Last year I attended the Third Annual AA Soiree. That’s right, this Academy Awards party is the hottest of the year! Located in one of the hottest venues in one of the most popular star-studded cities, it boasts expensive catering, a red carpet walk, and competition with esteemed peers for an extravagant prize. So as I entered my friends’ house in Hillsboro and walked over the red construction paper on the floor, waiting for the WinCo lasagna to come out of the oven, I knew that this was my night to shine. I was up for the most sought-after award of the night: The cheap plastic Dollar Tree trophy painted metallic gold (except where the paint had rubbed off).

How was I to win this elusive prize? By picking the night’s winners from the list of nominees. It’s hardly worth mentioning, but the prior two years I’d been thwarted by an unpleasant sort of competitor; the sort who picks more winners than you do and then rubs his cheap plastic gold-painted trophy in your face (getting gold paint on you in the process). You know the type. But last year there was to be no such competitor, for I had shipped him off to Chicago prior to the awards show. (You can come back now, Carlos, the show is over.) I was going to get mine.

It had been an immensely busy year, and I must admit that before last year’s awards show, I had not done my research. I hadn’t watched a single nominated movie, heard a single nominated song, or read a single original screenplay. And yet, the titles spoke for themselves; there was really no need to see the movies. The nominated films included Slumdog Millionnaire, which was obviously about former President George W. Bush, and Milk, which delved into the increased incidence of osteoporosis and its link to insufficient calcium intake. With my intuitive sense of the movies, I could almost taste the cheap gold-plated plastic in my mouth.

I’m not going to go into specifics here, but I’ll simply say that an unexpected turn of events during the evening resulted in a…well, “loss” is a harsh word, but we’ll just say it was a “not win” on my part.

Fast forward to tonight’s Fourth Annual AA Soiree, Readers. Tonight is my chance to redeem myself. Being well versed on the nominees (Hurt Locker? Seen it! District 9? Seen it. Avatar? Seen it—-twice!) as well as the politics of voting in favor of various contenders (CGI: showy and unimpressive to the Academy even when attached to a stellar film), I am certainly not in need of your suggestions in order to sweep tonight’s floor with my anticipated plastic trophy. However, I imagine you are eager to share your well-researched proposals, along with statistical probabilities of victory on each nominee, ASAP. I welcome, encourage, and demand your comments before 4:30pm PST.

–Troi out

It’s no secret; cigarettes have a bum rap. Make that a “butt” rap. But no longer, according to new research published in Troi Vogue, Troi Weekly, and Troi Time magazine, that suggests a few cigarettes can do your body good!

Family physicians everywhere are touting the natural appetite suppressants found in cigarette tobacco to help you lose weight and feel great. They recommend a pack of cigarettes in the morning, another pack for lunch, and then a balanced dinner followed by a pack for dessert.

It is thought that nicotine, the addictive poison found in tobacco, reduces appetite as well as impacts eating behaviors, both of which result in reduced body weight, according to this website.

Dr. Kaforkian of Troi Health Associates in NE Portland recommends at least 5 packs of cigarettes a day for the first month to jumpstart your weight loss. He says that due to the number of tobacco-induced deaths, he was at one time skeptical of the 3 packs-a-day diet, but that the enthusiastic responses of his patients made him a believer.

“Just yesterday, I had a patient run a half-marathon, no wait, a half-mile to the nearby cigarette shop,” he shared during his exclusive interview with Troi, “And without the 50 lb weight loss made possible by cigarettes, she never could have achieved this goal!”

When asked for comment, his patient was unable to respond due to a laryngectomy that has left her unable to speak without the help of an Electrolarynx.

“Research used to indicate that the reduced appetite correlated with increased intake of nicotine was a purely psychological effect,” reports Dr. Kaforkian, “But I say, even if that’s true, you can’t exactly eat anything if you always have a cigarette in your mouth instead!”

But perhaps even more far-reaching than its effects on your love handles are its impact on world hunger, starting with your local community.

“People are literally just leaving their groceries on the streets when they realize they’re not hungry anymore,” raves a representative for Marlboring cigarettes who asked to remain anonymous and wore a paper bag over his head during his interview with Troi, “and people who can’t afford groceries are reaping the benefits.”

Local Portlander reaps windfall from friendly local smokers

Local SE Portlander and borderline poor person Adam Smithersmithsonian (pictured above) was fortunate to witness these benefits firsthand on a recent stroll through NE Portland on his way to the posh organic and vegan Blossoming Lotus cafe.

