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.

Kidding. I adore myself.

But let me explain. For Chrismukkah, Swamp Chicken bought us a couple tickets to see HAIR. I used to love that racy, off-color soundtrack. My mom came to babysit. In my best moods, my mom’s mom-ness challenges me not to be a raving bitch. In this case I was a wreck. Off the heels from Barkapalooza 2011-12 I was convinced Nyla had turned from Jekyll to Hyde. So when my mom arrived, I was the one barking. Orders. And stressing. So badly that I called her a couple times to say sorry. From the theatre. While the lights dimmed.

And guess what? Nyla was fine! She barked a couple times when Moms arrived and that was it. Nobody lost an ankle. Or an eye.

The next day she was fine again!

Over the weekend our friend Danielle visited. She is a dog-loving, fun-loving woman. Nyla was cautious at first but soon warmed up to D and the two shared some love, which was a sweet relief to behold. We all rollicked and walked and sat around. The weather was gorge. I felt a little embarrassed that I’d been so out of control with my fears. But Danielle assured me it was okay. And I believed her. Mostly. She’s known me a long time. She took that picture by the way. It’s a keeper.

We talked about how in life, the toughest problems often are solved with the easiest answers. You know how sometimes you think you have to make a huge change in your life in order to be happy? Maybe you think you need to leave your spouse, or change your career, move to Istanbul, direct a feature film or return your shelter dog. Just thinking about all the work ahead feels so heavy, so burdensome that you just wind up napping. But when you wake up you brush your teeth, eat a little something, maybe talk to a friend, check your email… And slowly your impossible situation feels an eensy bit possible.

I told Danielle how one morning when Nyla barked at the neighbor man taking out his garbage, I got all anxious. This was a couple mornings after we’d returned home from the Poconos. I was sure I’d need to do something impossible in order to get her to stop, something that would entail time, money, and getting Bryan and the kids on board so that the entire family would become one pulsating, synchronized dog-training machine. AS IF! After a few moments of stressing to the hilt, out of exasperation, I just yelled, SHUSH. And you know what that dang dog did? She shushed! She rolled over on her back and gave me belly. It was a literal turning point. And I realized how SIMPLE life can be. And like Byron Katie says (remember when I used to blog about her?), reality is always kinder than the monsters we create in our heads.

I have always been good at creating monsters.

Later on one of the neighborhood dads came to retrieve his kids. Nyla didn’t make a peep. I clapped my hands and did a little dance. Danielle helped me realize that I probably jumped the gun taking the dog to the Poconos to meet and hang with so many members of my extended family. In this case there was no alternative. Still, had I known what we were in for I would have at least instructed everyone to ignore her, to give her space, to let her approach them.

But you live, you learn. You blog, and you receive comments like the ones I received from you, letting me know this situation would improve, and sharing your experiences with me. You were right. And I thank you! Fuck the vet! I read every one of your comments twice, and read them aloud to Bryan who also really appreciated them. There is nothing sweeter than knowing you are not alone in a lonely, difficult situation. Inspired by you, I have an appointment with a local trainer. Because even though things have settled down, I’d love a pro to evaluate us and give us some moves to put into action.

So here’s to you, to making progress, and to the monsters. May I be smart enough in this lifetime to commit them to paper and make money off of them instead of believing they are real. And may I remember, when life feels insurmountable, to just SHUSH THE DOG.

Love,

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.

Experience tells me I’d be worse off right now without Primal. But I can safely say I’ve officially spiraled into the snake pit, like in the old carbivorous days. Yesterday I awoke in a mild panic, overwhelmed by the cold, the darkness, the looming tasks of the day. Today I did the same. I sobbed and panicked in front of the children to the point where Spike offered hugs and happy pills. He even volunteered to walk the dog after refusing due to inclement weather. I may have cried to manipulate him into taking her. I really may have. Which you know means that I did. Oh the shame!

I spewed my fears to everyone I encountered like a sympathy whore, begging them to reassure me that Everything Will Be Okay. I wept the day away and just now raged at the kids till Spike was in tears, yelled at Peaches to shut up, and slammed the door on my way to my room to hide my sorry-ass self.

I have not felt this way in six fucking months. I HATE myself in this mode. I am mean, ineffective, filled with pain and shame. It is THIS nightmare state of mind that Primal rescued me from up till now. Can you see why I might sound a little preachy, being freed from that tyranny?

Maybe I can blame food for my downfall—I certainly ate more sugar and grain than normally over the holidays. I ate factory farmed meat. I had coffee with milk, chips and salsa, enchiladas, cornmeal-crusted founder. I ate gluten-free chocolate cookies, rum balls, pecan pie filling scooped out from the flaky, floury crust. I veered from my typical fare, but not very far. Not so far that I’d be wracked with sobs in front of the kids.

