Our back room scored its second victory in as many weeks last night when we sold the IKEA daybed we had disassembled in there.
Woody has a stick in the house. You never really know what it is that he’s chewing on. I let him bring stuff in from outside because I like the wildness of it. He feels like a crusader. Alexis doesn’t like it when there’s tree bark all over our white comforter, and honestly neither do I, but I can’t bring myself to say no to him at the base of the stairs when he sits all by himself and tries to pretend there isn’t a twelve inch piece of wood hanging out the side of his mouth.
This is mostly an essay about Woody and me.
The little drummer kids and the mom rock band are back at it. Although this morning they are keeping a nice little groove and it goes along with the rate at which I’m typing.
Breakfast is being prepared as we speak. In twenty minutes I leave for my boxing lesson where I will not have had enough time to digest said breakfast.
This was more of a “sample” breakfast. I’m just waiting for the rest to be made at some point.
It’s raining, again. We live in gd Seattle. Makes me question all the times I say, “I wish it rained more here. All the seasons are the same. I’m tired of 75 degrees and sunny every day. Blah blah. I think I’d rather be sitting in a coffee shop somewhere listening to Elliot Smith writing my novel that is going to be blindly picked up by Random House. And the rain is the truest expression of my emotions. If only it rained a little more here.” Well, I take it all back. I can’t get shit done when it’s raining. I don’t want to write anything. I just want to watch Will & Grace reruns on the couch while pounding ice cream by the pint. Bring back the sun already. I’m sorry I questioned you, god. I acknowledge that you know me best and I appreciate the life lesson.
I think it was seven years ago when I began meditating with any consistency. It didn’t take long to start feeling very bazaar sensations in my body. Particularly, the pulsation in my forehead. Repetitive thumps consistent with my heart rate that were a combination of electricity and awkward tickling. As a new yoga person I did a lot of reading and asked a lot of teachers because I was hoping they would point me to some story from an ancient text that said the return of the prodigal son was to take place in the year 2010 in a city with many palm trees. Unfortunately, that never happened. And I kind of gave up researching. It still happens today. It happened last night. And now I just hold onto it like my own private super power. The one that lets me see through all the world’s bullshit.
It wasn’t until about halfway through the session when the bubbling acid started making its way up from my diaphragm. He tilted his head sideways to try to interpret the burping gag motion I kept repeating in between combos. And yet I keep going back.
I’m fourteen hours taro free.
Woody’s head is so small and cute that sometimes I worry I’m just going to crush it. I have that disease which causes you to grind your teeth around things that are very cute for fear that you’ll accidentally squeeze them to death. I start calling him names like a little fair trade hampster long johns monk bear and then Alexis tip toes into the room to grab him and quietly back paddle out as she tries to force short bursts of an awkward laugh. That’s neither here nor there.
Alexis is at Whole Foods getting avocados and lemons. And a rotisserie – the new snack food. I’m going to take Woodson Jefferson for a walk around the old town and see who we see. I think we’ll go to Home Depot after that so I can extend the prep surface area in the kitchen.
Sun’s out. It’s warm. I just wish it would rain here sometimes.
Dear Whole Foods,
Kindly eat a dick.
Turkey, chicken, lemons, avocado, and bacon = $70.
That’s a haiku I wrote this afternoon.
I’m sitting at my desk with an open container of taro chips next to me. They are not for eating. They are a reminder of just how quickly it can all be lost. I could just put them on the top shelf next to the other trigger foods, out of sight. I could do that. I could also lay in bed all day and wait around for a meaningful life.
Just posted a political article I wrote last week. I really felt it necessary at the time because I had just fought with like fifteen people and made my mom cry. I haven’t posted it yet because I was deep in the Whole30 and didn’t want to dilute this gravy train. But tomorrow is a big day and people are going to be angry. Perhaps a little support is necessary. But reading it just now, a week later, makes it feel like a distant cousin that I haven’t seen in ten years. I don’t care about it as much now that the emotions connected to it have settled. I am like this with most of my writing. Anyway, it’s been twenty minutes and not a single person has liked it yet. I missed my window with that one. Time to retire from writing all together.
Quick little lunch.
This was a Thai-inspired chicken salad. Really, we had Thai people come over and make it. Cashews, diagonally cut chicken (that’s their whole gd secret), carrots, Brussel Wilsons, and a peanut sauce. It was small, but I asked for that. I’ve just regained an appetite hours after my workout. In the meantime, I’ll wait for my water to fill up in the sink.
It’ll be about twenty minutes before my Hydro Flask fills. Since we share a tank with the restaurant next to us we spend half the day watching the water dribble out like an old man’s urethra.
The rotisserie and the turkey meat from Whole Foods are both dry. I will be requesting a full refund, after I feed them to my dog.
Maybe it’s attention I’m after. Maybe it’s displaced musical genius. But my ability to replace lyrics is unlike anyone’s I’ve ever met. My personal favorite this afternoon, sung in a deep Johnny Cash voice, “I pooped myself today,” on repeat. Alexis is not feeling it so much.
“Kirk. Do we really need that?”
Does she really need her ukulele?
Could be her new found competitiveness now that she is taking music lessons and doesn’t want me to be the only runaway talent in the house.
Wtf. Alexis is getting dressed for something.
“Where are you going?”
“I have my singing lesson then I’m going to work at Goldleaf.”
She’s basically telling me, to my face, that she wants to have her own life and make her own money.
“But what about?…. who’s gonna make?… how do I…?
