some bunny loves me...ba da bum ching.

ah...'tis the season for rooftop and park picnics.

i attended a picnic atop a roof in park slope today, complete with Paula Deen-inspired dishes like an ooey-gooey veggie cheese strata with a Wonderbread crust. i like that. a little class, a little trash...just like me.

i went to an Easter picnic a few weeks ago held in Central Park. i can't help but associate Easter with my grandmothers, Ursula and Betty. we always seemed to be spending our Easters with either one of them or both. we'd usually dye eggs (Paas, of course) the night we arrived, awake the next morning, hunt for eggs and our Easter baskets, then scarf down as much chocolate as we could before being wrapped up in pretty, uncomfortable suits 'n' ties 'n' dresses for our bi-annual trip to church. (Episcopalian. my grandparents had converted after all of their children had grown. i kinda dug the kneeling bench and incense, but it totally grossed me out that everyone drank the wine out of the same cup for communion.)

the contents of the basket didn't change much from year to year. we always got one chocolate bunny and one white chocolate bunny. there were, of course, the requisite jelly beans and egg-shaped, speckled bubble gum pebbles nestled in the green cellophane grass. we usually got one additional, inedible gift -- a stuffed animal of some sort for me. my brothers must've gotten something more masculine -- an AC/DC record for Beau, maybe? a spool of fishing line for Lance? as i got older the gifts got a little more sophisticated. earrings. first studs, then when i was an almost-teenager, dangly earrings. that was a coup. mom did not want me growing up too fast, and in her mind a pair of dangly earrings made a girl exponentially older. so, duh - of course i wanted them. i'd put them on and model in front of the bathroom mirror, tossing my head back and forth. if they jingled a little bit when i walked, even better. i not only looked older, i sounded it too.

i don't remember the last time i got an Easter basket. must've been a couple of years after mom died. i guess i was just too old or, what's probably more likely, is that i'd started "watching my weight," and 1-pound chocolate bunnies were not on the latest Seventeen magazine diet.

i know my Aunt Char got my cousin Lauren and me baskets that first Easter after mom died. i remember distinctly that she got us both Esprit t-shirts and, as is always the case with female cousins who are only one year apart and equally bratty and self-entitled, it could not possibly be an easy exchange. Lauren got the one i wanted. tears. i'm sure sweet Aunt Char thought the tears had something to do with my not having my mother around for that first Easter, but i don't know. perhaps subconsciously, they did. i think i just really wanted that t-shirt. it was pastel and Esprit, after all.

this year, i decided to buy myself a basket (or at least what i might want in a basket, who needs a container?) - malted milk eggs, jelly beans, a white chocolate bunny. i haven't had that much candy in my house ever. i would have always been waaaaay to terrified to allow that sort of sweetness into my body and (yes, i'm getting metaphorical here) life. but whatever...i'm learning to trust myself again with that sort of stuff. why? well, we weren't born terrified of food. we learned this shit. we learned to think that chocolate is bad and that spinach, grapefruit and broccoli are akin to the Holy Trinity. when i was a kid with that gargantuan basket of goodies, i didn't eat it all in one sitting. i ate off the ear, nibbled a jelly bean, then ran off and swam in the pool for 3 hours. the candy would be there when i got back -- if i wanted it. i was allowed.

so, here i am, at the ripe old age of 31, learning to allow again.

not easy. but i did it anyway. i bought all the goodies and put them in my cabinets. i stocked up. my cabinets were a diabetic coma waiting to happen.

here's a coup. i hardly ate any of it. i just threw away the entire white chocolate bunny (minus a nibbled ear), and i used the jelly beans and malted milk eggs for the I.B.S. Bunny Cake i made for the picnic (see below). sure, i nibbled a few in preparation, but it was nothing like the day a few years ago, at size 6 and in the thick of my disorder, when i ate two one-pound bags of malted milk eggs then walked around the city for hours in an effort to

burn.

it.

off.

what i'm learning is that when i surround myself with abundance, i feel secure, therefore i don't have to load up in fear that i will never again be allowed to taste sweetness. when i give myself complete permission to indulge in sweets, in sadness and in life, i begin to recognize my true appetite, my true hunger. not what i think i want. or what i've been told i want. or what i think i don't want b/c someone has told me i do want it. i am allowed and, dare i say, entitled to as much or as little as i want of everything. malted milk eggs. esprit t-shirts. love.

no need to gorge, my dears, there's plenty more where that came from.