“I was so hungry, because I hadn’t eaten since lunch and it was almost 4:00pm” he says, “And then I just looked down and, next to a couple of hundred cigarette butts, a smoker had left two full boxes of delicious crackers on the ground!”

When asked why he hadn’t taken up smoking to curb his own appetite so that he, too, could begin donating his food surplus to other needy Portlanders, Adam justified his selfish behavior by pointing to research on the health hazards of smoking. The sources of this sketchy research were unconfirmed by Troi at the time of press release.

It remains to be seen if the cigarette diet becomes as big as the low-carb diet that swept the nation a few years back before its founder, Robert Atkins, suffered a heart attack. But one thing’s for certain: if there’s an easy, addictive, and ultimately unhealthy way to lose weight, Americans are sure to find it.

Written by Troi

Editor’s Note: The 3 packs-a-day diet is not recommended for anyone at risk for heart disease or who has high blood pressure or cholesterol. It is also not recommended for anybody who is or may become pregnant, or anybody who has a heart and lungs and wants to keep them.

Raw Banana Flax Bar: It’s what’s for dinner

Some of you may already be familiar with the raw food movement; a food philosophy that suggests the consumption of foods that are never cooked above 116 degrees farenheit are more nutritionally dense and retain enzymes that facilitate absorption of the nutrients in the food. Embraced by such esteemed public figures as Demi Moore and Alicia Silverstone, and rejected by such famed bloggers as Troi—-who prefers her nutrients in highly processed cocoa puffs fortified with vitamin B6 and riboflavin—-the raw food movement boasts results such as enhanced energy, weight loss, and reduced risk of heart disease.

And we all know that if people in Hollywood are doing it, it must be good.

So famed blogger Troi, whose huge* fan base relies on her expert knowledge of worldwide trends to dictate how they should dress, what they should eat, and where they should work (“Become a teacher!” she insisted last year, “Our society values the education of young people as its vital lifeforce and your job will always be secure!!” which coincided with an unexplained 90% decrease in Troi’s readership), set out to investigate the raw food movement.

*between 8 and 10 fans**

**fans: people I have begged, bribed, or blackmailed to subscribe to my blog. They may or may not ACTUALLY read it.

Famed blogger Troi is fully-informed in the principles of evidence-based research, with knowledge of statistical principles that spans z-scores, t-scores, the reliability and validity of testing tools, and variability among populations being tested. Troi can apply this methods-based knowledge to research regarding raw food and bring it to her readers, so that they understand the implications of such a diet and can make informed decisions about eating a raw food diet.

But that sounds BORING! So famed blogger Troi decided to disregard these principles and simply try a tasty*** raw food bar for herself.

***Tasty: What raw foodists tell themselves, to make it through the day

Troi perused the raw food section of the health food aisle in her local grocery store and decided upon a GORAW 100% Organic Banana “Bread” Flax Bar. After her purchase, she read the packaging.

“…..Being of the EARTH, this food may contain traces of the environments in which the ingredients were harvested (such as date pit pieces, very small rocks, etc.) that are impossible to remove completely.”

Wait, WHAT?? Why buy a bar that costs $3.69 when you can just munch on a few tablespoons of gravel from the nearby construction lot?

But Troi, who values the 8–10 readers who are counting on her, consumed the banana-gravel bar anyway. Sure enough, her last bite coincided with an almost instantaneous weight loss (after a run to the bathroom to lose the contents of the raw food bar), an increase in energy (as she suddenly felt compelled to run as fast as humanly possible away from the raw food aisle), and a reduced risk of heart disease (from the running—-exercise is good for your heart, right?)

And best of all, Troi looked in the mirror and looked decidedly more like Demi Moore and Alicia Silverstone than ever.

–Troi out

Engagement diamond or polar ice cap? Impossible to tell.

Dear Readers,

So as yet another single female friend recently jumped onto the wedding-band wagon, I could no longer sit silently by without issuing this warning to the world (or, the eight readers of my blog):

Marriage is a safety hazard.

You think I joke, but I’m trying to save lives here. Have you seen the size of the average engagement ring these days? (You have, but you mistook it for one of those melting polar ice caps, since they’re about the same size.) These rings are twice the size of the women wearing them. It’s like trying to lug an ice rink around by your finger. And as more women fall prey to marriage, the number of cases of ring-fingeritis (inflammation of the finger that bears the weight of a lifetime commitment) has skyrocketed. Ring-fingeritis now ranks among the leading cause of finger loss in women under the age of 35. (Second only to chopping them off inadvertently while trying to cook stir fry, although I’m still glad I gave it a go.)

