Eat Me, Pray for Me, Love Me

My instinct is to hate this blog. Reading it generates the same "ugh" feeling I got after taking in a few pages of Elizabeth Gilbert's "Eat, Pray, Love." (Truth be told, I didn't hate the book, just Liz's pig out across Italy. Her determination to successfully meditate at an ashram was much more fascinating to me.)

Why all the hate, you ask, especially since I'm about to embark on my own similar journey?

Well, I'd like to think that it's only partially because they got the recognition or scored the book deal before I did. Mostly what bores me is yet another story of a glamorous Manhattan media-type who takes off to some far off land because she got dumped/dumped someone/thinks she deserves more both psychologically and spiritually than what her current living situation offers.

Enough already! These stories are on the fast-track to Clichéville and smack of self-importance. It bothers me that such quests have to be wrapped in a cloak of spirituality and tied with a bow of meaningfulness in order to appear purposeful. Come on, kids, lets call these journeys of "self-discovery" what they really are! Exercises in self-indulgence! (As evidenced by The Lost Girls' media inquiries page and Gilbert securing the book deal for EPL before she embarked on her trip). Unless you're going to Africa to give malaria shots to orphans or to Peru to help rebuild a city after a devastating earthquake, the trip ultimately helps no one but yourself, no matter (or perhaps in light of) how many copies you later sell.

This is true even of my own experience. People often ask me, "What prompted you to move to Spain?" and for a while, I had trouble answering the question, because the truth sounds so selfish, and no one wants to sound selfish.

But simply put, I'm moving to Spain because I can. No psychological crisis necessary. Although a book deal would be nice.

It's happened again

Another equally boring writer lands a coveted (at least by me) gig at an online media gossip rag. This is a girl who once earnestly blogged about why she joined one bank over another. Seriously.

Meanwhile, I can’t score a call back no matter how much I tailor my cover letter, and am left to languish at a job that values plagiarism over original reporting. Not that I’m the next big thing, but I like to think I can at least construct a few interesting sentences. I guess I just need to follow my 21-year-old, still-in-college sister’s arrogant advice and just “put [myself] out there.”

As I told Corrie, who relayed this latest news, I’m either going to kill myself or quit journalism altogether. I’ll decide later. It's all just too much right now.

Yes indeed-y, its pious vegetarian time...

This is why I don't eat meat:

People have eaten millions of chickens that were given feed tainted with recalled pet food, federal officials said Tuesday...

I have enough to worry about in life without meat, I can't imagine how much more worrisome I would be if I did consume chickens, cows and pigs. (Now, before you freak out, actually click on the link and you'll see the lede finished with: "though they said the threat to human health is minimal." I was going for shock value, there people. Now where do I sign up with PETA?)

People often ask me why I gave up meat and it's always a hard one to answer, because though the explanation is simple, people usually don't get it.

Sure, I like animals, but I also really like bacon (though I can't recall the last time I had it). I read "Fast Food Nation" several years ago and that was partly what pushed me off the purely plant-eating cliff, but it's not as though I'm protesting weekly outside of local slaughterhouses.

No, the reason I gave up meat is because it grosses me out. That's it. There's no "Save Wilbur" or otherwise worthy cause involved, it's simply a matter of taste. This is usually where people cock their head at me with a puzzled expression of "my, what a high-maintenance crack head."

To further complicate matters, I often add that I do sometimes still eat meat, albeit in small portions. My mother's amazing parsley bread contains chopped pepperoni and Jay makes these life-changing risotto balls with shreds of prosciutto. Both are made so rarely, they're hard to pass up and I never do.

People are even more surprised when I say I'd eat red meat again before I eat chicken. I still crave burgers and steak now and then, so I know I'll go back to eating it eventually (maybe), but I think chicken has left my system forever, never to enter again. For starters, I can't stand that it's white, and therefore resembles (to me) human flesh. I also can't stand that under cooking it can cause severe intestinal distress and if you've ever witnessed my skills in the kitchen, this will make sense. In fact, the few times I cooked chicken for myself and my roommates in college, I sat up half the night waiting to hear them all rushing for the bathroom because I didn't cook it thoroughly enough. I find life is much easier not having to worry about such things as poisoning your friends.

So again, we see that I managed to turn something that is supposed to be for the better good of all beings everywhere that are happy and free, into something about myself. Hello again, selfish!

