I finally found it. I’ve been looking for it since last night. I don’t even know how it came up. I was talking with the kids after dinner. We had fish—a nice frozen white filet of some sort from Trader Joe’s that I’d defrosted in the fridge and refroze about three times before finally committing to the thing. I hate eating fish when it’s raining. It’s too much water element, you know? It depresses me. And I always think I’ve scored the deal of the century buying a frozen fish filet at Trader Joe’s, but the things are still like six dollars a pound which ain’t cheap.
Both posts deal with my latest dietary development—the sad and slightly mortifying fact that my diet may not actually be the magic bullet I’d yearned for, the magic bullet it felt like for a few months there, the very one I’ve been blogging about for almost a year, when I started in July, 2011.
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.
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.
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.
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.
We visited our old stomping ground this past weekend. Meaning Brooklyn. Swamp Chicken grew up in Brooklyn. His parents still live there. My father-in-law is a retired pastor and the church where he preached from 1969 to 1991 was celebrating its 85th birthday. Everyone met at an Italian restaurant in Coney Island to take part in the festivities—balloons, slideshow, DJ… It was just like a bar mitzvah! And I was the token anti-Christ. I mean atheist.
Wait a—did I say Italian restaurant??
My vacuum cleaner broke. It was a wedding shower gift. In 1995. It was duct taped together at every sucking articulating orifice and the cord stopped rewinding and the bags were hard to find unless I went to the creepy hardware store, and, well, it finally died. Now I want this one.
I’m a writer. Even if I don’t always get paid for it, it’s what I do. And it’s a really solitary job, even though I get so much creative satisfaction from writing and sharing and hearing from people who connect with my work.
It dawned on me this morning that in bashing romantic comedies during my previous post, I wasn’t specific enough. Because, like, I wrote a romantic comedy and I don’t want to denigrate my own work, even if I’m not exactly drawn to the genre so much these days.
Star Craving Mad was published way before I became the obsessed, admittedly rigid and oft humorless Primal mother you’ve come to know and maybe resent.