Whole30 Day 10 : Woody Pees On Everything

8:17 a.m.

Double digits, bitches, I mean, ya’ll. Too aggressive. Sorry.

1/3 through. It’s all about the fractions now. Did you make the paper rings out of construction paper to count down to Christmas when you were little? I loved those.

Okay, so I watched two episodes last night, not one. I don’t understand how a person is to turn that show off. I mean you end on an episode where Hank gets shot to shit by the cartel and you’re just supposed to say, “I think this is a good place to stop for the night.” God no. I had to slam the laptop shut and walk away. But then I did my stretching. Which is mostly just Woody laying on me in different positions. But I don’t feel insane this morning. At least not yet. Could also have something to do with the fact that there was a little late night action in our household last night. And I don’t mean Woody brought home a chihuahua.

8:24 a.m.

Breakfast is here and it’s hard to describe exactly.

The intentions were hash of some sort. We haven’t quite figured out that new skillet yet.

8:34 a.m.

I would like to make a statement here regarding the face some women (and men, but mostly women in this particular case) make when taking selfies. I feel this is a good time to get something out into the open. You know that we can, in fact, completely tell that you are sucking your cheeks in and puffing out your lips, right? I mean, like, there’s no confusion on your end that the viewer of the photo might actually think it’s a natural face, correct? Okay, so we’re squared away on that. Which leads me to this – if you’re doing it because you think it makes you look better in photos, do you think it makes you look better enough to overcompensate for the fact that we all know you are making a duck face? Something to think about.

8:42 a.m.

What I love so much about writing this log every day is the comments I receive on Facebook. In any given article, which usually average around 2,000 words, I can talk about twenty or thirty different things. And there’s always one thing that resonates with a reader over all the others. And it’s never the same from one person to the next.

8:45 a.m.

Okay, I can’t finish this breakfast. I don’t like avocado anymore. Furthermore, I might not have ever liked avocado on its own. To me, it’s an accessory to toast. Without the crunchy bread I just don’t see the appeal. Not to mention if it’s a day overripe and there are dark stringy hairs running through the center of the… oh god, I’m going to throw up.

It’s all about textures for me. Once a food has been in my mouth for too many bites my mind will turn on it and I will spend the next thirty seconds with forehead sweat trying not to throw up as I chew the food feverishly and try to think about rats, worms, tendons, snakes, squid, or eel.

My lats are sore from the pull-ups yesterday but not as sore as I thought they’d be. But the real soreness doesn’t come until the second day! I know.

The preference to try to fix other people rather than focusing on our own problems must be as old as time.

8:52 a.m.

The happy thing that Alexis made us last night was a cashew milk smoothie. It was delicious. And I’m having the leftovers now (sorry Alexis) because I feel nauseous but know I need nutrients.

Woody is at puppy class right now. I like to think of it as kindergarten for him. I want to buy him a dog backpack and walk him down there. But I don’t go. Only Alexis does. I don’t want the lady’s training techniques to dilute my deep understanding of dogs. And it’s basically treat bribery. Dog sits, give em a treat. Dog walks, give em a treat. Dog breaths, give em a treat. Dog shits on your couch, give em a treat.

Quite often Alexis and I will argue about how to walk him on the leash. She carries around a trash bag worth of biscuits and I just bring my natural dominance. Apparently we are sending him mixed signals. I like to look at it as providing him with options. He can take in all the info and make a decision for himself what kind of dog he wants to be when he grows up.

*Note. I walk by every time he is training and watch him through the fence. He’s the kid that everyone loves in school because he just wants to be your friend. All the other dogs are boring as shit and it’s because their owners are there to show how good they are at dog training. Bunch of uptight wankers. Not Woody and Alexis. He’s running around jumping off the benches onto dog’s heads and Alexis is giggling to herself trying to pretend like he should be doing it any differently.

9:02 a.m.

I have to run to La Jolla today to Genomatica. I’m partners with these really nerdy science guys on this project that extracts cortisol information from hair samples. We built a meditation app last year to promote mindfulness and help reduce stress. The hair samples provide real scientific data on the effect meditation has on your stress. Not some bullshit Apple app where you put your thumb in your ass for twelve seconds and it tells you your heart rate. We are talking true stress levels. Measured. Anyway, they are all smart and I just write content for them and advise them that no one can understand a word they say. I’m going to the lab today to see the extraction process for the first time. We all submitted hair samples last week. I sent pubes because I thought it would be funny but now I’m feeling like it was a bad call, seeing as we’re all going to be face to face.

Apparently we have just partnered with the largest chain of fitness gyms in the world. You will know this is true if you see 22″ rims on our scooter next month.

12:29 p.m.

Back from the science meeting and from some important science work of my own.