“It’s all written down in the book.”
Sure enough, a Post It titled, “Dinner”.
So just me and old Woodruff then. Couple of men on the loose.
She seems to be rushing. Maybe this is a good opportunity to offer my assistance.
“Would you like a snack when you get home from singing before you go to work?” Please say no, please say no.
“Yes, that would be great.”
Okay, everyone likes the article. We can all stop collectively worrying about this. The road to success is long and uncertain.
I’m losing a lot of time looking in the mirror these days. I have it in my head that a lot can change in six minutes. Maybe that’s when the lower abdominal pouch disappears. Who knows? You have to be watching though.
And it got me thinking about torture. If someone wanted information out of me they’d go for the obvious plays, kidnap Alexis and Woody. While that would be awful I would just end up finding the person and covering his testicles in peanut butter and letting Woody and his Rottweiler pal from the dog park go to town. Actually, I wouldn’t want Woody doing that at all. He’s too pure to get caught up in that racket. We’re losing focus though. None of the obvious tactics would work. Instead, if they just placed a microscopic rock in the sole of my shoe and told me I could never get it out and never wear a different pair of shoes, well, I’d tell them everything they needed to know.
Alexis is off.
Me and Woodster just took a walk. I like to play a game while we’re walking called, “Count How Many Pieces of Poop He Eats”. Thankfully, it has been in the single digits today. Another thing we do, because he hates puddles, is when we are getting close I wait for him to jump and then pull hard on his leash so he thinks he’s flying over top of it. I don’t know if he likes it at much as I do but we have a good rhythm about it. Now he is back home raiding the recycle bin for anything that once touched a piece of turkey.
I’m at the stage of the diet where cashew butter actually tastes good and peanut butter smells like a cavity. I suppose this is a good place. Which would lead one to believe that people never go back once they’ve seen the light. I asked around. Everyone breaks. It starts with a peanut butter cup at a friend’s because it’s so small practically no one would notice. And then it’s a cupcake at work. And pretty soon your spouse finds you at the bottom of a dumpster outside Baskin Robbins. I can hear the internal dialogue, Discipline, discipline, stay strong, you got this, think of your health, think of your kids, don’t look at that pie, it’s not even a good pie, the crust does look fresh, FUCK YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU! And it’s over.
Now he’s barking at a UPS box because it won’t play with him.
Now a piece of lint roller paper is stuck to his foot.
I have to start making dinner. Like actually making shit. Well, not really. She already cooked the chicken but I have to reheat it which is the same thing minus the gagging when touching the raw meat.
I’m really hesitant to have the Whole30 cookbook, authored only by Melissa I might point out, in the kitchen. It’s a collector’s item, being that it’s signed. Perhaps I can get the whole thing laminated.
There are no less than fifteen steps in this recipe, each line containing it’s own unique math equation. I’ve never been one for following orders and it seems that recipe books are nothing but orders. Who likes these things? Like, what are you going to do if I put two carrots in when it calls for one? Whatever.
Oh, never mind. I can skip the whole thing.
It’s still a lot of work. I can’t even remember what she told me this afternoon. 1/2 cup of something and then the thing in the container. Put it all together. Save half for her.
Heating up the soup listening to our wonderful sound system. I scored Technics wooden floor speakers from the 80s off Craigslist for $40. While everyone is rushing to buy the next bluetooth speaker I’m happy to hold onto these classics that fill our whole house with good tunes. The Martin Logan subwoofer doesn’t hurt. Although we are good neighbors so it’s only set at 10%.
I’m listening to the greatest love song of all time – Song for Zula by Phosphorescent. I wanted this to be our wedding song.
“Have you listened to the lyrics?” she asked.
Admittedly I’m more of a ‘feel of the song’ kind of guy. So I had a look.
Some say love is a burning thing
That it makes a fiery ring
Oh but I know love as a fading thing
Just as fickle as a feather in a stream
See, honey, I saw love,
You see it came to me
It puts its face up to my face so I could see
Yeah then I saw love disfigure me
Into something I am not recognizing
See the cage, it called. I said, come on in
I will not open myself up this way again
Nor lay my face to the soil, nor my teeth to the sand
I will not lay like this for days now upon end
You will not see me fall, nor see me struggle to stand
To be acknowledged by some touch from his gnarled hands
You see the cage it called. I said, come on in
I will not open myself this way again.
I was only more convinced after reading the lyrics that it was a great wedding song. Unfortunately, I lost the battle.
Meanwhile, I have a full implementation of the “clean as you go” protocol happening here. So much so that I accidentally washed the spoon I was using to stir the soup because it sat idle for more than ten seconds.
Soup time, party time.
This soup is really good. I know it might look like I just pulled down my pants and shit into this bowl behind a tree on a family camping trip, but it is amazing!
Alexis is watching as I type.
“No,” she says.
“You’re ruining it for me.”
Fair enough, but you be the judge.
From the Whole30 Cookbook – Ginger Chicken Noodle Bowl. Ginger marinated chicken, roasted sweet potatoes and onions, zucchini noodles, coconut milk, chicken broth, and spinach at the end.
It’s the ticket, folks.
Also, you might get a little pop-up thingy when you try to navigate off this page. It’ll ask you to sign up for the newsletter and features quite a dapper photo of me. I don’t actually look like that. But it’s convincing. Anyway, don’t be all upset because it took you three more seconds to close the box. It only does it to you once. Or every fourteen days until you sign up. I can’t remember which box I clicked.
Read day 20 HERE.