I hate people who drive motorcycles through residential neighborhoods at 5:30 in the morning as fast as they can. First of all – how are you not cold, bro? You only have a hoodie on. Secondly – if the handlebars are above your shoulders what are the implications for blood circulation on a long ride? Thirdly – is it your actual goal to make people unhappy? Nobody likes loud noises like that.
You guys, a lot of you clicked the link to the chicken pot pie place. Are you all sick in the head too? I warned you. I did my part.
You might have noticed a reduction in The Gas Logs. That’s because it’s been pretty quiet around here lately. Until last night, when we ate the beef. It sounded like a set of twins at their first trombone lesson.
Alexis was complaining of stomach pains while we were brushing our teeth in our very tiny bathroom. I disregarded it and said she was overreacting. She said, “Oh” and walked away. Only seconds later did I realize the that “Oh” meant she was going to prove it me by leaving behind a fragrance only matched by the back alleys of New Orleans.
The Gas Logs do not discriminate.
Question for domestically advanced people – how do you wash a cutting board that is bigger than your sink?
The tea is happening now. We woke up late. Well, the second time. I got up at 5:30 to take Ben to the airport. Whenever I’m up that early I wish to myself that I did it more often. Very peaceful. And watching the sun come up is truly special. But I’m sure those of you who do it every day say the same thing about 9:00 a.m. So beautiful. So peaceful. Close the blinds please.
Alexis is sick of the Whole30 at this point.
“How come you’re sick of the Whole30?”
“I don’t like to be told what to do.”
She feels trapped. Because she already felt like she was making good food choices before this diet. Now someone else is telling her she has to do even more.
We keep passing up on things – snacks, sweets, going out to dinner – and striking a lot of marks in the “missing out” column while we wait for something equal to pop up in the win column. Our friends were eating at Piacere Mio (don’t you fucking click that link!) last night – the famous Italian restaurant across the street from our studio. You can’t even understand the servers they are so Italian. “Ay, itsa tha mostaccioli!” Do Italian impressions by white Americans ever get old people? And the bread. I saw a chewed up end piece when I walked over to say hi and I was so jarred that I injected myself with an Epipen.
The accurate implementation of the Whole30 life is in direct opposition with the culture we live in.
Last night I was inspired by it.
Today I’m over it.
Never mind. Bacon is here.
At Midnight last night Woody pissed his whole crate. I think he read yesterday’s blog too late and wanted to have his own pee dream. You’d think the guy would show some humility but seconds later he was on the bed smashing me in the face with a tennis ball. Then he spent ten minutes in the bathtub licking the drain. My great-grandma might refer to this young man as “touched”.
I turn to Alexis, “Can’t wait to hear what your trainer says about this. I think he needs more treats.”
A very loud silence.
Rumbling in my stomach. Client meeting in two minutes. Do I take the risk and let it go? If he’s early, I’m fucked. If he’s on time, it’ll be close.
I’ve been trying to get better about money as an entrepreneur in the last couple years. Not necessarily about making or spending money but realizing that it’s always going to show up, even when there’s nothing on the horizon. We are tight on dough this month and next before I head to Malaysia for work for the month of March. A couple of small projects on the schedule but nothing substantial. And no real leads. And all within one hour of each other, a few thousand dollars worth of projects fell into my lap during the next three weeks. This is the only part of being an entrepreneur that makes it worth it. For every 90 hours I spend worrying about business and finances I get 1 hour of pure joy.
Alexis took Woody to the dog park. It’s just four blocks from our place. Woody is famous there, as you could image. The only troubling thing is that he wouldn’t really care who his owner was as long as they pet him. It’s apparent every time he jumps into someone else’s lap and acts like we don’t exist anymore. I try not to take is personally. Alexis doesn’t handle it so well.
And now he bathes in the sun like the king he thinks he is.
Fuck. Raw chicken juice all over the fridge. We have a leak.
PS – Alexis’ gift arrives today. You may have forgotten. She hasn’t. I gave her five guesses, none of them were even close. This is fantastic.
