Holistic Weight Loss Is Way Harder Than I Thought

The smell of nag champa should have tipped me off.

As I walked into this holistic weight loss expert's small basement office, I came expecting to be inspired. She helped my friend shed a significant amount of poundage, and I was excited for this expert to scrutinize me and tell me that really, if I just cut out Diet Coke or cheesy dinners at 'inoteca, I'd drop a cool 20. Not so much.

Instead, I was given some advice, which, while it clearly worked for my friend, does not work with my logic or general understanding of the world. According to this woman, grilled chicken is "so fattening because the chickens are sent to fat farms," more than two liters of water a day is verboten and even a quarter-cup of sliced black olives is enough to put me squarely into heffer territory.

I took all of her advice with a pinch of cayenne pepper (which I should be putting in my water each morning, she says), because I wasn't buying her advice. Here's why:

a) For me, her diet - which consisted of mostly cold oats, baked potatoes (which I hate) and dandelion root tea - is frankly unrealistic for me. If you totally detest the food you're eating, you're probably not going to stick to a diet for long. That's what I've found, at least.

and

b) The times when I've lost the most weight was when I was gleefully feasting on Walden Farms Calorie Free Chocolate Syrup, Reduced Fat Skippy Peanut Butter, Fat Free Redi-Whip, Skinny Cow Ice Cream Sandwiches, Wegmans Light Wheat Bread and Lean Cuisines, all stuff I think she would have had a heart attack if I mentioned I'd ever ingested.

No, I left her offer of 4 p.m. dandelion tea right on the table. But what I did buy was a shaman's ransom of herbal supplements to help balance out my system, which, according to this lady, is completely out of whack. Maybe. We'll see. Per her advice, I have to gulp a constellation of small pills four times a day now.

I'm grateful for the advice about herbal supplements (of which, I previously knew nada), but when it comes to dieting, I'd prefer to stick to my New York-based diet guru - his advice is a helluva lot more pragmatic than the London homeopath.

"If you have to spray Windex on it to stop yourself from eating it, then do it. Whatever works."

Spritz-spritz!

Advanced Yoga: An Exercise in Humilation

Have you ever experienced the sheer panic and humiliation of being in a class that's too hard for you? I keep thinking about myself in Algebra II when I needed to be in Integrated Algebra I, or sitting in German for Conversation (don't ask) when I couldn't even understand what the professor was saying in English.

I had that feeling recently at yoga. I rocked up to this all-levels class thinking it's going to be - call me crazy - appropriate for all levels. It wasn't. I've been to more yoga classes than I can count between New York and London, and I've never come across an instructor as willfully out of touch with his students - and, quite frankly, cruel - as this little dude.

He starts the class with a billion sun salutations, which were sped up to a near-comical level. Save for two other people, the entire class is able to keep up with his pace. I'm rushing up and down so quickly, I feel like I'm simply doing belly flops against the smelly mat. I think I heard him say something to me about "grace," but I couldn't hear him above the crashing and panting.

I knew this place wasn't my scene when we were practicing headstands before the 10-minute mark. I stayed in downward dog, figuring I'd be safer letting all of the blood rush to my head than crack my skull open in attempt to keep up with the others.

15 minutes into the class, I mentally checked out when the little yogi demanded,"Bring your anus to your belly button."

So I suffered on, embarrassing myself as I tried to hold positions I hadn't learned in my entire "practice" if you can call it that. I tried to channel a yogic Madonna, as famously shot by Steven Klein, but the resemblance just wasn't there. As I faltered, I received little attention from this man except in the form of disapproving glares. He doted on my more advanced classmates.

He only offered a hand toward the end of the class, when we were practicing handstands. As I tried in vain to do a back bend, he came over to me, and looking bored, abruptly grabbed my ankles and lifted them (sans permission) up to the ceiling. I was completely freaked, both because I felt unstable and because my shirt slid down to my shoulders, leaving entire torso and sports bra in plain view.

"Pull in your belly!" he hissed.

"I can't!"I snapped back. You can only pull in pudge so much, you know.

He plopped me down without warning.

Flustered, I stayed til the last 'shanti shanti.' I left feeling angry and spiritually un-renewed.

'inoteca: ridiculously tasty food

It's day five of eating super-healthy, and I'm on a winning streak, so I probably shouldn't regress and show you awesome pics of what I enjoyed back in New York last week on vacay. But I will, simply because it was so divine.

