We just got home from Venice. This is my first time contributing to the Whole30 blog today because I already wrote 2900 words on another topic – winning political arguments. I had a blow out with an old classmate followed by an accusation towards my own mother in the last two days and they got me thinking – I’m not actually accomplishing anything by proving that I’m right if someone else doesn’t walk away feeling like they were heard. Nobody wants to learn from an asshole.
I pulled over on the side of Pacific Ave to write some thoughts that were tearing me up while Alexis scored a new pea coat from Gotta Have It thrift shop.
I don’t want you to feel neglected. I just need you to know that I took some time to work on me this afternoon. Hopefully, I will stop buying voodoo dolls in the shape of my internet foes as a result.
Not much going on there folks. It was harder than we thought to get some Whole30 compliant breakfast this morning on the West side. I ended up having half of a shitty green smoothie that tasted like dry wall spackle topped off with spirulina. Alexis had a fruit bowl with a kale, spinach, and avocado puree. She liked hers. Convenient.
I know one thing for sure – my first meal of the day needs to be cooked. My stomach turns to Chinatown quickly if I don’t start with something warm. I don’t even know what that means but I mean it to mean something gruesome.
We walked a good four miles on the boardwalk. We saw a roller hockey game, a 200 person dodgeball match, synchronized homeless beat-boxing, a rugby match, ultimate volleyball, and a lot of fake cans. The Venice boardwalk is certainly unlike any other place.
I am debating whether or not to complain about our hotel room to Expedia. I have gotten accustomed to writing sharp letters when I’m dissatisfied with services I pay for. Our mattress felt a lot like the night I spent in jail and every time we moved it squeaked a very high-pitched squeak. Normally, you want to earn your bed noises but these came for nothing.
Alexis says it’s not grounds enough to ask for our money back. That ultimately there was nothing wrong with our room.
It’s a fine line, lady.
I bought her a surprise gift this morning. It will arrive on Tuesday and I told her that she was going to “completely freak out.” I often think I won’t say anything. Just act casual until it arrives at the front door. Like how a monk would likely give a gift. But this puts some pazaaz in our life and makes her uneasy for the next few days. Sometimes after we get into fights I write in my journal that we have given each other the gift of feeling alive, which is a hell of a lot better than feeling nothing at all. I also hide behind doors for upwards of twenty minutes to scare her after her showers. All things I believe enhance our relationship and create a more exciting living experience.
The problem with sitting down to write “catch up” is that I lose all of the intricate, nuanced thoughts that I consider to be “my style.” I only have these thoughts for brief seconds and if I don’t write them down on the laptop or on my phone they will be gone forever. And it only comes out correctly the first time. If I try to reconstruct from a scribble then I will always lose the flow or the power of delivery. It’s a torture mechanism for writers. To be constantly fed bits of clever writing and completely lack the mental capacity to remember any of it.
I will tell you this – because I wrote it on my phone when it happened – we stopped at Whole Foods on our way out of town because we could assure ourselves a clean meal. The same Whole Foods where they filmed the Whole Foods Parking Lot video. Which got a lot of shares in the yoga community when it first came out. People said it was hilarious. It’s possible that when I just watched it again, years later, I felt embarrassed for the guy and regret ever linking to his video in the first place. Journalistic integrity though. Can’t be angry at all the media outlets if I’m going to filter it here.
Anyway, we’re there, sifting through the buffet, and I’m fixated on the mac n cheese. Only I’m just staring. Countless people are walking up and helping themselves to big cheesy spoonfuls enjoying their lives and their freedom and I’m trying to reign in the tongs so I can pinch a few pieces of broccoli and eat like a kid who has just been grounded for busting out his screen window and sneaking across the street to French his neighborhood girlfriend at 3am. It’s only the kids who are in trouble who have to eat broccoli.
I settled on three chicken drumsticks and the goddamn broccoli. A scooped of spring mix and about thirty grams of sea salt. I figure, salt dissolves. And when it dissolves it needs to be replaced. Alternatively, and they use this technique with ice cubes in highly scientific parts of the world, you can create a mass of salt so large that it decreases the rate of dissolution. Which is what I do.
We swung by Ashley and Chris’ to grab our dawg. He had just done a stint at a fashion school in Paris and picked up a new, chic style of his own.
He has been surprisingly pretentious since being back in our house.
The books from Melissa came! They are personally addressed and signed and I’ve already put them up for sale on eBay to offset some of the cost of this diet.
Little does she know, my Whole30 experience is turning a corner. Because Chris asked if I had lost weight. He said he could see it in my face. Booyaa. #whole30 #changedmylife #myduckfaceisreal
I think I ate something not Whole30. Ben and I were at the neighborhood sports bar watching the Steelers and talking about how I could run for city council. I ordered grilled chicken breast with avocado and grilled veggies. I told him no sauce or sugar or anything like that. But it tasted a little too good and now my lips look like raisins. There is a familiar flavor in my mouth that I experienced after first eating Panda Express. I am afraid to go back to the restaurant and ask them what exactly was in it. At this point, I could still pass a polygraph. Although I feel deeply conflicted. Is it possible that I’m over-exaggerating?
I fucked up. I ate non-compliant food. I know it. I told him no sauce. I told him no sauce.
I need the antidote. It has moved into my lungs.
“Have fun starting over by yourself,” Alexis says as she unloads the groceries.
I think I’m dying.
Woody is eating cauliflower on his bed to rub it in my fucking face. You don’t even like cauliflower you ungrateful bastard. I’m taking your turtleneck and sending you back to Tijuana.
“I need to have some surgery done.”
“Because you ate fucking caramelized onions?” Ben replies inconsiderately.
We are talking about extending our Whole30 to 45 days to quiet all speculation. I can’t have a controversy like this follow me to the campaign trail.
By now you’re tired of hearing about my flare-ups. I just want to add that I ate something that would be considered “healthy” by any casual observer and I feel like I ate a tub of ice cream and three bags of Cheetos. And I can isolate the impacts it’s having specifically in my body. The chapness of my lips, heart burn through my chest, nausea in my stomach. My teeth are aching. My mouth is so dry. And my forearms are cramping. From a fucking chicken breast. Because the onions were probably cooked in butter and the green beans probably dropped in some kind of soy sauce.
I’m a failure.
Alexis is making cauliflower mashed potatoes, sauteed green beans, and rotisserie chicken. I will not be eating any of it. I will be in the corner. I actually hate myself right now.
I ate some rotisserie.
My thinking was this – if I ate the rotisserie last it would kind of lay over the top of all the MSG and make it irrelevant.
I watch from the corner as Ben and Alexis enjoy the meal of their lives.
“This cauliflower mash might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted” – Ben, my former friend.
Ready Day 16 HERE.