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