Maybe I’ll never know.

And maybe it’s not the food.

Maybe it’s the dog.

The fucking dog.

Owning this fucking dog has been an emotional roller coaster, for lack of a less hackneyed cliche. Her affection and loyalty nearly knocks the wind out of me. It’s almost disgraceful. How sweet and patient she is with Spike and Peaches. How house-trained she is. She’s so warm and cozy on my lap she’s practically narcotic. We’ve taught her to fetch and discovered that she can run and leap like a Lilliputian thoroughbred. She follows me everywhere and doesn’t need to be leashed at home; she comes, to me anyway, on command. She’s trainable: she knows not to sit on my lap unless I invite her, as long as I don’t get lazy about it. She waits till I enter the house first. She sleeps through the night. She’s cute as hell.

Speaking of hell…

We took her to the Poconos over the holidays. And a different, much more fearful, much more aggressive Nyla emerged: she growled and barked at everyone—nieces, nephews, siblings, grandparents. She nipped my sister-in-law—when SIL was being playful, Nyla interpreted it as a threat. The same thing happened with my teenaged niece, who squatted to pet Nyla, lost her balance and stumbled. Nyla lunged at her, teeth bared and snarling. Thankfully my niece leapt out of the way. Someone else might not be that lucky. And I fear that bad luck cascading over my family like a black waterfall. When I sat with Nyla she vibrated with fear.

Yes it was her first family vacation. Yes we’re all still acclimating. And no, she didn’t actually bite anyone. But a spinning mind at three AM does not rationalize on the side of peaceful thoughts. It races all the way to the emergency room, where Peaches is getting her face stitched up. And to the courtroom, where we’re getting sued by the neighbors for the loss of their child’s eye.

I keep asking myself if I’ve lost all perspective. Maybe I have. Or maybe I simply don’t want to deal with this shit.

Nyla was ecstatic to be home but instead of returning to her more amiable, easy-going ways, she barked at the neighbor boys. She hadn’t barked at them previously. She barked incessantly at the boys’ dad. I crated her when a toddler visited. She fears other animals, barks and growls at them too. And today she tried to kill the vet, a gentle bespectacled young man who told me that as Nyla grows more comfortable with my family, she won’t grow out of her fear; rather she will probably become more aggressive to outsiders. He said I might have to close her in a room when visitors arrive, and to be very careful that she doesn’t bite anyone.

We’re having fourteen family members for dinner in two weeks. As if executing the meal isn’t enough, now we get to worry about how the dog will fare. Will she lunge at uncle Michael? Will she growl at cousin Sam? Will we lock her in Spike’s room, only to have to endure her scratching, whining and crying during our meal?

Calmness has left the fucking building. I HATE this shit. And if your only thought is that I am callous and self-pitying, that I should have known what I was in for, I say, THEN YOU TAKE THE DAMN DOG.

The stress of the vet’s pronouncement, along with the fact that dinner was running late and Spike was freaking out about his homework while Peaches antagonized him, threw me Over The Edge. Spike wailed, “You’re mean, Mommy!” and I said, “We wouldn’t be so upset if it weren’t for that goddamned dog! If we didn’t have to go to the vet, I’d have cooked by now! I’d be helping you with your homework! The vet said she’s just going to get worse!” He cowered in fear and wailed. I remembered that we’re not supposed to scream in front of the dog.

FUCK!!!

Spike was right. I was mean. And I hated myself for it.

I thought, I can’t believe it. I’m back to where I started, with the rage, the guilt, the shame.

GREAT.

And the irony? It was my feeling of invincibility inspired by my Primal diet that led me to think owning a dog was a Splendid Idea. And now that I am no longer invincible, this eight-pound rescue mutt who craves my lap like a junkie craves smack has driven a wedge between me and my former, fleeting sanity.

AND. I. WANT. IT. BACK.

God I want it back.

Sigh.

well anyway. I just wanted to let you know.

Happy fucking new year.

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.

If I don’t make some money for this family by next Fall, we be eating our grass-fed meatballs and pastured chicken necks under a bridge since that’s where we be living. Know what I’m saying? I be meeting with a girl I know to talk about writing coaching today. We be meeting at Starbucks. I’m going to treat myself to a decaf cappuccino. Word. Think I be a good writing coach? I don’t know. Maybe I suck dookey. Maybe I be good.

I be working on revising my novel for the fourth time. My agent she loves it. The publishers not so much. I be rejected six times now. I keep working on it, between dog walks and chicken necks. Rejection is part of the game yo. That Help lady, she got sixty rejections. I like that rejection story so much I hold it in my pocket like a marble I stole from Spike. It gets warm in there sitting up close to my skin.