But finger loss is only the beginning. Wearing an engagement diamond also increases one’s risk of being assaulted by a burglar looking to upgrade his or her style by investing—-freely—-in better jewelry. Nobody takes a burgler without glistening diamonds encased in a shiny platinum band seriously, whereas a burgler wearing an engagement diamond commands a sort of dignified respect as he catches the light just right with a reflective finger, momentarily blinding his victim and whisking her wallet away. As you can probably imagine, crime rates, like lost fingers, have also escalated since the rise of the giant engagement ring.

I implore you, Readers, to step up to the ring—-instead of wearing it—-and fight for your fingers! Take a stand against finger loss and burglary. Because “I do” think I’ve warned you sufficiently.

–Troi out

As a speech therapist who suffers from acute germ neurosis, I lather my hands in organic alcohol-based hand sanitizer every time I sense a nearby germ has escaped my students and entered my airspace, such as when I catch them exhaling. If their hands enter the general vicinity of their faces, I extend them the honor of using my hand sanitizer (or what I tell them is “magic soap”). I’m a real pusher of the stuff; we go through it in my classroom like candy, except that we don’t eat it. Except for that one time, when my back was turned for just an instant, and the student thought the soap was magical because it could be consumed. You just can’t pay for entertainment like that these days. And certainly, like any good germaphobic speech therapist, I take any opportunity to teach my students to say their sounds without the use of physical contact.

But sometimes when less tactile methods fail, I have to get physical and the gloves come on. My latex germ-repelling gloves. I glove up in these fashionable accessories when trying to make a good impression on a first date, but also when pressing on students’ lips and cheeks to eliminate or reduce the escape of air from the sides of the tongue during a lateral lisp. Which sounds like loads of fun, I know, but students typically dart for the door when they see the gloves. I’m not sure if it’s because they aren’t fond of this manner of therapy, or because I’ve taken to using the gloves as hand puppets instead of therapy tools.

Accompanying the gloves are the cherry tongue depressors, which enter students’ oral cavities and extend toward the palatoglossal arches (a little dangerously close to the gag reflex, if you ask me, or the students who gag and spit on me) to give a frame of reference by way of tactile stimulation to the points of contact for the tongue when it makes a consonantal or rhotic /r, ar/ sound. For students with tongue thrust, the tongue depressor supports positioning of the tongue behind the teeth. As with the gloves, students are similarly disappointed by the entrance of the cherry tongue depressors into the session, except for that one kid who thinks they taste great and keeps requesting more cherry tongue depressors every time he passes by my office. I have no proof for this, but I actually suspect he might be faking his /r/ problem just to get his daily cherry tongue depressor fix.

As a germaphobopathologist, I prefer to use hands–off, glove– and tongue depressor–free speech therapy whenever possible to reduce my perceived risk of transmission of germaphobopathologist-resistant germ strains. In an ideal world, I’d like to teach in a germ-proof space, such as a transparent protective bubble. But my district was hit hard by last year’s budget cuts, and my requests for protective bubble-wear have been repeatedly denied.

So for now, I guess I’ll Keep Sticking My Fingers in Other People’s Mouths for a Living.

Jealous?

–Troi out

It is an inevitable fact of life that as you split your time between family, friend groups, work, community activities, Star Trek conventions, and the like, you will generally lose touch with a few dear friends along the way. This is especially likely if, like me, you tend toward attempting to maintain not one but nearly ten friend groups, including but not limited to the Marrieds group; the Singles group; That Other, More Fun But a Bit Too Wild Singles group; the Church group of One Denomination; That Other Church Group of a Different Denomination (in the true spirit of faith, it’s very important these two groups don’t mix, or the world will certainly end); the Coworkers Who You Also Happen to Like As Friends group; and the Fellow Trekkies group (a bunch of nerds whose level of geekiness is so profound you don’t actually acknowledge them if you see them on the street while with any of the aforementioned friend groups). Despite my best intentions, I do occasionally fall victim to friend loss during busy times when I don’t respond to emails or return phone calls with the warp speed my true friendships deserve.

