours, but I take a cocktail of medications and Joel wasn't feeling particularly religious this year so our apartment abstained from starvation. Madeleine considered fasting, but decided against it since she claimed hypoglycemia. I couldn't help but reflect upon my sins from the past year. They are mainly as follows:

1. My thin margin of patience for traffic, service, or food to be prepared. I'm easily agitated and prone to screaming profanities alone in my car and then Madeleine looks at me disapprovingly from her perch in the front passenger seat.
2. My fear of microorganisms which prevents me from cleaning the house lest I touch a pathogen
3. It's REALLY hard for me to share my food. Like really. You humbly asking me for a bite of my pasta is basically akin to you asking me to donate my limbs to you.
4. Never ironing my clothes, all of which need to be ironed. I figure throughout the day they'll become unwrinkled as I move about in the day, right?
5. Not visiting my grandparents enough. They're both 88 years old, Holocaust survivors, and one is in a nursing home. I see them once-twice a month. I'm a louse.
6. Overspending on shopping. I swear Nordstrom secretes analgesic gas through the vents.

As grievous as they are, I like to think that overall, I'm a pretty decent human being. At the very least, I love and am kind to animals (probably more than I am to people.)



Monica's Late-Night Parfaits as Demanded by JJF

Ingredients:
Nonfat greek yogurt
Honey
Cinnamon
Frozen Fruit (we always have an arsenal, and it prevents the anxiety that comes with knowing you have 30 hours to eat your raspberries in the fridge before they mold)
Cereal (We like Kashi Honey Almond Flax, but since we are now the proud owners of over 25 ounces of Multigrain Cheerios, it was a special occasion)
Semi-sweet chocolate chips

Mix honey, cinnamon, and yogurt. Add the frozen fruit (wash and de-stem it first), cereal, and chocolate chips. Voila. Your boyfriend will appreciate you and you will drift to sleep to the sounds of the cavalier king charles spaniel next to you chomping on Multigrain Cheerios.

Happily Ever After,

Mon and Mads

Dog Interrupted

   It was a tragic case of canine-us interrupt-us as Madeleine was left behind when everyone she loved attended the University of Miami/University of Florida football game this weekend. She was terribly torn over which team's jerseys to wear, as she possesses both, and owing to the facts that she was born a 'Cane but attended the 2009-2010 academic year at UF, settled upon nudity.
   Meanwhile, her mommy was corralled into the car at the ungodly hour of 8 A.M. and began observing thousands of people binge drinking for the subsequent nine hours. Binge drinking is defined as the heavy episodic drinking of five or more drinks at once for males and four or more drinks at once for females. I'm heavily disgusted with myself in that I met these criteria, but even more appalled that society (and all of my family and friends) have normalized these episodes without a thought given to the physiological consequences:

-gastrointestinal distress (the poignant medical term "beer shits" comes to mind)
-immunosuppression (not to mention your drunk ass is more likely to touch your mucosal membranes, not wash your hands, and kiss foul strangers. Or worse...someone wearing denim on denim. Yech.)
-acetylaldehyde accumulation in your liver. (Does that sound like it causes cancer or cirrhosis? Yep. It does.)
-infertility (don't put all your eggs in one shot glass)
-neuropathy (You thought you were senile already at 25? Keep drinking.)
-osteporosis ("I've got hollow bones." Name that sitcom.)
-dehydration (Coconut water isn't even going to save you.)
-hypertension (Unless you're like me with a perpetual 91/59 reading of a corpse, you could probably use a little less diastole/systole action in your body.)
-stroke
-a host of cancers

I'm all about the occasional 1-2 glasses of Riesling with my dinner meal, but there is no good reason for ten shots of Herradura. Ever. Americans just seem to have extremism down to a science; grind out 60 billable hours a week in a monkey suit and then go Bacchanalian Animal House Miley Cyrus at Friday happy hour. It makes zero sense to me. I'd much rather savor a beachside Miami Vice with fish tacos and SPF 50 or a decadent Patron on ice (stacks on deck are welcome as well), but it seems my contemporaries would rather dehydrate the extracellular ions out of themselves with beers from a CAN (for shame) and dry heave their way through Sundays. Non, merci.
   Heaven forbid we all take a page out of Madeleine's book and stick to water. And the occasional piece of cheese.

Happily Ever After,
Mon and Mads

Year of the Dog

      L'shanah tova to my fellow tribespeople and their loyal canine companions. Madeleine's bark mitzvah isn't for another nine years, but she feels beholden to Jewish traditions nevertheless. She has been dutifully observing me eating an apple and organic clover honey for close to twenty minutes now. Don't waste your shekels on agave nectar. It's incredibly refined and its glycemic index is not remarkably lower than that of honey. Plus its astringent taste and thin consistency just doesn't call to me. Stick with the bee nectar and enjoy its purported antimicrobial and immunostimulating compounds, but easy with the squeeze, kids, #diabet-us is killing our healthcare system and our grandparents.
    So it's a new year, a new day, and another day where I am not (yet) earning a dollar. Tonight, we migrate south to the promised land of Pinecrest to feast and celebrate Rosh Hashanah. My sassy sister and her ginger-zuelan (auburn hair and born in Venezuela) boyfriend will join us as we partake in the food and in each other's company, while Madeleine camps out at our feet blissfully unaware of her lucky station in life and extremely aware that my dad will inevitably provide her with pieces of brisket and the heme iron she requires.

Happily Ever After,

Mon and Mads

Dog Days of Summer

    Miami is ostensibly part of the United States, but I cannot confirm this. As such, since it is the day after Labor Day and as the more fashionable Americans (all seven of them) are retiring their white garments, I'll continue to sport my white on white ensembles and my most precious white accessory of all, Madeleine the Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. White is a privilege, not a right, ladies, so proper nutrition (and allegedly moving oneself once in a while, but we'll leave that theory to the exercise physiologists) is mandatory especially in this tropical Hades of a city where white is encouraged year-round.
    Luckily for you, Madeleine and I have you covered. We shall recant our fairy TAIL lives to you to inspire you and pepper this blog with some nutrition vices and perhaps even some advice. Notice I held the salt, there. Ain't nobody got time for sodium.
   Madeleine and I believe in pleasure, indulgence, diligence, optimism, congeniality, loyalty, adequate napping time daily, and Judaism on the high holidays or when there are knishes involved.

Happily ever after,
Princess Mon and Princess-in-training Mads