I knew a girl.
Her name was Melia. I met her in the dorms in college, in San Francisco, and she was beautiful and mysterious and shy. She had soft blondish-brown hair, and she was slender and naturally beautiful in that quirky way I always find so intriguing. I wanted to follow her around like a puppy dog, holding her water bottle and lighting her cigarettes, but I was too shy. Too unsure of my own newly-discovered sexuality. It was 1992 and I was only just beginning to understand women. I still don't understand them. My own lifetime membership to the club has shed very little light on the subject, even fourteen years later.

I came out as bisexual at nineteen, over late-night coffee at Denny's in Daly City, to my college boyfriend. He also admitted to certain proclivities, and we struck an easy agreement. It was comfortable. Youth and San Francisco combined to make it comfortable - we were too young to worry much about marriage and health benefits and legal wrangling over estates or property. It was just part of the validation process that happens when you find yourself out loud to someone you're pretty sure will support you. We practiced on each other, those of us that had already found safety, so that when the hard conversations came, we could be a little bit more ready.

I came out to my mother on Mother's Day, in roughly the same timeframe, when I had her trapped in the car between Benicia and the city. She was shocked, and frustrated that I might "choose" a life that would be fraught with peril. She hoped that I would marry a man, because it would make my life "easier." I told her that, for me, "easy" and "dishonest" didn't really sit well together. I told her that I didn't know what would happen, because that was the truth. I still don't.

I came out to my father in the backyard of the house we'd inhabited together for my high-school years. It was a place of refuge, a home where I'd felt supported in every decision (except, perhaps, for that silly tatto on my shoulder that I also now regret). He took the news without fanfare, probably nodding to himself. Years later, after he'd moved to Hawaii, he called me to explain proudly how he was fighting for gay rights in his new community and I wondered if some of that gusto brought with it a message for me: I'm proud of who you are, too.

Boys have always just seemed easier, a fact my mother is certainly pleased about.

I told Melia that I liked her, because I could no longer stand the idea that she might return the feeling, and that she might float away in a desirous mist if she couldn't have the same thing I wanted. She let me down easy because she was sweet and thoughtful. I like to remember her that way.

I wonder what she's doing now.

Hyper-allergenic.
It had nothing to do with foreign bodies in my nose, as it turns out. Okay, maybe there's a random tissue in there. Perhaps some pollen during the on-season. Carpet lint. The usual suspects.

The real problem, though, turned out to be far more pernicious and inconspicuous. Care to take a guess? Global warming, that's probably your first guess. Peak oil seems like a reasonable suspect. Second-hand smoke is an easy scapegoat. If I were you, though, I'd probably bet my money on the innocuous and ever-impressive sinus infection. Did you ever stop to think that it might have been right under our noses, and right over our crackers? You guessed it: the answer is cheese.

To be more precise, it's dairy products. All of them. Milk, yogurt, sour cream, Irish cheddar, brie, fontina, you name it. If it came from a cow, it made my sinuses drain like a leaky gutter in a Northwest rainstorm. I have touched neither a Neti nor a neufchatel in six weeks, and my nose has taken on a zen-like calmness. My Kleenex budget has been dramatically slashed. And this got me thinking: what other woes of the world are a direct result of my modern-day diet?

I asked my ND for help. She looked me up and down, sizing up my pasty skin and thin hair, considering my extra weight and bloated belly.

"Alright," she said. "Let's get you tested."

One vial of blood and $200 later, I was on my way to digestive awareness, if not exactly wellness. I had signed up for the Standard Omnivore and the Extra Vegetarian panels. I had forgone the Inhalants panel. I figured that knowing birch trees were my enemy didn't stop them from growing, and opted for answers I could actually respond to. That was wise, in retrospect, given the dietetic challenge that lay ahead of me.

My results came four weeks later, in the form of a green-yellow-orange-red chart that clearly illustrated my problem areas: dairy, eggs, wheat, gluten, beans, asparagus, bananas and pineapple. Of less import but equal significance were mushrooms, yeast, tuna, oysters, rye and spelt. This seems manageable, even innocuous even, until you consider what it actually means in the grocery store.

Let's consider wheat and yeast first. Avoiding these foods means avoiding, basically, all baked goods. Cookies, cake, biscuits, pancakes, waffles, crackers, biscuits, bread, muffins, bagels, pasta, most liquors. All gone. Read the labels - wheat is in everything.

Now let's talk about yeast and other fermented foods like vinegar: baked goods, some soups, salad dressings, pasta sauce, mustard, ketchup, soy sauce, wine, beer, pickles, baby corn, root beer, ham, bacon, BBQ sauce, mayo, horseradish, sausage.

That leaves vegetables, vegan cornbread, tequila, potato-based vodka and meat. Is the best or the worst thing that ever happened to me? Discuss.