-----
the requisite Bunny Cake. recipe courtesy of Ursula Horsfall, and i'm assuming she must've gotten it out of a Ladies Home Journal circa 1945. it's rather quaint in comparison to the lifelike hare Martha might construct, but it's just right for me.
















in memoriam of my past intestinal woes, i gave my bunny cake I.B.S (irritable bowel syndrome), hence the chocolate
chip droppings you see here. i now notice my bunny also had no whiskers. good thing she was frosted to the plate;
coulda been bashin' into trees and crappin' all over the place.

ya just bake one round of a cake. slice it in half so you have two moons. put a little frosting on one, then sandwich them together. set it upright so you've got the body of the bunny. frost that sucker with white homemade buttercream icing (if i've said it once, i've said it a million times before - it's all in the icing. use a cake mix, but by God, do not use jarred icing. not if you care for your friends.) slap two pink jellybeans on for eyes, a black one for a nose. ruffle up a little cotton ball for the tail, or if you find you have no cotton balls like i did, take a little vegan macaroon (b/c of course you have these hanging around your cupboards), frost it and stick it on the bunny's arse. cut out two ears from white paper, color the pink part and stick into the cake wherever you feel they look best. then make whiskers from paper, or i was thinking it might be clever to use angel hair pasta. take a bag of coconut and divvy it into halfsies. sprinkle your bunny cake w/ one portion. (get it? that's fur.) drop a few drops of green food coloring into the other portion of coconut, and toss w/ a fork 'til it's grassy green. spread it out on a platter. transfer your bunny cake to the grassy knoll. nestle some malted milk eggs and jellybeans into the grass. tada! a bunny cake. friends and family will be impressed as will small children.

i don't recommend the-two-martini-and-a-bite-of-mozzarella-prosciutto-panini dinner.

it feels right and good when you're with your friends at joe's pub bobbin' to the music and wheezing with laughter, but soon, after you've left your friends and you're alone on the R train, a dark haze begins to descend, and you know this might not have been a good idea. you are not nauseated. you are not going to vomit. but you are, my dear, going to cry.

oh scheisse.

why? because this is what drunk girls do. it's in the manual.

so, after you've exited the subway and you're walking down your street towards Old Faithful (your bed), you see a very sad thing; an enormous tree that has been chopped into massive chunks littering your neighbor's sidewalk. ever-hopeful ivy still clinging to parts.

now isn't that sad?

i'm not sure there is anything sadder than a chopped up tree. at least not tonight. not after a -two-martini-and-a-bite-of-mozzarella-prosciutto dinner. and so, you plop yourself down onto the most massive chunk. the one that's sitting upright as if it's a tree trunk rooted into the earth (but not, and isn't that sad?) your butt touching the many lives of this tree - ring after ring after ring after ring. your drunk butt sullying the holy majesty of this ol' tree.

he doesn't seem to mind.

so you cry. and it feels good.

who says, by god, that tears have to be a bad thing? that sad has to be a bad thing? it's all part of it. i don't mean "you have to taste what is bitter to know what is sweet" and all that rigamarole. that's good too, but don't we all have an embroidered pillow or cross-stitch plaque reminding us of that every day of our blessed lives? i just mean sad for the sake of sad. mad for the sake of mad. not so you can know happy. but so you can know sad. so you can know mad. so you can know alive, for heaven's sake.

you don't sleep on the stump. your vigil is very short - a few minutes at most. you head home, trudge up the stairs and you must've wept to sleep because you wake up surrounded by little white blossoms of Kleenex. you giggle. you wonder now, in the brilliant spring light beaming through your blinds, what the F all the fuss was about.

who knows...but it sure was nice.

i’m sitting out in the backyard today. this has become my morning ritual since the weather has warmed a bit. i love it. it grounds me. connects me with nature. i am alone back here but i feel less alone here than i do in an office full of people. sometimes, if i think no one is watching, i lay down on the grass and look up through the canopy of trees.

wow, these trees look like bunches of kale!

the birdsong alternates between an almost annoying bickering chorus and a singular, mournful sigh. the slate gray tiles that were laid down to make the patio are rumpled and disheveled courtesy of the giant redwood tree’s roots snaking beneath the surface.