Nervous. I admit it. Like I been flung out into space. Black with white stars. Nothing solid. Nyla eclipsed my nutrition obsession. Was that solid ground? earthen dirt? Bedrock? Now I’m just floating. Deep space. Black holes. Waiting. For what? For money? What money do. Money makes things calm. Quiet. Why not just get calm then. Money follow calm. Swamp Chicken say not to worry. I try that again. Then float in space. Wait some more.

Yip. Woof. Awoooo!

Used to be I had a different life. Way before kids. New York City. Actress. Writer. Temp. Eat in restaurants. Drink in bars. Stay out till three. Next morning panic about what I said might offend someone I barely even know. Now in the kitchen with meaty bones. Wooden spoons. Sink spigot. Pyrex. Kids fighting in the living room. Dog snoozing on the sofa. Waiting for my man get home from work. The book I write, the one I revise, it speaks of these things. These things and more. Of wanting.

That domestic dream. I live it, but there’s always more to want. Wanting can be a pain. Wanting cause conflict. Conflict cause drama. Drama make story. Story make money.

Pray.

Not wanting is where it’s at. That’s where the real money be. Not green money or silvery coin money. Got so much I gotta give some away richness money. Saying thank you all the time money. How’d I get so lucky money. You can have that without ever reaching the top tax bracket. You can have that with just seventy-five grand. If you’re talking about a family of four. Time Magazine say so. But are we four or five now? And them holiday bonuses shrunk. Seventy-five who? What? Where? When? How?

I’d like to blame the economy. Thank the academy.

It’s nine in the morning but it feel like two AM. Tired I feel all the time now. New mouth to feed now. She cute and all but. Shit. I guess it’s still new. It still take getting used to. Everyone I cry my story to, they got stories of they own. Everyone seem to want to rid themselves of a new puppy. Hot dog. Schnoodle. Labradoodle-doo. Everyone say so and make me feel better. I hold their stories in my pocket with that warm marble. Roll it between my fingers.

But is this all about puppy? She be set on my lap as I blog this post. She just set on laps all day if I let her. She fine. She fine. It’s me. My head. My attitude.

This reminds me.

Nah I forget.

I think there’s a prison in my head I gotta break out from. I think that’s what it is. Creativity. Imagination. Set my story right. Work the drama. Take the conflict I feel in my gut and puke it on the page.

This my blog and I’ll drive it anywhere it take me. Just hang on. Go WEEEEEEE!!! Just go along with the rivery watery flow. it reflect white stars. Black space. It know where it wanna take you. It got its course set. Don’t be all thinking you know where to go because you don’t. It know, that thing inside you. Everyone got one. Just sit down and shut up and you hear it. Whisper. It say: walk the dog. It say: quiet now. It say: write. It say: breathe.

Peace out yo.

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.

Then a tiny terrier mix came bounding out of the store and the kids could not leap down from their game fast enough to pet her. “Who is this?!” I asked, and it was Nyla!

They told us Nyla was a mystery. She was dropped off at the shelter with two other dogs and had been fearful, but was happy now. They told us she was six to twelve months old.

The kids couldn’t get enough of her and Nyla seemed to reciprocate. Lick! Lick!

When she started shivering from the cold Peaches wrapped her up and snuggled. I had never seen my kids bond like this with a doggie.

I asked if I could bring her home there and then, only half-kidding. I knew Swamp Chicken was still cautious, but he gave his approval. I was advised to make an appointment at the downtown location, meet Nyla and THEN possibly take her home. In the meantime the downtown guy was alerted via text.

Sunday was tree day. Cut your own at Linvilla Orchards.

Sunday was anticipation day. I called the the shelter just to reiterate my interest in adopting Nyla. Sunday night I slept maybe four hours. My eyes sprang open at 0330, my brain racing with thoughts of all that needed to be done. In the morning I would be possibly bringing Nyla home. There was so much to do! I spent the wee hours of the morning online, researching vets, training, feeding, supplies. By morning I was running on fumes, foggy and buzzed and determined.

As the kids got ready for school they asked again and again, “Will we have Nyla today?” And I said, furiously nodding, “I don’t know one-hundred per cent but think maybe so!” By one o’clock in the afternoon, I was speeding down Interstate 76 toward Philly Paws.

When I met Nyla again she was covered in her own poop. Her little vulva hung low like a penis and her teats swayed as she walked. Her rear legs looked bowed, elderly. How had I not noticed before? Maybe because she’d been wearing a pink sparkly harness. She ambled over to a secluded spot and crouched. When she was done squeezing honey mustard diarrhea from her little rectum she scooted over the pebbly ground, scraping her butt. Charming.

