Is This a Trick Question?

The title of the book is Why Women Need Fat.  At first, the answer seemed obvious…so other women don’t hate them and talk about them behind their backs, duh.

I don’t usually review non-fiction books.  In fact, I don’t usually read much non-fiction, especially diet related non-fiction.   I like to do book reviews, though, and BlogHer’s review program is a good way to keep my hand in and I figured that given my little writing hiatus, I could use the kick in the drawers to get going.  The BlogHer review program pays a little bit (a very little bit – as in a few lattes) but I assure you that you will never read anything in a book review I write that isn’t my entirely unvarnished opinion.  Besides, BlogHer is paying me, not the authors of the book.

The authors of the book are William Lassek, an M.D., and Steven Gaulin, a Ph.D.  The title is a bit of a gimmick, obviously, but the premise of the book, refreshingly, is not.  Neither, more remarkably to me, was the delivery of the premise.  The point is the women have evolved to require a certain amount of body fat in certain places in their bodies, and men have evolved to appreciate that body fat where it should, evolutionarily speaking, land.

American women have, in case you haven’t been paying attention or were lost on a desert island island somewhere, are getting larger in an unhealthy way.  Obviously, I’m speaking in a general way here – this shouldn’t be a big newsflash to anybody.  The amount of weight and the placement of that weight on women’s bodies has been changing, particularly in this country, over the last few decades.  The authors of the book wonder why, and in noting that “as the American diet… changed to get ”healthier,’ food got less tasty, and yet Americans – especially women – started gaining weight”  they trace the scientific, anthropologic, and evolutionary history of women and diet and fat.

I could explain it all, but why should I, they did, and far more clearly and compellingly than I could.  (And people are continuing the discussion of many of the finer points of the book HERE, if you’re interested.) My only gripe is that there were times when I found myself saying, “For the love of Canola Oil, just give me a list of what I can and can’t eat,please!”  Which, by the way, they sort of did, in the back.  Instead of me re-hashing the whole shebang, you could read the book, which you might want to do, because I think it’s a gap in our cultural awareness.

I know there are people who are hardcore Food People, but I think most of us who can’t spend all of our food budget on top of the line produce and grass fed everything and who can’t spend all of our time researching this stuff could use a clear synopsis – which this book provides – about cleaner, healthier, simpler eating.

It’s not a diet book, although it might help some people lose some weight.  I appreciated the fact that research and data was explained to me in real terms, and not in metaphors, as though I am some kind of jello-brained seven year old incapable of comprehending anything not put in the context of popular culture.  I also felt comforted by the references to Michael Pollan, a familiar and reliable name.  Maybe that’s silly, but still.

Despite all the science talk and explanation of the principles behind what Lassek and Gaulin advocate and describe, ultimately, it’s about eating real food, rather than the processed crap we’ve been told will make our lives easier and then become addicted to.  It’s all very sensible and straightforward, and, if what it says on page 142, that a person can get as much DHA from the dark chocolate mousse made with omega 3 enriched eggs featured on the book’s cover as from a fish oil capsule, then I’m all for that.

 

 

 

Plus Ça Change…

plus c’est la même chose.

In cleaning out my file cabinet the other day, I came upon a long-forgotten packet of essays I’d written, some dating as far back as high school, others from college, still others from graduate school.

One of the assignments I found, typewritten on yellowed paper with white-outed corrections (remember when?), is a letter to Elizabeth Bennet, the protagonist of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, inviting her to dinner.

I often find myself repeating to teenagers that they aren’t yet who they are going to be.  Their educations are important not only because of the facts and “how-to’s” they learn but because of what they learn about learning and, even more significantly, what they learn about what they love to learn. 

And that’s a sort of, well DUH, issue, isn’t it?  We’re constantly growing, changing, discovering ourselves? 

This assignment I just found, this artifact from my formative years, begs to differ.