And so it was with pure delight that this morning I ran into a friend from graduate school with whom I had lost touch this past year, save for attending her awesome Sprockettes bicycle dance performance this past October at the Hopworks Biketobeer Fest. This friend is the rare gem who, upon receiving an email from you, responds with a thorough and thoughtful thesis of no less than 5000 words that splashes your thoughts and ideas onto the backdrop of her personal experience and wisdom and paints a resulting picture that never fails to offer insight into your dried-out palate of stuck suppositions and stagnant struggles. A friend whose very being is intelligence, humor, class, and the gracefulness that only a Sprockettes bike dancer can pull off.

It was unfortunate, then, to make this joyous re-acquaintance at a Spanish conversational group, at which speaking English was strictly forbidden. My Spanish-speaking skills—-rusty at best, nonexistent at worst—-made for a definite communication breakdown as I attempted valiently to fill my friend in on the past year of my life, drawing from a mental Spanish dictionary of under ten words. Our conversation went a little something like this:

Friend: (fluent string of complex multisyllabic Spanish words, conjugated into appropriate past and future tense forms)

Me: Hola!

Friend: (same as above, with raised intonation at the culmination of the phrase, in what I can only guess is a polite and probing question into the nature of my existence and activities this past year)

Me: Hola! (But very expressively. So that it conveys much more, I’m quite certain.)

Yet while our communication was fragmented, and my need to improve my Spanish skills was unmistaken, I was reminded today just how pequeno our mundo is. (See how much Spanish I learned today? I’m practically fluent!) And how our small world lends itself to renewing friendships that had begun to slip away, after all.

–Troi out

I’m still getting acclimated to the universe of online dating.

In this new universe, I’m allowed a few dates with anybody I choose until I decide to pursue one of the anybody’s to make him my somebody.

I suppose it’s what dating was always meant to be, but it’s a far cry from what dating always meant to me.

To me, dating was developing an overpowering, all-consuming crush on a boy. The object of my affection was then subjected to me—-on my best, most adorable behavior—-conveniently overlayed on approximately 90% of his daily activities. (You call it stalking, I call it “availability.”) I sat at his lunch table, I dragged myself out of bed to attend morning mass instead of evening, and yes, I even started playing on his ultimate frisbee team despite the fact that I didn’t know what ultimate frisbee was or how to play it.

Eventually, the object of my affection would reach the inevitable conclusion that, despite my poor table manners, tendency to fall asleep at morning mass, and generally atrocious frisbee skills, he wanted me to be his girlfriend. Our relationship would be inaugurated with much rejoicing, by me; being at that point exhausted both by early morning mass and by having had to ceaselessly maintain my best adorable behavior for the past six months.

During those six months, it never crossed my mind to entertain the affections of others; I never noticed another man nor did I particularly want to explore my options.

And once my crush and I became a couple, we stayed a couple, for a couple of years.

And when we ceased to be a couple, I didn’t want to be part of another couple, for another couple of years.

It was simple and sweet, and I only had to remember one guy’s name.

I by no means intend to knock the very system in which I am a willing player. But I hope, as I play a new game with new rules, that at the end of a long line of anybody’s will come my somebody.

–Troi out

My AT&T phone, which teetered perilously on the precipice of complete system shutdown due to poor design since the day I bought it on January 1st, 2009 , was finally laid to rest on January 6th, 2010. Defective since birth, its passing was officiated by me, the AT&T employee I was fighting with (who refused any reimbursement or support as my phone was four days past 12 month warranty), two friends who accompanied me to the store for moral support against the rapacious rascals tending the customer service desk, and the store security guard, who circled me suspiciously throughout the duration of the fight as if he expected me to take that useless excuse for a phone and hurl it at that useless excuse for an employee’s head.*

*And I might have, if I had any aim. But judging from my frisbee skills—-I even manage to throw it behind me when I’m aiming forward—-I would have probably given myself a black eye.

The only thing that could have been worse would have been if the very next day, at work, my cute navy pinstripe pants ripped open in the general vicinity of my backside, exposing my left back pocket lining and several inches of my derriere.

Which is exactly what happened.

I had to walk backwards all the way down the hall to the women’s faculty restroom. But when I got there I realized walking backwards hadn’t accomplished anything since there were actually people in both directions.

Tomorrow I’m looking both ways before I cross the street because the world—-well, my world, which contains my cell phone and my pants—-is looking uncharacteristically chaotic. I’m even slowing down on my morning coffee run to Peets—-from my car three feet away. I suggest you do the same.