i have a secret love affair with that tree. again, if i think no one is watching, i’ll hug her.

hi, my name is Margaux, and i’m a tree hugger.

i want to be like this tree when i grow up. she is firmly rooted, and she winds her roots deeper into the earth with each passing day. her branches dance in the sky and every spring she gets a brand new green sequinned party dress (a full skirt that makes her large trunk look very slim).

if the neighbors are out tending their gardens or pulling their laundry off the line, i’ll just reach out and lay my palm against her trunk. just to be sure of you, as Pooh might say.

fortitude through osmosis, i am hoping. and a brand new party dress would be good too.

quote for the day

I like living. I have sometimes been wildly, despairingly, acutely miserable, racked with sorrow, but through it all I still know quite certainly that just to be alive is a grand thing.
- Agatha Christie

messy messy me.

i've been horribly remiss (is that the right word? oh gads, who cares.) in posting lately. why?

well, everything isn't perfect, i don't have all my ducks in a row, the stars haven't aligned, my I's aren't dotted and my T's aren't crossed, my apartment's still a mess, i still haven't resolved all of my father-daughter issues, i haven't fallen madly in love and proven all the naysayers wrong, and i still haven't saved the world. sheesh.

so really. how could a girl like me have anything to say?

well, duh. isn't that the point of this blog?

why yes. that is the point of this blog. to track and record this messy little journey. particularly the journey of one lovely imperfect woman who's not quite sure how or why or what the fuck, but is putting one foot in front of the other anyway. a lovely imperfect woman who still struggles with a body image that resembles Jabba the Hut. a lovely imperfect woman who desperately wants to be free from the prison that is dieting, but is still not quite sure how to live without that structure, without the sense that life is just one big series of constant attempts to better oneself. (damn those Transcentalists!)

god forbid this lovely woman should just be.

historically, i am a better do-er than be-er, but that's only b/c i haven't been practicing much lately. i've been wrapping myself up in to-do lists , topping myself with big shiny bows, and hoping that this would somehow make me appear more valuable...therefore through some sort of alchemy...i actually would be.

posh.

anyway...this is my long way of saying. i'm back. i'm back to writing more messily. living more messily. i always did much better with finger paints than crayons. i don't mind the paint beneath the nails. evidence, that somewhere, someday, i dug in...and swirled.

better than kool-aid

I come from a family where gravy is considered a beverage. - Erma Bombeck

me too. i made popsicles. dad mixed his with Canadian Club.

too

i am having a fat day.

i feeeeeeeeeeeel fat.

therefore i must beeeeeeeeeeeeee fat.

no. not necessarily.

what i have come to realize is that when i "feel" fat, i'm usually feeling "too big." too much. too too.

ya knoo?

i guess i am expanding into my life now. i am like one of those little capsules that you drop into the water that then bursts and blossoms into a dinosaur, a dolphin or a dahlia. it's really just a sponge, but it looks so magnificent and magical and mystical. it's almost freakish. i think it looks freakish only b/c we're not used to it. we're not used to our kitchen sponge expanding into a pink hippopotomus that wears toe shoes.

i have spent much of my life trying to scale back to a size, psychically, emotionally and physically, that does not threaten or intimidate. why? so i will not be alone. i might be kept trapped in someone's damp, dank pocket, but at least i will not be alone.

stupid.

i am so tiiiiiiiiired of it. the truth? i could diminish myself to the size of

this

dot

.

and this would still not guarantee any sort of lifelong company. besides...what's the point of being with someone if the someone you are with someone is a someone who you are not?

exactly.

so, i will go on expanding to too.
even if, i occasionally feel moo.
it's only for a day or two.
but i wanna dive into life and blossom...on cue.

toodle doo.

love you.

martini break

oy. been so busy lately. just not a lot of opportunity to sit down and write anything remotely interesting. so instead, i give you this cartoon which, in light of my recent post on coffee, made me guffaw so loudly, the dust bunnies in my apartment went all atwitter. not away, unfortunately, just all atwitter.

a body story...beautiful.

i came across this woman, arla patch, when i was perusing the Omega Institute catalogue my neighbor s. left at my doorstep with a little plate of brownies "from scratch." (god love her.)

http://www.arlapatch.com/

i'd been debating whether or not i should attend the SARK workshop in october and now see this as a sign that i should (thanks, s!). however, when i came upon arla's workshop my jaw just about hit my keyboard with shock, awe, and utter admiration.