I asked what was up with the poop and her nipples, remarking that she must have had a litter before. The shelter dude shrugged as if to say, This is a city shelter. What do you expect? I asked Shelter Dude how old she was and he said three or four. Years? I said. Years, he said. I thought she was under a year. Oh. Well. Let me check her paper again. Hm. Oh yes, six to twelve months. Shrug.

I glossed over all these tiny details. I was on a mission. I had to take this doggie home. This was the ONE. I had to greet the kids with her after school. In the back of my mind I also knew that at some point I would have to sleep, but when?

Quick as I could, I filled out the forms, handed over my credit card and Nyla was mine. In the minivan I called Swamp Chicken. “We have a dog! And she’s covered in shit!”

Great, he said.

All the way back to Petco with Nyla on my lap, tiny thoughts seeped into my sleep-deprived brain. Thoughts like, What the hell am I doing? Who the hell have I become? I’m not a dog person! And something about being possessed.

I patted her gently on her poopy fur. I looked at her sweet confused face. She stayed curled on my thighs the entire time, shivering.

At Petco I bought her a crate, treats and food, a collar, leash, harness, two beds, three toys, shampoo, compostable poop bags. I couldn’t grab crap from the shelves fast enough. My tally, including the adoption fee, was almost $250.

There was no time to bathe her before picking the kids up. At school she caused a sensation, even dirty. I warned everyone but they didn’t care. The other moms looked at me charitably. I could see the gratitude in their eyes—gratitude that they weren’t dog owners.

I got Nyla and the kids out of there quickly, to get her into the bathtub which she did not care for. She would need to be professionally groomed soon. Still, the poopy fur was now clean, and after I changed out of my poop-dusted clothes, I sat with her on my lap. And sat, and sat and sat.

That night she slept in bed with Swamp Chicken and me. At one point she hopped down to the floor and left a load of diarrhea on my nice wheat-colored carpet. The odor was so strong, so foul, it felt too big for the room. Then she puked on the bed. Every hour she hopped to the floor and every hour Swamp Chicken and I bolted up in anticipation, more sleep-deprived than we’d been since Peaches was a baby. I scooped her into my arms and ran outside in the drizzly cold half-naked to ensure that she didn’t go on the rug again. She went outside, didn’t try to escape or anything. Squeezed her mustardy load and trotted right back into the house.

During one bleary-eyed excursion she jumped into Peaches’s bed and curled up on her pillow, almost on top of her head. Peaches woke up and said, “Can you take Nyla? She’s smooching around on my pillow. I don’t like it.”

At around four AM she burrowed into our covers like the ratter she was bred to be however many years ago. Then she puked again.

At around five I began to cry.

And cry. And cry. What have I done? I wailed. I don’t want this! This is not what I want! What was I thinking? We were finally freer than we’d been since before the kids were born! I can’t function without sleep! Who is this stranger? This intruder? Our lives will never be the same again! Oh my GOD, Nooooo!!!!!!

Swamp Chicken held me and soothed me with supportive words. The next day, groggy with exhaustion, he stayed home to help care for our new baby.

In the morning I brought Nyla out front to pee. Our neighbor Marilyn* was on her way to work, but she got out of her car to come meet our new addition. Her Jack Russell had just been euthanized and it had been a rough time for them both. Marilyn pet Nyla while I burst into tears. She soothed me and brought me two giant packs of pee pads. Another neighbor walked by with her two dogs—a puggle and a Yorkie. I sobbed to her too. She offered us a bigger crate. A travel carrier. More pee pads. Told us it would get better. She promised.

During the day I drove to Petco for more supplies, exchanging and returning as I focussed in on what it was that we really needed—a striped sweater. A bone-shaped chrome ID tag. The receipts piled up. I loaded up on books from the library. I read and researched, stroking Nyla on my lap the whole time.

Nyla wouldn’t go into her new crate. She pooped on the dining room floor. She peed in Spike’s room. She peed next to the Christmas tree. We walked her in the rain. She hated it. I hated it. Swamp Chicken cried. “I wish I could make time go in reverse.”

By dinnertime Peaches said she didn’t like Nyla anymore, that she wasn’t the same dog she met at Petco. I couldn’t help but agree. If only Spike would come on board, we could just return her. I would be the neighborhood pariah, the most lothesome of all creatures, but in my exhausted stressed state, it seemed perfectly acceptable. It would be a blip that we would all transcend. One day.

There was only one thing to do: phone my mom. “I think I made the biggest mistake of my life!” I wailed.

She said, “Eh, give her back. The kids’ll get over it.” My mother has always been quick to flippantly dismiss life’s greater conflicts.

“But Mom, Spike said he would kill someone if we returned her.”

