Clover vs. Healthy Living

Round 1:

I mentioned back in June that I go out to New Mexico every summer. What I didn't mention, because I didn't want to scare you all off, is that I go out for a New Age Gathering of Meditating and Upliftment, where I do yoga and feel positive about having to be on this planet, but where I am still known as the girl from LA with a questionable attitude, a questionable wardrobe and a questionable mouth. Heeere's Clover!

So last week when my friend Gurudarshan said she had a picture of me (she is the event photographer every year) she wanted to use for a brochure she was hired to make, I was all, "Yeah. Sure. That picture of me peeing in the bushes will totally inspire someone to hit up a retreat. Knock yourself out." Over the years I've been in hundreds of her pictures, and most of the time I am eating or looking pissed or looking slutty. I was ready to L-O-L at my involvement in this.

And then, this was the picture. And yes, people. THIS IS ME. I didn't believe it either.



Holy ghost of yoga past.

I'll completely 'fess up, y'all: Yoga is actually why I moved to LA. I know. It surprises me too. I'm, like, certified to teach the stuff. (My services are available at reasonable rates.) Everyone I've shown this picture to is all, "Yeah. Sorry you don't look that nice or peaceful anymore. Blame those Laurel Canyon mold spores for raping your face for so long."

Here is the Life of Clover, in Four Phases:

1) Inexplicable Overachiever

2) Degenerate Partier

3) Beaming, Shiny, Healthy Spiritual Person

and currently 4) embracing mediocrity of all previous phases.

It's like I decided to take on the personality of each Brother Karamazov and suck at fully realizing each one all at once.

(Click on the foto to enlarge and read the poignant story of heroin addiction coming out of my crotch.)

Clover: 0, Healthy Living: 1

Round 2:

On Thursday I went out to a bar and met a friend of a friend who was the petitest, shiniest-haired Latina girl, who swore that her glowing skin and perfect metabolism came from consuming three tablespoons of coconut oil a day. SIX tablespoons when she feels under the weather. Now I was in awe of this specimen. I involuntarily kept touching her hair because it was so pretty. This would have been awkward except that her passion for sharing the benefits of coconut oil consumption eclipsed even weirdo gratuitous touching from strangers. (Whatever. People like it when I touch them.)

I'm all for any health fad that will keep me young and beautiful, so I was pretty much, "Where do I sign my name?" instantly. And much to my delight, I went to hang at Blondie's new pad in The Valley the next day and discovered a large vat of organic, extra virgin coconut oil (which, for the record, normal people only use for putting DIRECTLY into their hair. Or cooking.)

But I was ready to guzzle this shit DOWN. I was ready to metabolize like a mofo. I was ready to inspire mass hair envy.

After tablespoon one, I knew I was making a grand mistake. Coconut oil is just kind of like olive oil. But coconut-flavored. Do you know how gross drinking olive oil is? I've cleansed, people. ALOTNESS. And tablespoons are kind of big. But what are three tablespoons of oil when shiny hair and skinnier thighs are at stake? I persevered.

I tried to pretend I did not instantly feel like killing myself or at least ripping out my stomach and throwing it against the wall, because surely that would be less painful than the nausea I was experiencing.

I then agreed to happy hour at Casa Vega before Blondie went to work hoping that chips, salsa and my sheer love for happy hour would put a stop to the sadness in my stomach.

OH, RETARDED CLOVER. There is no stopping three tablespoons of coconut oil. Casa Vega was just where the puking began.

Here is what you do not want to happen when you are experiencing a coconut oil-induced pukefest:

1) To be far away from your home in the Valley.

2) To be far away in the Valley and have your friend leave you all alone at her house (where you have only been once before).

3) To technically not even be in the strange house because her keys do not even work. (I mean, really?) So you are left in the guest house of the roommate you have never met to ralph out your entrails. (Hi Alice, thank you for letting me vom in your toilet and pass out on the bed for twenty minutes or so in coconut oil misery. I tried to fold the blanket like you had it so you wouldn't know your roommate's friend was violently ill for dumb-dumb reasons, but I felt like I was dying at that moment and could only care so much about the throw blanket. I do look forward to hanging out soon though. I've heard good things. xoxo, C)

I couldn't stay in Alice's guest house because (I also discovered) being sick in an unfamiliar environment only makes you feel worse. So I drove back to the westside in rush hour traffic. That was fun. And I know everyone wants to puke on the 405 because it sucks so much, but it was all I could do to NOT puke on the 405. Maybe I should have. It would have been, like, a metaphor. And/or performance art.

So, yeah. Friday night blew. Most importantly, while I pathetically nibbled on saltines and drank ginger ale, I missed out on my favorite two things gathering together that night: Pick Up Artists and Rock Band. I do not want to talk about this further because it upsets me too much, but no doubt I would have guzzled a whole bottle of Patron and been better off than I was with this misguided attempt to cleanse my body.

Seriously, forcibly taking five shots of Jagermeister would be more enjoyable. EFF YOU, coconut oil.

Clover: 1, Healthy Living: CAN SUCK IT


Round 3:

Saturday, after The Great Coconut Oil Purging of 2009, I went back to Bikram Yoga. Which I haven't been to for at least a year. Now for those of you not familiar with this beautiful form of body and mind union, here is the deal: You go into a two hundred degree room for an hour and a half. Contort your body into the same twenty-six postures each and every class. Do each posture twice in every class. And hold them till you think your muscles will explode from shaking and your skin will melt off from sweating.

It. is awesome.

It has occurred to me that people who go to Bikrams are major self-loathers. Or at the very least, masochists. And is Clover a self-loathing masochist? You bet your bottom dollar.

I can only describe it as a motherf*cking SWEATGASM. I got sweat in my eyeballs. More than once. My lungs cheered that I wasn't breathing like a panicked gerbil for ten minutes, and when I left, the world smiled again. Positivity was simply brimming out of me.

Then I got back in the car and heard some melancholy Top 40 rock song and thought to myself, "These dudes are right. I guess life does suck."

But that walk to the car was just GLORIOUS.

Clover: 0, Healthy Living: 1

So yeah, it's a mixed bag this healthy living business. You can feel good, you can wind up yakking in a strange place in Valley Village.

I'm thinking to embrace it all, I am going to start a group called "Bikrams and Beer: Feel good and then feel more good". Please contact me if you are interested in joining. In the meantime, I will attempt being successful at realizing all the traits of the Brothers Karamazov at the same time, which basically means I will become a drunk intellectual who wants to devote her life to God.