THIS IS MIRACULOUS STUFF.

A Body Story: A Workshop for Women

Using our own silhouettes, we work on a life-sized "map" of ourselves honoring its history, redefining areas, creating peace, and in the process, reclaiming our body anew. This gives us a chance to gain greater body awareness and reverence for the lives we've led. Using movement, guided imagery, art, writing, and silence, we seek those parts in our bodies in need of celebration and transformation.

Patch uses her own story of healing to address the mind-body connection. She uses visualization for physical transformation and tapping the connection to our source as an avenue to break the patterns lodged in our bodies. And finally, by fusing with nature, we heal the stories in our lives.

The workshop concludes with each woman being given a photographed image of herself, with the chance to speak about the reframing for which this image becomes a talisman.

so upset i can't attend. i'll be vacationing in seattle/portland and attending my cousin e's wedding where i foresee that i will, cocktail in hand, be answering endless questions about whether or not i've "met my prince" or "snagged myself a fella."

no, actually, i've been busy snagging myself a life.

anyway, arla's work is absolutely exquisite. funny - somewhat similar to what we did to create the body forms for size ate, but i adore and get giddy with the anticipation of decorating and detailing my shape - broad shouldered and tapered waist.

i think a bluebird belongs on my shoulder, don't you?

hands

i

don't

know

what

to

write

so

i

will

write

this:

gardenias

and blue satin sashes

and the way my knuckles

resemble my long-dead mother's

when i grip my coffee cup -

a steaming steaming steaming ghost.

these things

are

reason

enough

to not

feel

alone

today.

call

tomorrow

and

i may be

weeping blue

but

today

my

knuckles

whistle

and

call

me

"Hon."

and yet, miraculously, i have no transfats.

a conversation i had at the Xerox machine on friday afternoon:

"you smell like a candybar."

i suppose there are worse things i could smell like.

he walks away. i walk away and take a seat at my desk. suddenly, from across the room, over the heads of more than a few co-workers, he shouts,

"Butterfinger! you smell like a Butterfinger!"

bloody saturday

my manicure/pedicure set: industrial strength

for a sweet little story about getting a mani/pedi with my friend jack while discussing the making of size ate, click here.

and yes, they really did slice into my big toe. eh...i'm used to it. bloodshed is far more common when they have to use a cleaver on your callouses.

i need a hobby.

i think this guy sat behind me on the bus in high school.

there's something very satisfying about popping a zit, isn't there? you've been productive...in a way.

3 (more) reasons to love paula deen

"that's elbow-lickin' good."

1. Collard Green Pizza
2. Fried Biscuits
3. Turducken

happy (belated) voluptuous tuesday...

yeah. this was just getting annoying.

...because tuesday's not fat, shes' just big-boned.

ba dah bum ching.

in honor of mardi gras...oh, okay, mardi gras had nothing to do with it, but the two just happened to happily coincide...

i gave away my TV.

wooo hooo!

frankly, i didn't even watch that much, but i just felt it was taking up way to much physical and psychic space in my little pad. i found i'd come home, flip it on "for company," toss my beleaguered body onto the couch, and POOF! before i knew it, it'd be midnight, i'd half-heartedly done 8 million things, sortof watched 5 television programs that i could not answer a single question about if someone asked me, and eaten through an entire bag of baby carrots, 1/2 wheel of Roquefort cheese, 12 chocolate kisses and one generous glass (or more) of vino.

let me demonstrate what happens in my brain when i get home and encounter an evening avec Le TV:

i've got to get all of this done! i want to read this book, bake this cake, write this letter, burn this cd, knit this teapot cozy, call this grandma, but i have to watch this movie, this sitcom, this documentary, this news program, and this talk show.

you see my problem.

i am not going to become one of those hardcore tube-haters, or one of those who wear their TV-lessness like a Girl Scout badge. i think television serves its purpose if you're one of those people who can manage your TV and not let it manage you. i am not. mine straps me to the couch and forcefeeds me Big Macs and SUVs and self-hatred in the form of emaciated actresses with hair that bounces and boobs that don't. for me, for now, television encourages unconscious action, and i am trying to invite more consciousness into my life. i want to be present and aware of what i'm doing and being and feeling.

even if that feeling is pissed because i'm missing Paula Deen.

i love joe (but nobody else wants us to be together).

this weekend, i attended classes at the Institute for Integrative Nutrition. i learned a number of things about myself.

among them:

1. according to the Myers-Briggs Test, i am an ENFJ.

