exhale.

I’ve been hibernating. Have you noticed? That question is masochistic, right? But maybe that’s the point. There is masochism here—yearning for an audience I can’t control. Blogging in order to have readers. Broadcasting my sins across cyberspace. And there is masochism there—not blogging, stifling my voice in order to save myself from judgment, from silence. From indifference.

Perhaps none of this makes any sense.

Swamp Chicken says just blog already. Cut the crap. So here I am, with a few minutes to spare before it’s time to pick up the kids from school. Have I mentioned they’ve been an unruly handful lately?

SC and I both have been challenged to the hilt, resulting in screaming and tears and slamming doors. Then there’re the kids. Ba-dum-dum. I swear some days it’s like I never went Primal. I have sunk low. Maybe it’s the lack of sunshine, the increased dairy consumption. The cold. Still, through it all, I’ve witnessed my former self-hatred jags mutating into run-of-the-mill self-pity parties that find me curled up in my office chair, face glowing blue in the light of my laptop flickering its images from depraved sites I should steer clear from on a good day. Self-hatred is pure, distilled agony. Self-pity is simply shameful, possibly a stepping stone to the hating.

But between Spike’s obnoxious streak, which runs as deep and thick as a tar pit (wonder where he got that from) to Stella’s steel-edged defiance against anything resembling an authoritarian direction, we’ve been at our wit’s end. The joyful part exists of course. We are not completely broken or even broken down. But it is boring, not worth retelling. Suffice to say no one’s lost an eye (yet.) And we exchange hugs and kisses. I was going to add one more thing too. Can’t remember…My memory is fading. Must be all that pot I smoked in high school.

So yeah. I have been hibernating. It’s been luxurious. Walking the dog whilst enjoying my newish boots. Watching movies on Netflix. Like Crazy Stupid Love. Bridesmaids. Like Dandelion Dust. Reading. I just finished the first book in the Hunger Games trilogy. Now onto a Woody Allen biography. Nothing primal. Nothing about dogs, though I did start taking Nyla to a class at Petco. Our trainer’s name is James, who is a bit of a local celebrity, er, at least a celebrity’s trainer.

James trains Mr. Cuddles. Do you know who that is? It’s Patti LaBelle’s little shih tzu. Patti lives near me. Sometimes I walk by her house. I’ve never seen Mr. Cuddles in her yard, but I have seen a Cadillac Escalade. An indoor pool. Expansive lawn. Tall iron gates.

What else? Not much for now. In hiding. Doing a little writing. Laying fallow, following the season’s lead; feels like biology—stepping in time to the waltz, staring out at the world, peeking from beneath my covers. Seeing what might stick for the next round of creativity.

I passed a tiny flower in bloom during today’s walk. It was white and droopy and Nyla sniffed it. The weather today reminds me of Ireland even though I’ve never been there. The light has that cast to it, makes the grass and moss appear thicker, more substantial. Pregnant. The air is humid for January. Balmy temperatures. The kind of weather that makes you want to walk for miles murmuring to yourself about all the small magical things you’re thankful for—the low-slung clouds. The empty streets slick with rain that stopped falling to let you pass in comfort. The way your dog’s exuberance shows itself in her eager gait, the stiff set of her ears, the way she sniffs every patch of matted ivy as if it were a smudge of heaven. You remark to yourself that you’re thankful for noticing the magic. Because otherwise it would all appear dead. You know the deadness all too well; the yearning it provokes. The pain. You steer clear of it when you can.

Peace out.

Dog days

I thought I’d write while in a white foamy rage so you can see why I got so fucking rah-rah over the Primal diet. I still think it works, by the way. I have six months of good behavior and high self-esteem under my belt, and even though I was an arrogant prick to a handful of people regarding my newfound nutritional knowledge, it beat being an asshole to myself.

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Slam your body down and wind it all around

Sometimes I just wanna escape into a movie. A good movie like Contact. Not a sucky movie like that Horrible Bosses I just saw. I watched that mother-sucker through to the end. What’s with that? I guess I wanted to see how Jennifer Aniston would meet her demise. Her eyes looked so blue in that movie. She sexing it all up in there. That’s all I’m saying.

Sometimes the new dog, the one we’ve had for oh, a week now, feels like more than I want, even though she’s perfect for us in so many ways—gentle, loves the kids, low-shedding, small, affectionate… Still, this furry blond bombshell needs her poopy outside time. At six AM! She needs her chicken necks. I worry about money. Swamp Chicken says don’t worry. I try to listen to him. Sometimes it works. Then it stops working.

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Nyla

Last Saturday I couldn’t help visiting Petco again, this time with the whole family to see who was available to foster. First we met Bella, another chihuahua mix like Jessie, but much more like a fancy miniature German shepherd. She was beautiful. Swamp Chicken held her and fell in love, though later he admitted that she had the ‘chihuahua shake’ he’s not fond of.

The prospect of adopting Bella made me go giddy, forget about this fostering nonsense, and I talked with the Philly Paws staff about it. We all agreed it would be better to adopt since parting after bonding would be too painful, and SC realized this was probably true, especially as the adoption fee was so reasonable.

I turned to the kids. “What do you think of Bella? Isn’t she so pretty?” This was their response: Fffft. Nothing. Peaches and Spike were too busy playing on the cart-return rails to give Bella a passing glance. Maybe they didn’t even want a dog.

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magic and madness—the book of blog

Chapter One,

In which I tell you that this is my official dietary update. Hallelujah and praise be. It’s been exactly five months, from July 1 to today, December 1 that I have been eating Primally.

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Thankfuls

Jessie, it turns out, is not housebroken, and so we will not be adopting her. I am a newbie and want to make things as easy as possible and am not prepared to train an adult doggie to potty outside. Of course the easiest thing would be to not adopt a dog. Lord knows we don’t need the extra expense, responsibility or sleep deprivation.

Still, insanely, a dog beckons. Woof, it says. Adopt me. 

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Dog person

As my eating revolution tempers into my just-the-way-it-is habit, my mind trolls the hills and valleys of this fine cold land for something new to chew over. There on a hill, peeing on a lone apple tree, is a pooch. A chihuahua mix named Jessie who needs a home.

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Exeunt

I realized today that I can be quite an anti-social creature. Sometimes it takes me a few decades to figure stuff out. This anti-socialness is heightened by the fact that I no longer drink, party or eat baked goods. Or maybe it’s certain moments—those Friday dead battery days when I’ve exerted all I can during the week—cooking, schlepping and supervising, and the wind whips and the temperature drops and all I want to do is huddle in bed with my laptop glowing, entertaining me InstantPlay style, distracting me from the things that overwhelm—things like money, career, book deals, children, marriage and shelter dogs.

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Forgotten treasure

This feels like old news now, it being November and all, I mean where did the time go? But I’ll post it anyway in the spirit of closure and results.

School parade. Sweets included. Natch.

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