Don't read this if you equate birthmarks with scary leprechauns

Summer's always a difficult time for me. I never know what's appropriate office wear. Seattle is a gray city for months on end, allowing me to literally hide my junk in the trunk--a trunk made of layers of cotton, wool and liquid latex body paint. But I only wear cotton on Casual Friday because I have to draw the line somewhere, peeps.



This is my half-Tyra Banks, half-I'm-a-little-teapot akimbo pose, exposing my huge problem of not knowing what to do with my hands in photos and also: my birthmark. I've always hidden this patch of pigment under cardigans, shirts, or signs that say, "NO BIRTHMARK HERE!"



My birthmark is a large mass of color that is shaped like Greenland, only brown (Brownland!) and with a mole that marks, "YOU ARE HERE." I'm sure when the polar ice caps melt and we're on rogue ships hunting for dry land, some pirate is going to look at my arm and quickly become disappointed that it isn't a map, it's just where "the angels kissed me." (Though, I've never understood that line, because what in the holy hogwarts did the angels do to me?)

I was going to put a ruler next to it for reference, but I thought that would be weird because I'm not selling it on craigslist. Or maybe I should! For sale: one 25-year-old birthmark. It's vintage!

I remember once when I was a kid, I was in my bathing suit and examining my birthmark. I asked my mom if I could get it removed. "No. You need your birthmark," She replied. "What if you drown? How will we identify your body?"

"I don't know, Mom. Wouldn't you recognize my Miss Piggy bathing suit or better yet, couldn't you just LOOK AT MY FACE?"

I don't even know what color to call my birthmark. It's too light to be "brown" or "mahogany." It's too dark to be a "taupe" or "mocha." Could I just go to Home Depot's paint section and tell them I want to paint my foyer the color of my birthmark?

Another question I have is would it be appropriate to go to work wearing clothing that reveals my birthmark like this sleeveless number? I can understand covering up tattoos and piercings in an office, but what about birthmarks? Should I just make enough trips to the spray tanning booth until my body is one orange blob and my birthmark is the least awkward part of my body?

what rhymes with vegan

This new vegan lifestyle I've taken has been much better than I thought it would be. I haven't had any crazy desires to break into the nearest Denny's and grab the collar of the patron wolfing down the Grand Slam breakfast, screaming, "LET ME SMELL YOUR BACON BREATH, MAN!" Even though that would be weird because Denny's is open 24 hours a day and I'm sure I would be appeased if I calmly walked in, approached anyone at the counter and said, "Excuse me, dear sir. I noticed that you ordered both the bacon strips and the sausage links. Could you please breathe in my direction?" I would probably successful if I implied there would be a hand-j involved. WHAT?

Some days are easier than others. This weekend, I really missed fried chicken, fried rice, and sweet and sour chicken. Especially since I watched my husband eat all those dishes. But save for those meat mournings, I've accepted that this is the way it is. It's like no matter how many times I watch Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift, I will never get my wimpy sedan to gun up to those speeds. My issues with food are my own. Other people can eat fried chicken and potato salad without bloating to the size of Kathie Lee Gifford's deluded ego. I can accept that.

Thank you so much for the support. I am on the hunt for recipes that taste enough like my old carnivorous life, so I won't be crying into my bowl of couscous and planning a funeral for all the foods I used to eat.

What isn't hard is watching my son at the local wading pool, going beserk whenever he runs into the water.

hanging with drew!

Nathan and I hung out with Drew, the coolest person I know. She made some delicious vegan foods like grilled asparagus and seasoned tofu and pasta salad.

I should mention that the original photo above showcased way more of Drew's cleavage, so I did a re-shoot. However, if I were the subject of this photo, I would welcome any coverage my boobs receive. After breastfeeding a hulking child, bad boob press is good boob press. Actually, any boob press is good boob press. When I talk, I make it a point to gesture wildly toward my chest, as if my hands are saying, "Hello! My eyes are down here!!"

no meat for old mona

Last week, I took a radical step and cut dairy and meat out of my diet completely.

Long before that move, I had been experiencing varying levels of crappiness--from end of the workday fatigue to what it must be like to wear Rachel Ray's underwear as a ski mask (for 30 minutes! Blecch!). My schedule is tight and goes like this: I wake up between 5:30 and 6, get ready, and make Nathan's breakfast. Then I make breakfast, let the eagles soar, dress and run out the door to catch the bus. After work, I come home to a little boy who wants to eat chicken nuggets and be read Where The Wild Things Are. And then there's Nathan!

I am exhausted by this time and this early evening lethargy cancels out any hopeful plan I had that morning like, "Hey, maybe when Nathan goes to sleep, I'll go to the gym!" or "Hey, maybe when Nathan goes to sleep, I'll catch up on my correspondence!" But sadly, when I put Nathan to bed, I fall asleep, too.

I know my diet is a huge factor. Groundbreaking, right? All those powdered and dried pasta sides and chemically-engineered tater tots are affecting me, turning me into the female version of Chunk from The Goonies because my body jiggles so much that every step I take is the Truffle Shuffle.

In this past week of eating bean burritos with avocado, tomatoes, cucumber and tofutti sour cream, baked potatoes with salsa and kashi cereal and soy milk, I have noticed significant changes. My energy level has skyrocketed. I can stay up past 8 PM! No more asking Mike what happened in the last five minutes of CSI Miami!

I have attempted and failed at diets in the past, as is my pattern with many novelty experiments, like the time in eighth grade when I decided to become a reggae singer, but quickly realized that I didn't want to sing reggae, I just wanted a legitimate reason to shout in public: LAWDA MERCY!

But this time I'm not looking at this as a diet or even as a "lifestyle" change. Every time I have the chance to eat, it's a simple question: Will this make me feel crappy? I'd rather spend three dollars on an avocado than on a burger, fries and shake (even though in the dark crevices of my brain, I am screaming, "WHAT THE HELL WHOLE FOODS?!? THREE DOLLARS FOR A DIGGITY DANG AVOCADO?").

I am fortunate to live in a city where there are a plethora of vegan options. I'm probably going to go buy Veganomicon (thanks Ashley) because there are 118 holds on the cookbook at the public library. Though, since I am still Seattle's fattest vegan, I could just bodyslam my way to a copy.

thar she blows

thar she blows
Originally uploaded by kirida.

I'm blowing air into Nathan's face. I didn't have any garlic so he doesn't mind.

My friend Rachel's in Cookie Magazine!

THANK YOU COOKIE MAGAZINE!!!
Originally uploaded by rasputina1.

If you haven't seen Rachel's awesome house, click on the photo to start your clickety-click technicolor tour!

Also, there are photos of Liam, the adorable boy wonder.