Warm, empathetic, responsive, and responsible. Highly attuned to the emotions, needs, and motivations of others. Find potential in everyone, want to help others fulfill their potential. May act as catalysts for individual and group growth. Loyal, responsive to praise and criticism. Sociable, facilitate others in a group, and provide inspiring leadership.

oh stop. i'm blushing.

2. the surface area of my gastrointestinal tract is 300-400 square meters, or the size of a tennis court.

love!

3. i drink coffee, therefore i am satan.

okay, they didn't exactly say it in those words, but there is definitely a strong opposition to java at IIN. now, i'm not suggesting that the woman who stood up and said she's a coffee addict, but has "cut back" from 42 ounces a day to 36 ounces doesn't have a problem, (i can't help but think of the poor woman's teeth) but c'mon! i don't think my one cup of hazelnut coffee a day is a huge threat to my overall health, and i drink boatloads of water all day long to counteract the diuretic effects. my numerous trips to the loo throughout the day are a testament this. not only does this provide me with a very active work social life (best conversations are held in restrooms. oh, okay. gossip. but whatever.), it's a replacement for cardio on those days i don't get to the gym.

there actually are good things about coffee: antioxidants like chlorogenic acid and tocopherols, evidence that it lowers your risk Parkinson's disease, colon cancer, and diabetes. i'm not gonna go into the details, you can read about that here. i'm not sure i agree with the idea of feeding it to young children so they can perform better in school, (my parents gave me a small glass of wine at dinner to calm me down, and i don't even think that worked. i can't imagine if they'd given me coffee) but in moderation, can't i have a cup of coffee without feeling LIKE LESS OF A PERSON???!!!

oh, okay. yes. i'm mostly doing this to myself, but coffee is frequently referred to as a drug in class. so, of course, when you refer to something as a drug, i can't help but feel at least a little bit like a drug user. but i have no track marks! no deviated septum! yes, my teeth are a little yellow, but nothing that a little Rembrandt won't fix. so, you hear all of this repeatedly, and can't help but think that you're little cup of joe is a problem. like "did you hear, margaux has a coffee problem?"

yes, i have a problem. my problem is the number 4 thing i learned (again) about myself this weekend: i care too damn much what people think. those people whose high-antioxidant green teabag tags taunt me, dangling conspicuously from the edge of their cup like a 6-year old pageant queen.

i'm better than yoooooooooou.

but whatever. by defending it i guess i'm admitting that there is something innately bad about the stuff, and that's what bugs me. bad. good. bad. good. like people, there are few foods in this life that can be so easily classified with a couple of exceptions; i think we can agree on Hitler and chitlins, don't you? that's what gets us into trouble with food i think. categorizing it as bad or good, devil or angel, friend or foe, it just ain't so.

for now, i'm not quitting. maybe there's a little bit of rebellion there. maybe a little bit of resistance to change. i'm making so many other big changes in my life, health and otherwise, perhaps this is my last hold out, but i can't discount the contentedness that comes with my trip to the cafe where they know just how i like it:

hazelnut with just a touch of half and half and one Splenda.

and, it keeps my bowels happy, and at 300-400 square meters, that is no small thing.

you say tomato, i say gas.

my kind of world piece

i was diagnosed with IBS (irritable bowel syndrome) a few years back. whether IBS is a psychosomatic disease or an actual medical condition is widely debated. like most illnesses, i'd guess that it's probably a combination of both. four years later, i feel well enough to consider its causes. then, i just wanted to stop feeling like my colon was about to explode. it felt like my gut was housing a four-year old who was blowing bubbles using lighter fluid, lighting a match and laughing maniacally at the intestinal fireworks. the only positive thing to say about having IBS? you certainly find out who your true friends are. you know what they say, friends who fart together...