The letter begins formally, with the initial invitation to join me for dinner, but evolves into an explanation of why I think we would enjoy each other’s company. I write about my tendency to get carried away in the drama of certain situations, how I am learning to manage my preconceived notions about people who have had different experiences than I have, how, like Elizabeth, I “hope I never ridicule what is wise or good.  Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies do divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can…” (102).  I talk about how I have difficulty expressing my true feelings and disguise my insecurity with a sharp wit or spirited manner.

Same as it ever was. 

Maybe this is why William Deresiewicz’s book A Jane Austen Education: How Six Novels Taught Me About Love, Friendship and The Things That Really Matter rang so many of my personal bells. The book has its flaws.  I identify one or two in this review I did here at BlogHer, but if you like Jane Austen, or if you’ve ever wondered what the big deal is about Jane Austen EVEN IF YOU ARE A DUDE, you should read this book. 

And now that I have said my piece, I can go spend a few hours trying to decide if I never grew up and need to, or if it’s a sign of something more positive that I am so much unchanged.

If I Were Dooce There Would Be A New Car in My Driveway by Noon Tomorrow

Alas, I’m not Dooce.  A fact, for which, I’ve no doubt, she drops to her knees and thanks god nightly.

And let me just say right here before anybody gets all, “I can’t believe that Dooce person uses her name and interwebz fame to get stuff,”  Really?  Get serious.  And also, it’s her job.  She’s a terrific writer and her medium is the blogosphere.  How she gets paid is between her and karma and Whirlpool, so step off.  Plus she looks like she could mess you up good, and by you I mean me, if you pissed her off, and by you I mean me, so I’m not about to let you criticize her.  And by you I mean you.

And for those of you who are all, “Who the hell is Dooce?”  First.  OY.  Second…here.  And third and probably more to the point, here. *

What the heck am I talking about?  Right.  The CAR.

Once upon a time, a young couple with an infant bought a Volkswagen Passat.  It was a family wagon, because a family with an infant and a big dog needs a family wagon.  It was a nice car.  Nicer than any car they’d ever had, and they got a good deal on it because the car dealer’s wife had been driving it for six months so it wasn’t exactly new but it wasn’t exactly very used either.

Four years later, out of the clear blue sky, one night  – so I guess the sky wasn’t very clear blue but rather inky black – this glaring red light started flashing on the dash and alarms went off and sirens blared and a neon sign lit up saying “STOP THE GALLDURN CAR AFORE SHE ‘SPLODES!!!” So, uh.  We did.

We dutifully took our car to the dealership whereupon we were told that it had a problem with oil sludge buildup and that we had to give them a kabillion dollars, a kidney, and our son in order to get it fixed and that it was our fault that this problem had happened because we were bad car owners who had obviously never even heard of an oil change.

Au contraire, mon frere.  Or mein bruder.  We argued with them about the fact that we had, in fact, regularly changed the oil and there was no way this was our fault.  They let us keep the kidney and our son, but we still had to give up the kabillion dollars.

Jackbooted thugs.  Deutschbags.

In December of 2010 – six years after being accused of Oil Sludgery, I got a notice in the mail from a law firm telling me that a class action settlement has taken place and that if I submit forty reams of paper verifying this, that, and the other, I’ll be reimbursed a kabillion dollars because, LO AND BEHOLD, there’s a flaw in the turbo thingamabob in my VW that causes oil sludge buildup and all kinds of asshattery in the engine-region.  Gee, you don’t say.  Still, better late – SIX YEARS LATE – than never.  Ach du lieber!

In January, I was driving to work, and the lights, bells, sirens, and signs all came on again.  Mein gott im himmel!

Back to the dealership we go… to be told “DUH, what?”  Because we’re in between a warranty extension granted by the class action settlement they don’t know if they can fix the car, but obviously we need the car fixed, so they’ll fix the car but we have to pay for it.  So they fix the car, except they don’t really fix the car, they only sort of fix the car.  So we pay for the repairs, $2400 +, but of course it’s not fixed, but they can’t figure out what’s actually wrong, and they’ll sort of say that the repairs they think they have to make are due to the oil sludge problem, but won’t totally commit to that because VW has told them not to commit to that, no doubt because they don’t want to get sued again – which they will.  Especially because I’m now contemplating going to law school at the ripe old age of 43 to get a JD in Suing of the Automobile Manufacturers Who Make Shitty Cars With Oil Sludge Problems.