“Eh. “he’s not killing anyone. He’ll be fine.”

“I don’t think so. He’ll never trust us again.”

“Well Elise, who’s in charge? you or him?”

“Good point. I really don’t think I want this.”

My mom laughed at me. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But it’s hilarious.” Then she told me a story. “When I was a little girl, my father brought home a puppy—a collie-shepherd mix.” How did I not know this piece of my mother’s history? “The oven door was open, it wasn’t on, just open. The puppy jumped right in. My dad said, well that’s a tough little guy, huh? And we named him Tuffy. Well Elise, Tuffy grew. And grew. And grew. He grew so big that when he wagged his tail, the lamps shook. And one day my mother said, either that dog goes, or I go. I was fourteen by then. And my father gave her away. I wanted him to give my mother away. Elise I LOVED that dog. Every day when I got home from junior high, Tuffy would bound down the street and jump on me. He was my best friend. And you know what? I got over it.”

I couldn’t relay the story to the kids fast enough. They were not impressed, though Swamp Chicken for once hung on my every word. Spike threatened to kill me if we got rid of Nyla. I confessed to the kids that we may have been wrong about getting a dog. Spike wailed and cried. “We are not giving her away!” I cried some more, told him how much I loved him, how sorry I was for breaking his heart, how confused I was, how scared and anxious and unprepared. I also told him that he needed to smell her poop, help clean it up, see what it was like to have a dog puke in his bed, wake him in the middle of the night. He declined to involve himself with such things unless we promised to keep her.

It was ugly, one of the most painful horrible moments of my parenting life.

For sleep on her second night we baby-gated our bathroom and put Nyla in there with blankets and a new pee-pee pad. SC and I slept downstairs in the guest room so we wouldn’t have to hear or smell her. She whimpered a bit and pooped all over the place but it was easily cleanable on the tile floor.

That second night I slept better. I still woke in the middle of the night, guilt and shame and overwhelming stress swirling in my head but I settled down and managed to sleep till morning. Once it was daytime I realized with a sliver of lightness, there’s just no way around it—we are keeping this dog.

Swamp Chicken left for work. The sun came out. Peaches and I walked Nyla. Peaches danced for Nyla. Held her on her lap. My sister came over and met her. I fed Nyla raw chicken necks from Hendrick’s Farm, the same necks I use in my stock because you know this dog will be as Primal as yours truly. She loved them. Crunch! Crunch! Her diarrhea cleared that day, like storm clouds. She rolled onto her back for belly rubs. She barked at the piano teacher. Wagged her tail and trotted along with me everywhere.

Swamp Chicken called to say that he felt like he was going through the stages of grief, especially the guilt and anger. He said it was as if a thousand doors had closed. Doors representing our ability to travel, to be spontaneous, to sleep through the night.

But he wasn’t with Nyla during the day. Wasn’t with her when she made her first solid poopy outside, when she wore her new sweater, when she smelled like berries after her first grooming. He wasn’t with her when people stopped to pet her and smile and remark on her goodness and sweet nature. He wasn’t there on walks, witnessing how the world lights up when you have a cute doggie. Everyone smiles. Talks to you. Opens their hearts. Like a door.

Woof!

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.

To reiterate, I have cut all processed foods from my diet, including omega-6 rich vegetable oils, even expeller-pressed canola. I’ve eaten no grains, legumes or sugar, save a small ramekin of Swamp Chicken’s homemade pumpkin custard or a square of dark chocolate now and then. I’ve been eating eggs, meat (including skin, marrow, broth and organs), vegetables, fruit, heavy cream, butter, and the requisite Paleo-friendly coconut products: milk, cream, butter, oil…

In these five months, I have experienced bouts of bloating and constipation. That is the sucky news, the bloaty part where I feel three months pregnant with a baby made of stagnant slurry.

The good part is this—in these five months I have never been happier, especially in times of smelly brown bounty in my bowl and abs flatness. I’ve never felt stronger, more capable, more confident in my entire life. My self-esteem has never been steadier. Here is an example of me before Primal. Can you tell the difference? I really did take to the floor. I’m glad I chronicled it.

I have never been more thankful for all I have in this fortunate life. I have never been nicer to my children. I am patient with my mother. Mostly. I am patient and loving with myself for the first time ever. I have grown sure of my right to exist, to exert my opinion, where I used to marinate in a stew of shame. My mind has grown quiet and clear. Where there once grew a weedy thatch of insecurity, second-guessing and self-doubt, there is now a clearing, a meticulous meadow where the sun shines in a cloudless sky. I spend loads of time in the kitchen, just cooking, and loving it. The peace of it. The accomplishment, the creativity.

It is nothing short of a miracle.