for a time, i was taking a heavy-hitting horse pill that quelled the belly spasms. after doing an elimination diet, i figured out there was really only one thing i couldn't eat: cooked tomato sauce. yes, cooked. it's weird. i can have fresh tomatoes, but there is some acid (maybe the lycopene?) that is released when tomatoes are cooked that wreaks havoc on my belly. completely inexplicable, as i spent my entire childhood eating my mom's chili, spaghetti with meatballs, and lasagna with italian sausage. and let's not forget the pizza from the Milan American Legion! it was a point of pride, coming from a family of athletes whose dining behaviors mimicked those witnessed at an Oakland Raiders training table, that little girl me could devour a plateful nachos with jalapenos, followed by extra-cheesy enchiladas doused in taco sauce and a 7-11 Slurpee. notsomuch anymore.

perhaps its age. perhaps it's the years i spent depriving myself; alternately starving my poor little gut, ignoring it's hunger cries or muffling them with celery, and then when i just couldn't take it anymore, ramming it full of crap and demanding it to digest dammit. what's the problem? it's only a 1/2 gallon of ice cream. wimp.

hm. i guess i should be thankful i can digest anything at all...ever...again.

i've discovered, thank God, that if i eat a little nibble of bread before partaking, i can pretty much handle tomato sauce now. this makes me incredibly happy as one of my fave dishes on the planet is the gnocchi in marinara nestled under a blanket of fresh mozzerella from Don Giovanni. on an empty stomach, however?

do not stand behind me. the heat or the smell; one or the other will render you braindead, and the combination could kill you.

___

in honor of welcoming tomato sauce back into my life:

The Domino's Pizza "Toppings Tell All" study revealed that:

Those who prefer non-traditional toppings such as pineapple and onion tend to be aggressive, achievement-oriented, natural leaders. They do not easily suffer fools.

Pepperoni Please
People who prefer traditional, single meat toppings described themselves as being irritable, argumentative, procrastinators, who frequently conveniently "forget" obligations at work and at home.

Meat Fanatics
Those who preferred traditional, multiple meat toppings are dramatic, seductive extroverts who thrive as the center of attention. They crave novelty in all aspects of their life, are fashionable and impeccably groomed.

Only 1 Veggie Please
Pizza eaters who prefer traditional, vegetable, one-topping pizzas are empathetic, understanding, well adjusted and easy going, making them the ideal parents.

Veggie Pilers
Those who prefer multiple vegetable toppings are trustworthy, loyal and dependable. They value friendship as the ultimate manifestation of life's ideals. They function best in a group environment. They are humble, introverted, and avoid the spotlight.

i like it all, so what does that make me?

a very well-rounded, well-adjusted (though oft-constipated) lass.

couldn't have said it better myself

I used to think that anyone doing something weird was weird. I suddenly realised that anyone weird
wasn't weird at all, and that it was the people saying they were weird that were weird. - Paul McCartney

"...I've learned you can be beautiful without being perfect."

Ex-Rising Star Makes a Healthy Return to the Ice, from The New York Times, February 18, 2006

By JULIET MACUR

TURIN, Italy, Feb. 17 — As her figure skates grew rusty inside the trunk of her Volkswagen, Jamie Silverstein stood in front of a room of sorority women at Cornell University, took a deep breath and told them why she had quit the sport of ice dancing.

"Hi, my name is Jamie," she remembers saying in a shaking voice that day in 2002. "I was on track to go to the Olympics, but my body gave out because I have an eating disorder."

Silverstein was a college freshman then, light years from her life as a skater.

At one time, she and her partner, Justin Pekarek, were touted as the United States' best ice dancers in decades. They were Fred and Ginger on skates, seamlessly gliding across the ice as they waltzed, cha-cha-ed and rumba-ed their way to success, winning the gold medal at the 1999 world junior championships.

A year and a half later, Silverstein crumbled, unable to cope with her eating disorder, anorexia. She blamed her sport, in which women wear skintight outfits that show every flaw and the pressure to live up to expectations can be suffocating.

For four years, Silverstein's skates were left untouched.

So it was a near miracle, Silverstein said, when she and her new partner, Ryan O'Meara, skated onto the ice at the Palavela on Friday for the compulsory portion of the ice dance competition. With her raven-colored hair pulled back from her face and her pink dress flowing as she moved, Silverstein smiled as she danced the waltz. But this time, after years of emotional distress, her smile was genuine.

"This has been overwhelming," Silverstein, 22, said afterward, tearing up. "I think a lot of people didn't believe that I could do this, so this is a huge victory for me."