I met my dear friends G and R (let's call them G n' R in a subtle homage to Guns and Roses) at the newest 'inoteca, curiously located in Gramercy. Although I'm very familiar with 'inoteca on the Lower East Side and sister restaurant 'ino in the West Village, I'd only perched on their bar stools to enjoy heavy pours of white wine on dates. Never once have I plopped down to feast on the restaurants' cheesy, oily, garlicky, zipper-busting fare. (It always smelled good, though.)

'inoteca's Gramercy location doesn't capture the same din as the LES location or the secluded feel of 'ino, but the ambiance isn't the main course. This stuff is.



Their grilled calamari salad was so brilliantly flavored, I honestly didn't care that the calamari wasn't fried. (Is that totally fat to prefer fried calamari? Don't answer.)



I present you with bruschetta smeared with creamy mascarpone and topped with a juicy fig. This was a personal recommendation from G's twin sister D, who unfortunately could not join us that evening. We all were blown away by this bruschetta. It was sort of like a dessert that sneaked its way into our dinner. (Thanks for the rec, D!)



If the gods ate baked ziti, it would taste like this aromatic, nutty and decadent version. I'm not even sure what was in it (definitely pesto, though), but sometimes, you don't question greatness. We savored every spoonful.



Like vegetable lasagna? Like eggplant parm? Then you'd die over this. This "lasagnette di melanzane" was a tiny tower of delicate sheets of fried eggplant and strips of baked zucchini. It was so not heavy.



Most who are closest to me know about me and the hunt for scarmoza, a smoky delicious cheese I can only liken to gouda but better. In Florence, while traveling with G n' R (and D!), we ate at this place called The Golden View, right on the river by the Ponte Vecchio.

The Golden View had this baked vegetable dish topped with melted scarmoza cheese, as well as the most magnificent pizza with truffles and scarmoza. We went their twice, and both times, I had these two dishes. When I returned to New York, I headed straight to Murray's Cheese Shop to purchase my own hunk of scarmoza, and the guy at Murray's said that he wished they had it, looking as bummed out as I did.

So when I saw my old flame on the menu at 'inoteca, I was insistent that we order it for the table. I took one triangle of the zucchini, eggplant pesto and scarmoza panini, and in one bite, and I was back in Florence, looking out over the Arno River as the sun set. Proust had his madeline, I have my scarmoza.

Valery Joseph: Land of Golden Arches, Brow Dreams

I've worked in beauty for nearly a decade now, and I've never entrusted my brows to anyone on this planet but the excellent Rachel Gangemi at Valery Joseph.

I managed to hold out for months on end to see her when I headed back to New York, and there she plucked, snipped and waxed my brows to perfection. She gets hairs where you don't even think there's hair. I swear, her vision is like a 20X mirror. She makes your face look cleaner, brighter and more awake.

When I walked out into the clear light of Madison Avenue in the morning, I felt reborn.

A Very New Jersey Christmas

Phew! That was in-TENSE.

Just came back from a drive-by, fly-by whirlwind week in New Jersey and New York, to celebrate Christmas with my family and see a few people for a hot minute. I think I have whiplash, seriously.

There are so many favorite bits to coming back home, from the what-I-would-like-to-believe-is-sincere "Welcome home" from the beefy guy at Newark Airport customs to hitting the mall for some Only 8 fro-yo. It's the little things, really.

I came home after midnight the Wednesday before Christmas to this gorgeous tree, which is festooned with ornaments that are lovingly unpacked and re-packed in bubble wrap by my mother each year. I don't think I've got the patience, so thank goodness she does. I just like to search for my favorite ornaments, which always feel new every time I see them. Maybe I should just hide things from myself for a year, and that way I'll always feel like I have new treasures.

I was also pleased to find a sizable collection of New York Times Magazines waiting for me, particularly one with an excellent cover feature on Nancy Meyers, whose sense of interiors just slays me. I haven't seen "It's Complicated" yet, but I'm sure I'll be seething with envy after leaving and investing in some fluffy oatmeal towels or something. (Nancy Meyers for Bed Bath and Beyond would just be my dream collaboration.)

Later that week, I hit up the mall where my beau scored a pair of Sevens at the Nordstrom half-yearly sale (nice), and I was astounded to see that the gorgeous guy at the Turkey & Salad Express is still working there. My friends and I used to love him in middle school, and he's still there. (His dad owns the place, I heard.) Fro-yo ensued.

While I was home, I also had the pleasure of coming face-to-face with the show I keep reading about, "Jersey Shore." One word: wow.

If that show was supposed to make me lose my faith or pride in coming from Jersey, it didn't work.