Physically there are numerous gains—my split ends are disappearing, leaving my hair to shine, liberating me from my former frizzy halo of the pubic-grotesque. My nails are hard and grow fast. My skin has never looked more luminous. Maybe it never looked luminous. Now it looks good, smooth with rosy undertones, even as I collect crows’ feet and fine lines.

My cellulite has not disappeared but its appearance has diminished. I can look at myself naked in the mirror and like what I see, not run away in horror. Of course with improved self-esteem it could just be my attitude that’s changed and not my ass. But Swamp Chicken has told me unprovoked that things are looking smoother in the rearview. Again, he is not the best judge. He has to live with me. The kids though, they love smacking my butt, watching as it wiggles. They both say it wiggles less.

Can I hear a hallelujah?

And I barely work out anymore.

I have grown half an inch. Before Peaches and Spike came along I was five foot five and a half. After birthing those angels I developed degenerative spine disease—arthritis, scoliosis, bulging discs—and lost an inch. I was 5’4.5″ last year. Now I’m 5’5″. At the doctor’s office the other day I had the nurse measure twice to make sure.

My back no longer hurts like it used to. I don’t know if that’s due to the diet, which is anti-inflammatory, or if it also has something to do with my quitting yoga. It’s likely both.

At night in my bed I clasp my hands together and whisper thanks.

Chapter Two,

In which I tell you that I have high cholesterol.

286.

Chapter Three,

In which I picture you suddenly as my arch nemesis, my worst enemy, my former hating little troll who lived inside my brain and tortured me relentlessly. I remember her well. She was small and scrawny with razor blade scars on her wrists and overly plucked eyebrows. She/You say HA! You’re going to die at fifty-two, silly girl. You can’t eat a diet of meat, of fat, of heavy whipping cream and not kill yourself. You think you’re so hot slurping raw egg yolks in the morning? Well you are deluded and I am glad you shared this information with me because now I don’t have to give up my morning bagel. By the way, are you fat now?

Um. Really?

Chapter Four,

In which I tell you I understand. In which I approach you slowly, with tenderness. In which you metamorphose before my very eyes into a kind-hearted friend. I tell you that we live in a culture that increasingly demonizes saturated fat and meat. I was a vegetarian for twelve years for crying out loud. I ate low-fat pizza muffins and did aerobics in the 80s. I was miserable for forty fucking years. You know this.

This is the chapter in which I explain to your open ears that in order to fully embrace a Primal lifestyle, we have to dismantle the entire ticking timebomb of conventional dietary knowledge down to its mythical, deadly core. We can start with this yolk-yellow wire here: eating cholesterol-rich foods does not necessarily raise blood cholesterol levels. Wait a minute—then why is mine 286? I’m working on the answer to that one. It might be because my LDL particles have grown in size—a good thing because large LDL particles cannot penetrate the arterial wall like the small dense particles can—and the blood-test possibly measures the volume of the cholesterol in my blood rather than the amount of particles. Like I said, I’m checking into it. There’s also a test out there that measures your particle size. It’s called a VAP. Maybe I’ll ask Santa for one this year.

It might be a good thing that my cholesterol is high. According to Dr. Cate Shanahan, ”Women with the lowest cholesterol levels have five times the rates of premature births as women with high cholesterol.” Dr. Cate also says that babies born to moms with low cholesterol are smaller and have abnormally small brains. Yikes. My cholesterol must have been okay when I was pregnant because both my kids weighed over eight pounds and their brains are humongous. (I have to say that. I’m their mother.) There’s also evidence that low cholesterol can lead to depression and early death. Here’s Andrew Weil on the subject.

From there we can move onto the red wire—the fact that science has never proven that saturated fat and cholesterol cause heart disease or early death. Here is a short video to illustrate:

We can see that Gary Taubes has high cholesterol (204 total, not that high for a guy who eats a pound of red meat a day) and doesn’t care. So does the Healthy Skeptic, who cares so little he made two videos about it. They include more information about LDL particle size. And you can watch an entire movie that debunks Ancel Keys’s lipid hypothesis called Fat Head. It’s funny. Here’s the trailer:

We also have to look at this green wire. Careful now. It corresponds to the drug companies and the financial stake in our perceived sickness. For this I quote you a tidbit from my beloved book Deep Nutrition, by Dr. Cate—”…Years ago if your total cholesterol was 300 or less, your doctor would have said you were fine. That number was lowered to 200… LDL ‘safe’ levels have been lowered from 200 to 160, to 130, to 100 and now 80… The average person’s LDL is still what it’s always been, around 120-130. The 2001 revision of the cholesterol guidelines means nearly half of the U.S. population can now be labeled ‘high risk.’ And drug companies are raking it in.”

2.8.6.