Those motherbastard lovers at Target towed our scooter. Two months they said it was parked in their lot. Tow-away zone signs everywhere they said. We’ll fucking see about that. Do you know who I am? I quickly learned the very limited scope of this blog. She didn’t know. I thought about just yelling. Something about the constitution. A lawyer. My uncle who’s in the mafia. You don’t want to know what happens if I don’t get my scooter back. But the security guard was hovering. I left her with a classic – you’ll be hearing from me.
I’ll be back, Target.
My Kitchen Contributions – IMMENSE. I turned off the heat to the chicken breasts and cut up an avocado for lunch.
“Did you notice I asked you for help?” Alexis said.
“I sure did. Did you notice I helped you?”
“I sure did.”
When DIY therapy works.
Alexis introduces a deep and dark theory.
“You’re never going to be able to overpower a human’s desire to do things that are bad for them.”
She really wants Honey Nut Cheerios. Like really bad.
“I know they’re bad for me. But I still love them. I don’t eat them all the time. Does that make me a bad person?”
And along come the members of the moderation party.
Lunch is here. More tacos. This time with chicken and a “peanut” sauce.
You get so fucking delusional from time spent in the kitchen that you start making your food into Disney characters to keep you company.
The ukulele came. She cried. She’s such a sucker for emotional stuff.
I set it up by distracting her with another box – one that contained a lemon juicer or some other not exciting thing.
Then I snuck her box past her to the living room.
“Hey can you come help me in here?”
“What is that?! That’s a big box!”
Honestly, how thoughtful am I though? Alternate subtext: “Honestly, how genuine was her reaction?”
You make your pick and you stand by it.
So. She’s practicing now. Forgot about that part of the gift.
I just stirred the chili in the pan. Aside from writing my own cook book I’m not sure what else I can do today.
Back from a long family walk. I left my phone at home because I think it makes me better than other people. Also, it let’s me “unplug” and wish the whole time I just had my phone.
Alexis had to go to the Postal Annex to ship some clothing items she sold. Her shop is starting to catch some traction and I’m sure it won’t be long before she is the famous one and I’m in the back of her photos with oven mitts on.
I got a little tired this afternoon. Felt like I wanted a nap. I think I will head to the gym now even though I just want to keep my face glued to this screen and write funny things about gas.
Woody is adjusting to his new bandana. Alexis wanted him to be a cowboy but once he learned every football team in the state of Texas lost in one day he became very self-conscious and acted like someone that used to date Avril Lavigne.
Workout deemed – not exactly a success. Muscles cramped straight away and I couldn’t get a good playlist going. Might as well’ve had pneumonia. I did look at myself in the mirror a lot though to confirm that my face is still thin.
I’ve had a transformation, in my bowels. I’ve had three consecutive snake-like poops. They are smooth and soft, but solid. Is this what a normal person poops like? I can’t tell if I like it or not. It’s like having a butthole made of velvet.
For dinner, chicken cutlets ‘breaded’ with almond meal. On the side – Brussel Simons, mushrooms, and leeks. Woody has been sitting on Alexis’s foot for twenty minutes waiting for her to make a mistake.
“Can I help?” I asked.
“Umm… this recipe… thank you, but I’ll just make it.”
“Oh, it’s above my paygrade? I’m just a lousy line cook to you? I’m fucking ambidextrous!”
Not having your value recognized is a hard pill to swallow. Which reminds me, we need to take our vitamins.
“You can make a salad if you want, babe.”
“Oh, I was just asking so it seemed like I wanted to be helpful.”
I MADE THE GD SALAD. And I also made an exact replica of the Hong Kong skyline out of mango.
She asked for even more help after that though. Like, what the hell is this? You give someone an inch…
I sent the dog.
This is mostly a feature piece on this luscious salad but you’ll notice some other stuff in the background as well.
That breaded chicken made me a believer. Whatever you’re selling, Whole30 Cookbook, I’m buying. It was very good. I had seconds. Thirds if you consider the fact my second trip was five more pieces and another entire salad. It’s all about framing.
It’s 8:18 and we’re wrapping it up. Not literally. Alexis is on birth control. The Obama’s pay for it.
Have a good night my friends.
Read Day 18 HERE.