She and O'Meara, also 22, were in 18th place, with the original dance still to come Sunday and the free skate Monday. They are the No. 3 pair on the United States team and are not considered contenders for a medal, but they say that just being in the competition is enough of a reward.

Tanith Belbin and Ben Agosto, the world silver medalists last year, were sixth, 1.42 points behind the first-place couple, Barbara Fusar Poli and Maurizio Margaglio of Italy. The other United States dancers, Melissa Gregory and Denis Petuhkov, were 15th.

When Silverstein and Pekarek left the sport, Belbin and Agosto took their place as the United States' best hope for its first Olympic ice dance medal in 30 years.

"We really looked up to Jamie and Justin, because they paved the way for us as the up-and-coming U.S. team," Agosto said. "It's an unbelievable accomplishment for Jamie to come back."

Silverstein, from Pittsburgh, had paired with Pekarek when she was 11. Several years later, the weight began to peel off her 5-foot-3 frame. Her face became more angular. Her shoulder blades looked bony. Her weight loss was hard to hide in her costumes.

She pretended to be fine, but on the inside, Silverstein said, she was drowning. She said she felt the need to be the best, to make people happy, including her mother, Robin, who had gone through a divorce and had focused her energies on her daughter's career.

It was not unfolding as the romantic life Silverstein had imagined from watching made-for-TV movies. She said she felt invisible.

"I thought someone would say, 'She's more important than any of this skating stuff,' and would rescue me," Silverstein said. "I just wanted someone to pluck me away and, for a long time, that was so sad."

She handled that pain by restricting her food intake. Pekarek and their coach, Igor Shpilband, would try to feed her. Pekarek took her to a sports psychologist, but even that did not help.

"Everyone in the skating world knew she had a problem, but they didn't know the severity of it, or the ties to the depression or mental anguish," said Pekarek, now a skating coach and college student in Massachusetts. "She was lost because everyone had planned her future for her and she had no control over it."

One day in 2001, Silverstein just could not do it anymore. Sobbing, she told Shpilband and Pekarek that she no longer had the strength to train and that she was not just a skater, she was a person, too. She needed time away from the sport.

"Igor, bless his heart, said, 'No, you are a skater. You are beautiful,' meaning it to be empowering, like I had a gift," she said. "Then Justin stood up for me and said, 'Don't worry, you can take as much time as you want.' I'll always love him for being the first person to stick up for me."

She and Pekarek, while on top of their ice-dancing world, parted ways.

At Cornell, Silverstein still battled anorexia and bulimia. After seeing a counselor and a nutritionist, she said, she soon realized that skating did not cause her problem. She learned ways to take care of herself.

Then, in late 2004, she dragged those rusty skates out of her trunk. She called Shpilband and asked to come back. Then she asked Pekarek to join her, but he declined because he was skating with someone else. She and O'Meara teamed up in April.

"She's an amazing person and I'm so glad I could help her make it here," said O'Meara, who is from Houston.

But for Silverstein, who studies art therapy at Cornell, it still is difficult, particularly when she sees other ice dancers.

"It just takes having the courage to be as I am in this environment and not get caught up in comparisons," she said Friday, as a paper-thin skater walked by wearing an outfit that looked like two strategically placed dinner napkins.

Then Silverstein sighed.

"It was really hard for me for a long time, and it still is," she said. "On a day-to-day basis, I don't feel beautiful, but skating has always made me feel beautiful.

"It's just that now I've learned you can be beautiful without being perfect."

happiness comes in 32 flavors

c'mon. she came from France. of course it's ice cream.

thomas jefferson was a man of many accomplishments. he was a true polymath: political philosopher, architect, musician, book collector, scientist, horticulturist, diplomat, and inventor. then there was that other gig. President of the United States.

he left us a number of memorable quotations. a few that i particularly admire:

The most valuable of all talents is that of never using two words when one will do. (i said i admire it, people, as it's clear i do not follow this advice in either speaking or writing.)

I cannot live without books.

We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

it is in the spirit of "pursuit of happiness" that he must have discovered the joys of ice cream. after all, it is TJ whom we can thank for making ice cream a staple in America's culinary lexicon.

a moment of silence, please.

ice cream was served frequently at dinners hosted by him, and "while George Washington's papers contain a prior reference to an ice cream maker, the first American recipe for the dish is in Jefferson's hand." and in the other, no doubt, a spoon.