You want books? How about The Great Cholesterol Con. Or Fat and Cholesterol Are Good For You. Or Good Calories Bad Calories. If you don’t want books I got links. Here’s Mark Sisson. Here’s Chris Masterjohn. The information that refutes conventional knowledge is out there. It’s there, there, and there.

Or you could look at my shiny hair.

Chapter Five,

In which I relate that a very wise friend said to me on the phone last night that she would rather die happy and vibrant at fifty-two than live to ninety being a miserable bitch. You know, just in case I’m wrong about all this cholesterol stuff. It’s a big salty tide to swim against.

If I’m right though, hallelujah. If it turns out that high cholesterol is a good thing, which I believe, then we can all enjoy our pate and egg yolks, and we’ll all be happy shiny people.

Epilogue,

Last June when I was eating a high-fat Weston Price style diet, I had a fasting lipid panel done. My total cholesterol was 263 (high). My HDL was 85 (in range), triglycerides 44 (in range) and LDL 169 (high). What Dr. Cate and others like her look for is an LDL no higher than three times the HDL, HDL over 50 for women (45 for men) and triglycerides less than 150. I scored well in all three categories.

I stand here typing while Swamp Chicken irons his work clothes. Peaches prowls the dining room for one more library book to read before she lays herself to sleep. Spike lounges in bed with Horace Splattly, the Cupcaked Crusader. In January I will get another fasting lipid panel done so I have the important numbers and ratios to share, even if I have no plans to ever take statins.

In the meantime I will keep on cooking.

Lots of love,

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. 

Jessie is still so cute and I will remember our time together fondly and hope that her new owners will lavish her with raw pastured chicken so her coat may grow glossy and her mange fade into the distant past. The photo above has nothing to do with anything I just wrote. I just like it. It’s Spike. In a mischievous mood.

Below however, this is relevant. Those are my sisters flanking me. The one on the left is reading The Primal Blueprint and wading into Primal waters, which excites me. The one on the right is the doctor in the family, the vegetarian. She is eerily supportive of my Born Again Eating. I think it was when I told her I no longer wanted to die. She said she couldn’t imagine feeling that way, and said, “very interesting,” over and over when I explained what the diet entailed. I am very thankful for her support and harbor secret fantasies of converting her entire family.

Here we are serenading our brother with Monkees tunes. Teasing him. We are having a good time after stuffing ourselves with frittatas that Swamp Chicken and I made for Saturday brunch. Because we didn’t eat enough on Thursday. My brother, not pictured, sits across from us crossing his arms and legs. Discomfort and possibly fear color his aura. We sing louder. He grimaces. We joke that he is repressed and we are free. It satisfies.

But what does this picture have to do with adopting a dog? Well, I got approved to adopt Friday night. My sisters were there, armed and ready with doggie horror stories—aggressive dogs, sick dogs, dogs that need constant care, dogs that take over your life in unsavory and smelly ways. They dealt out all the reasons I should think twice before taking a furry friend home with me like Vegas pros.

They almost scared me straight. But while Swamp Chicken huddled in a corner muttering, “Please, NO, No, No…” I remembered that you can become a foster parent for a doggie. Make a shorter, less pricey commitment. Test-run my new dog-owner identity. So I’m looking into that. Woof!

Below is a shot that Peaches art directed herself at Ikea the other day. She fancied the selection of fake flowers something awful. Those, and the silicone heart-shaped ice-cube trays, hand-puppets, pink reading lamps, purple love-seats, sheepskin rugs, bedazzled mirror frames and velvet pillows. But I gotta say, $2.99 for a fake flower is outrageous for a place that sells a six-pack of drinking glasses for $3.99. Unless I read the price tag wrong. Anyway, My daughter loves herself some Berry Pop. That desire, I was happy to indulge.

Hope you had the best T-giving ever. Thanks for reading, and I’ve got an official health status update coming soon for those of you who liken me to their own personal guinea pig.

Lots of love,

No really, Jessie is a city street doggie I met in a Winnebago outside my neighborhood Petco. She came from Philly PAWS.

I think she’s an old soul. Look at that face. Hello Jessie! Hello!

I’ve only owned cats in my life, but my house keeps chanting for a dog. The sidewalks in my neighborhood want to see more of me with a canine companion and some biodegradable poopy bags.

This new yearning does not feel like an escapist delusion, like say, back when I yearned for a weimaraner as a freshly minted college grad with no home or job to speak of. This is more basic. Almost biological.

Now my friends have another reason to think I’m insane. Dogs are hard work. Like having another child. Am I crazy?

YES!