It’s now April.  I still don’t have my car.  I can’t sell it, because it doesn’t run.  I will sell it, the moment I get it back from the shop.  My regular, non-VW dealership-affiliated mechanic could have fixed this in a week for 1/3 the price that the VW dealership will fix it – and competently, which the VW people don’t seem to be able to manage.  Tonight, I literally heard a guy say, “Well, I guess it could probably be something like that.”  This was a mechanic.  A VW mechanic.  To another mechanic.  Tweedledee and Tweedledickhead.  But my mechanic can’t do the work, because if my mechanic does the work, I absolutely won’t get reimbursed according to the terms of the class action settlement.

Of course, I might not get reimbursed anyway.  But nobody can tell me anything about that.  VW won’t comment.  You can call them yourself.  Go ahead, do it.  Just for fun.  It’s like shouting into the abyss.  The dealership repair people throw up their hands and say helpful things like, “Volkswagen tells us nothing.  We don’t know a thing.  Sorry.  Don’t know what to tell you!”    One guy, who proudly informed my husband that he used to be the service manager and is now the sales manager, I think his name is Jack Wagon, gave us a nice little lecture about the importance of changing the oil regularly.  If he’d been standing closer to me he might have lost his larynx.  My nails are kinda long right now.

Let’s recap:  Volkswagen made a faulty product.  They’ve been sued and acknowledged the fault is theirs.  I’ve so far paid over $4000 to repair damage to my car caused by said faulty product.  I have been without a car for three months.  Volkswagen is not willing to a) fix the car b) pay for the repairs c) help us untangle the web of mystery surrounding WHAT IN THE HOLY HELL is going on with this settlement to determine whether or not our car is covered by warranty or not.  They won’t even give us a loaner.  Which is probably smart come to think of it, because I’d probably just go try to trade it in for the Honda or Hyundai I’m about to buy when this gets all settled or I get out of jail.

And forgive me here, while I get a little philosophical and not just a little grandiose.  But people wonder why America can’t compete?  This isn’t German VW I’m talking about.  This is Volkswagen of America at work here.  This is American customer service at its finest.  This is the kind of soulless, hard-hearted, petty crap that grinds away at all of us every day. It’s the guy who cuts you off in traffic.  It’s the telemarketer who calls during dinner.  It’s the rude waiter.  It’s the bad tipper.  It’s the parent who lets his kid throw his McDonalds trash on the ground.   It’s not holding the door for the woman with a toddler and an armload of groceries.  It’s death by a thousand cuts.

What are we all going to do about it?  Because one person’s car isn’t that important, but all the rest of it is.  It really is.

Significant afterthoughts:

*These days a more apt allusion would be the Pioneer Woman, I know, but she wouldn’t accept a car, so that doesn’t really work.

For the record, I said “I” a lot in here, as though I were the one dealing with all this car stuff.  I should probably just say that if you are of a fragile composition or sensitive to the whole “TMI” thing, you should stop reading here. Every time the subject of the car and its problems came up, I literally (and I’m using “literally” in its actual LITERAL meaning, not its non-literal, figurative meaning because I own a dictionary and read books and know what it means) had to stop whatever I was doing and go straight to the bathroom because the topic was so distressing to me that I was instantly, uh, sick.  Not throwup sick but, uh….yeah.  You get it.  My husband,  The World’s Greatest Husband, handled all of this. Except for one incident where I was released from my cage and I lost it on three service reps and four mechanics after which I was promptly returned to my cage and silenced with a large fountain Diet Pepsi and an Ativan.  I’m not usually allowed to confront Bad People.  I cannot be trusted to be civil in those situations.  He can.  And does.  And did.  Well, mostly.  Until Jack Wagon started in about the oil change, and the less said about what happened then the better.  Love you, babe.  Danke.  I mean, Thanks.