–Troi out

So after 30 blissful years of Kitchen Avoidance,* I decided recently (or rather, my checking account decided) to eat in for a spell. Turns out, eating in means cooking in. And while I was intellectually content to live off of the 5 entrees and 3 side dishes at which I was already competent, I found that my stomach got bored and forced me to subsidize my meals with Burgerville chocolate hazelnut milkshakes which, I came to discover, ultimately had the same deleterious effect on my net financial situation.

You can’t imagine what I went through on my first trip to the grocery store to buy foods that weren’t pre-packaged. I couldn’t even find the aisle with cooking and baking ingredients (although the ice cream aisle kept finding me). A regular employee at my local New Seasons store actually fainted when he saw me with a bag of real honest-to-goodness flour in my hands!

Even upon finding the correct aisle, it struck me that cooking and baking items are poorly labeled compared to pre-packaged foods. Take, for example, my good friend, Tillamook Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream. The label is self-explanatory—-you aren’t left wondering how it’s used or what it might taste like.

On the other hand, ingredient items are obscurely marked and it’s impossible to identify their intentions by a simple glance at their exterior. (Like men.) Even as I got to know the containers, studying their labels, trying to figure out what they were good for, and taking the time to sample them, I was still mystified. (Also like men!) Consider cornstarch. I found that this was not, as its title would have you believe, a powder that you sprinkle on corn to flavor it, but rather a substance used for thickening certain liquids. Wouldn’t it therefore be prudent to call it Thickening Powder?

Based on the confusing nature of cooking, about which I’m now a bonified expert (I’ve made one entree and one dessert, and nobody has complained of poisoning, yet!), I’d like to offer a few helpful tidbits to keep in mind next time you’re perusing the cooking aisle or stumbling upon the kitchen you never knew you had:

Expert Tip #1: Just because your cream cheese reads “Cultured!” doesn’t mean it’s been to Europe. “Cultured” means that it’s been fermented with lactic acid bacteria.

Expert Tip #2: “Sweat the Butter” isn’t a typo that’s supposed to read “Sweat on the Butter.” Oops. Anyway, it actually means that you melt the butter on low heat.

Expert Tip #3: “Marinating” meat means you let it sit in the marinade for a really long time before cooking it. But you’re not supposed to leave it so long (for example, 16 days) that the meat goes bad and your entire living space smells like the chopping block at a butcher shop.

Expert Tip #4: The little switch located above your stove is the fan. Use it, especially when you’re burning every item on your stovetop. This will cut down on activation of your fire alarm and subsequent summoning of the local firemen to your place of residence. Although, the firemen are very handsome and I might continue to burn things so we can get to know each other better.

Well, Readers, I hope this helps you in your journey into the wonderful world of cooking!! If you have any further questions, I have further answers—-but they’ll be just about as helpful as my tips!

*Mageirocophobia: Fear of Cooking. That must be what I had.

–Troi out

In 2009, I learned to balance work and life.

I learned that turning 30 is not the worst possible thing that can happen, as long as you have friends that are even older.

I learned that it’s harder to maintain friendships with my oldest and dearest friends as our lives have settled into divergent paths.

I learned that the effort to hold on to these friendships is worth it.

I learned that it’s okay to feel lonely.

I learned that it’s not okay to wallow in loneliness.

I learned that sometimes you give more than you get, and sometimes you get more than you give, and it doesn’t matter because it all balances out in the end anyway.

I learned to fight for what I want, I learned to let go, and I learned to speak my mind even when though the words may not come out right.

I learned that it’s okay to establish boundaries.

I learned it’s okay to expect that my boundaries will be respected.

I learned that it’s okay to not like somebody.

I learned that it’s okay for somebody to not like me.

I learned that I need a map of where I’m going. That’s not a metaphor. Literally, when I go on a road trip, I need a map.

I learned that what God wants and what I want aren’t always the same thing, and that I better realign my plan because He sure isn’t going to change His.

I learned that forgiveness doesn’t heal all wounds, but that I need to forgive anyway.

I learned that different engine fluids go into different parts of the car engine, and that pouring everything into the first compartment I see is never a good idea.

I learned to listen to my instincts.

I learned to make decisions that are my own.

I learned to appreciate people for who they are and not to judge them for who they aren’t. And I learned to treasure those friends who are there for me when I’m at my worst.

I learned that basically nobody reads my blogs. But I learned I enjoy posting them anyway.

–Troi out