I’ve been strategically wearing Swamp Chicken down for the past year about this. Because he thinks it’s the dumbest idea ever. No really. He likes the idea of playing with a dog. Not a chihuahua though. He likes the idea of playing with a not-too-drooly lab or an Australian shepherd. But when I returned home from my walk the other day armed with these pics and an adoption application he said, “All right, go ahead.” Then he got rip-roaring drunk.

Kidding! Really I think the words “city stray” got him. He is borne out of a serving family after all—a preacher and a dialysis nurse. A mangy stray from the gritty streets should be right up his alley.

Sounds logical to me.

So I’ve taken the next step and applied to adopt or maybe foster Jessie. Her mange is clearing right up you know. Mange from being malnourished.

I think she’ll like a Paleo doggie diet.

Woof!

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.

Alone in my room, I can be anyone, do anything! What, I ask you, are children? Who needs money when you can cozy up in bed and let your mind wander? The infinite abundance I seek is inside! If you want you can write your thoughts down. Type an email to yourself, or better yet—talk to yourself. Even better, record yourself using in that voice memo app that came with your phone, the one with the old fashioned mic and the needle thingy that jumps when you talk.

So satisfying.

You can play it back, listening for nuggets of something solid and poignant as you note that your voice sounds eerily like your older sister’s. And as you listen to yourself struggle through the tough and rough bits you realize you have a friend. She’s always been there for you, and she is entranced by you the way you wanted all those boys to be way back when during your last life on earth. She is your childhood imaginary dog, your fairy godmother, your analyst. And she has all the answers.

You don’t think for a second that you are a complete mental patient, but you don’t race for the phone to make plans with other humans either. It’s cushiony soft in your cocoon. It’s safe. You remain there, talking, talking. The sun sets. The windows blacken. And still you talk.

Swamp Chicken is good to me. By Friday he is well-fed and if I want a night off I can have it. Believe me, it’s better for the whole family if Mommy gets a break now and then. Peaches knows. She got the worst of it this morning. My raised voice, the slammed doors. But children are so sweet. Forgiving. Thank you Peaches. Thank you.

Between episodes of Medicine Men Go Wild, I chew the beef stew that Swamp Chicken made from a shin bone and a Halloween pumpkin. The stew itself is swampy, thick, salty, brown. I crunch on a few forkfuls of homemade magenta kimchi. I wonder how long I can keep this up—this lack of complete mental breakdown. This insane sanity.

I witness my intensity for Paleo mellowing, its flame shrinking, growing gray-blue in the fireplace, finding me pulling my cardigan tighter around my chest. There’s nowhere to go from here except into some version of normalcy where I just eat this way and accept that most others do not. My crazy wears down, a dull knife. A faded quilt. Commonplace.

Maybe I am through shouting from the heavens, stabbing the skies, in this my fifth Primal month. The proof of the diet’s efficacy rests in the fact that despite my dead battery days, despite my fears, resentments and fuck-ups, I am functioning without imploding. The floor has yet to claim me. If you’ve ever experienced withering self-hatred you know that this is BIG. So forgive me if I’ve offended you along the way. I can be clumsy in my caring.

The children are reading with their father while I type. The house is quieting down.

It’s 11-11-11. Make a wish.

School parade. Sweets included. Natch.

Sitting on the front porch huddled in my down coat and sequined devil horns gave me a front-row seat for the big candy-less experiment the night of All Hallow’s Eve. It turns out that the neighborhood kids—from chubby-fingered toddlers to pillowcase-bearing teenagers—and the parents, were stoked about what we gave out.

What wound up happening with the candy is that Peaches and Spike ate three pieces each the night of, a piece or two the day after, and then we forgot about it.

Zombie Power Ranger loves raw milk.

By the way, Spike discovered that he actually likes chocolate. Not Nestle Crunch bars so much as Kit-Kats. It figures.

So yeah. The kids have yet to sell me their candy like we’d agreed upon, and I have yet to remind them because I’m afraid of inspiring a sugar-begging fest.

Peaches and I did manage to separate and count one morning—they each logged about 60 pieces—but we never got around to the actual sale. Instead, life distracted us all.

Peaches traded her Rapunzel wig for some purple fangs from the Trick-or-Treat bowl.

This morning I finally stashed their stashes in Zip-Locks. I’m not donating it for the same reason I wouldn’t donate crack. And I’m not throwing it away, in the interest of staving off a mutiny, should they remember out of the blue. That, and possibly negotiating a sale sometime in the future.

Barbunzel at the beginning of the night.

I guess I want them on board for their loot’s demise. Well, kind of. Knowing me, I might just chuck it all one day in the throes of a mad houseclean—you know, years from now when I’ve forgotten it ever existed, when the chocolate leaks chalky white like battery acid from its cellophane confines and the fruity stuff solders together like rainbow steel.

YUMMO.

Until then, Happy November!