How to Make Love to a Vegetarian

In the "granola bar" community of my small college town, there roamed a memorable bumper sticker proclaiming that "Vegetarians Taste Better." Given my charity work in the fight against foul vagina (a.k.a. "halitosis of the vajayjay"), I was obviously heartened by this alleged cure. But I seriously questioned its alluding premise: that vegetarians would make superior lovers.

My argument at the time was based on the most primitive notion of appetite -- that passions for the flesh would beget passions in the flesh. Swoop in on adjacent restaurant dates, I'd propose, and compare the plates -- one girl is polishing off lamb chops, while the other is poking through a side salad and baked potato.

Who would you rather share desert with?

I realized, of course, that I shouldn't confuse being vegetarian with being a lousy eater, or that vegetarians weren't "foodies." But even the most voracious veggie, I felt, would lack the animal spirit that only animal spirits could provide. And when I met the woman who would eventually become my wife (a terrific eater, mind you), the proof was in the pudding.

On our first date, I shared my philosophy that a comparative interest in food, dancing, and travel were clues to compatibility, and that in these core areas of appetite, rhythm, and adventurism, one would find the triumvirate of a lasting sex life. On our dream honeymoon, you might imagine, we ate fried chicken while krumping through the Amazon. And on so many of our sweet and wonderful days together, there was the marker of an indulgent meal, shared strategically -- surfing and turfing our way into the sunset.

But then one day, after years upon carnivore years, I kind of became a vegetarian too.* Did this mean that my wife would start banging the butcher at Whole Foods? Or that the climactic end to our evenings became the five-day forecast? Not yet. Even though our bond over bourguignon had been compromised, there was still plenty of jalepeno in the cornbread.

So now, in the quinoa years, our recipe has changed. We don't share forks as much, but we still go out, we still swap spit, and we still have our sunsets. Sometimes, when there's been a lot of wine, I like to light a few candles, turn on some "Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives," and let the night be our oyster cracker.

Feeling light and energetic, we can still suck the marrow out of life.

* does not include in-law hosted affairs, Thanksgiving, sushi or certain business dinners / guy weekends.

I'd Like to Solve the Puzzle

"The most incomprehensible thing about the universe is that it is comprehensible."

-- Albert Einstein

So if paragraphs are made of sentences, and sentences are made of words, and words are made of letters -- well then, what are the letters made of? For the Creationists, the answer is simple, as it has long been understood that letters manifest when beckoned by the divinity of Vanna White's manicure. But for the inquiring folks who sprinkle science in their coffee, the answer is ultimately unreachable, flanking the mysteries of consciousness, morality, Jay Cutler, and the rogue burnt Triscuit, to be one of those fundamentally untraceable constituents of earthly existence.

Now, consider the cosmos. If galaxies are made of stars, and stars are made of atoms, and atoms are made of subatomic particles, and henceforth throughout the infinite regression of elements -- well then, what are those "letters" made of?

Um ... Vanna? I think I'd like to buy a vowel.

When wrestling with the origin of the universe, the human brain must eventually concede to the undefeated, heavyweight champion of everything -- the great unknown. In the left corner, it's The Big Bang Theory that stands to explain the beginning of time and space as we know it. But what preceded this Big Bang (surely, not dinner and a movie), and who went shopping for the ingredients? And in the right corner, it's religion that takes a leap of faith, which can be lovely for those of us who enjoyed the maddening motherly retort ".... because I told you so." And judging this amateur bout, our cosmic angst is duly laughed at by the enlightened referees of human suffering, deconstructed to be of the same ego stocked soupiness that clogs our pipes with ignorance and fear.

"Understand your true self," the great masters will tell you, "and these mysteries will dissolve."

Fair enough, Dalai, I'm sure you're right ... and may we all be hard working and wise enough to join you one day. But in the meantime, I'm sure you won't mind if I marvel in my mortally misguided ways. I guess I'm just the kind of guy who can't get used to the fact that we don't know jack about the purpose of the universe- - the kind of kid who really cringed when his parents would say " ... because we told you so." It doesn't mean that I don't live a rich and rewarding life, and perhaps quite the contrary. But it does mean that I can be deeply burdened by the day to day fare, not unlike Bill Murray's character in the wonderful allegory that is "Groundhog's Day." Clearly, I am not alone and I know that you can relate. If you think you know something, or can get Andie MacDowell to sleep with me, I hope that you will call.

I'd like to solve the puzzle.