Will the real Jennifer Merritt please stand up?

After catching sight of this article, a friend e-mailed today congratulating me on my burgeoning freelance career. “Thanks!” I replied. Only that Jennifer Merritt isn’t this Jennifer Merritt. Someone else first laid claim to Jennifer Merritt The Writer and fortunately for me, she’s much more successful.


JM 1.0, as she will now be known, used to be managing editor of Business Week. She’s written a few books about business schools and is considered an expert in education, contributing to magazines like Selections and Money on the topic. In fact, I belive she is now on the masthead at Money. (Touché, I say.)

Besides uncannily sharing the same name and occupation, JM 1.0 and I also share a beat: education. (I used to work for CollegeBound Teen Magazine and now freelance for the education components of MSN and AOL, where if you dig through Google deep enough, you’ll find that these articles aren’t always so highly regarded. Again, touché.)

After contacting PR people in reference to these articles, I occasionally get such responses as, “I’ve been wondering what you’ve been up to! Little Johnny is five now and…” which is about where I trail off, figuring they’ve mistaken me for JM 1.0 and have hence unwittingly told a total stranger about Little Johnny’s bed-wetting problems.

On even more rare occasions, I’ll score an invite to some swank party for education professionals or be asked to provide insight for an forum on say, surviving business school. Usually I provide a light-hearted reply explaining the mix up, hoping to win over some of JM 1.0’s friends or maybe even an introduction to my predecessor. Turns out, all of JM 1.0’s friends quite rudely never reply.

But honestly, it’s not so bad playing second fiddle to JM 1.0. After all, if an out-of-touch past love or high school friend/nemesis is desperate enough to Google me, they’ll only think I’m some successful writer and editor with a corner office at Time Inc and shelves full of books with my name on them. And I have absolutely no problem with that—or shame, for that matter.

La dolce vita

As a certain someone likes to remind me, life is pretty damn good right now. I have my own apartment, happy and healthy family and friends, a fabulous boyfriend and a job that lets me travel the world on someone else's dime. Plus, a recent trip to the doctor unveiled a sizable weight loss just in time for my vacation to Cabo. Yippie.

However—you knew that was coming, didn't you?—despite all my recent good fortune, my mind and my body have never been more of a mess. (Hence the doctor's visit.) I've lost weight only because I've also managed to lose my appetite, which happens to me when I'm heavily worried about something. What's the trouble? Having nothing to worry about, apparently.

So thank you to everyone who currently makes life so great.

In essence, you all make me sick.

In a pickle

There’s been a shift in my relationship with Jay and it’s a little disconcerting. (I’m going to get chided for writing about this, but really what fun is blogging if you don’t detail things like your significant other’s bathroom habits? [Don’t worry, that’s not happening here—yet—so keep reading.])

Since our relationship’s inception, I’ve been the healthy eater. I order salad with dressing on the side while he chows on a double cheeseburger with bacon; I blot the grease off my pizza while he laughs at me between strings of melted, cheesy goodness; I coerce him into ordering French fries so I can finish off his leftovers. I’ll never forget the look on his face the first time I ordered my diner staple of a BLT without the B. I could quite clearly see the tears in his eyes as he tried to hold his laughter in.

But lately things have been different. Over Christmas, Jay went to the doctor and discovered that eating cheese steaks for lunch every day will give you high cholesterol. Ever since, he has taken to healthy eating with the fervor of Kristie Alley stumping for Jenny Craig, which now leaves me feeling like a porker every time I want to eat like crap. Witness the following exchange:

Me: Can we please, please break the healthy streak sometime soon and go check this place out? They have fried pickles!!!
Him: I’m down with checking that out sometime. I guess I could really let loose and get the frisee salad or the raw vegetable sandwich…
Me: I’m not feasting on fried pickles while you nibble on frisee. I hear their burgers are good…

Does it get more peer-pressure laden than that? Can’t you sense my desperation? What’s even worse is that it’s not the pressuring him to do something he doesn’t want to do that bothers me—it’s the loss of my healthy eating superiority. It’s not so much about having crappy-eating companionship as it is about bringing him down so I can gain the upper hand again. Boy better watch his back… We’re going to Soho Park for burgers and fried pickles and once he goes to the bar for a drink, I’m switching my order to salad and a water.