Lars was explaining what he does, something about splicing single microbes and being able to modify their genetic makeup.

“Explain how that effects someone like me,” I asked.

“Well, for example, let’s say you love bread but you’re allergic to gluten. If I could modify your DNA to make your metabolism process gluten regularly would you be interested in that?”

My head exploded.

Then I deeply pondered what else I could discover through science.

Which wasn’t much.

1:01 p.m.

It seems Alexis is making lunch but has left half way through as Woody seems to have a bladder problem. He peed in the house again and she found him hiding behind the toilet shaking.

You might look at this and think a couple things. 1) Alexis gets her tampons from Target. True. 2) This is a really sad photo and Woody needs a hug. No. He needs to learn how to clean piss off the ground. Otherwise we end up with a generation of dogs that goes job to job without any understanding of responsibilities and commitment.

Mijon sent me a recipe for Paleo, grain free bread. Well, first she asked if I wanted it. YES. Now Alexis and I are concerned that we are cheating the Whole30 by substituting ingredients to otherwise eat the same way. I disagree on this sunny afternoon as I stand here shaking because I haven’t the slightest appetite for anything. The texture of most whole foods is terrible. Vomit-inducing. So fine, I’ll just eat nothing and lay in bed all day because I don’t have the energy to put on pants. Or, we can make some “bread” so I can get back to enjoying eggs, avocado, and toast in the morning like a good American.

It comes back to motives. What is the point of this diet? To change my relationship with food? Check. I hate food. To reduce inflammation in my body and feel healthier? Yes. Then how is making bread out of perfectly healthy ingredients a deterrent from that goal? It’s not. But they place these psycho things in your head and now I’m on the verge of feeling like I’m cheating the whole diet because I’m putting some eggs and baking soda together and pretending it’s bread so the thought of breakfast doesn’t make me nauseous anymore.

It seems our home is not an electric place. I had imagined all this cooking to kind of light up our lives and make us feel more connected. The reality is, it’s an economy of words over here and we are desperately missing the way things were.

1:27 p.m.

Every dish in the fucking world. I’ll wash plates all day. They are simple. But we’re talking tiny little measuring spoons, mason jar lids with dried sauce in the crevices, tupperware, etc. It’s a nightmare. A tiny stack takes twenty minutes. Good thing we have bacon for lunch in the Cobb salad.

“I accidentally got turkey bacon,” She whispers.

“Did you do that on purpose?”

“Of course not. The package looked the same.”

Now Alexis is hiding behind the toilet shaking.

It’s okay though, even turkey bacon will be a godsend at this point.

I believe this is butternut squash soup.

I confessed to Alexis that I’m thinking about quitting. I promised her I would make it to day 15 no matter what but if I didn’t start noticing something positive by then I was pulling the plug on my end. We can’t fucking afford this diet. It’s bullshit. You have to be wealthy to eat this way all the time. Absolutely no consideration for people without tons of disposable income and enough time on their hands to live in the kitchen. Alexis was in the kitchen the whole time I was at my meeting and all she has to show for it is some ranch dressing that will expire by the time we sit down for lunch. Now she’s passed out.

2:49 p.m.

Oh look, the sink is filled with dishes again.

I ask when you judge to not judge based on who you think you are and what you think you do but rather who you actually are and what you actually do. Makes life a lot more honest.

4:53 p.m.

Carly came by to deliver us an emergency care package. She is a Whole30 veteran and could tell we were struggling. La Croix, Larabars, Epic jerky, pistachios, and the permission to go out to dinner at least once a week. So, we are going to Chipotle to enjoy someone else’s fine cooking.

5:35 p.m.

We didn’t actually go to Chipotle. This is 2017 after all. The thought of driving was just too much for me. We had it delivered. Which is a huge risk when you want salsa on the side.

It was luke warm when it got here but it tasted pretty good.

6:30 p.m.

Alexis claims bloating after eating Chipotle. I am unusually sleepy.

6:55 p.m.

I was advised by a good friend that I should only watch two episodes of Breaking Bad per night. Once it got any higher than that it could contribute to a bad mood the next day. Only I interpreted that as two episodes per sitting. I can just break them up. With hour breaks in between. Two episodes, one hour break. Two episodes, one hour break. It keeps the brain chemistry in line. Walter White just ran over two gang bangers with his car and shot one in the head. And then the episode ends. Who is to blame here?

7:09 p.m.

There are more dishes in the sink! We didn’t even fucking make dinner. I am a volatile, unstable, emotional person that cannot be messed with at the moment.

8:06 p.m.

I’m probably going to convert to a full soup and smoothie diet in the next few days. I can’t stand the sound of any food. Everything looks and tastes like a big pile of used butt wipes. Without serious crunch I have nothing on the plate that makes me interested in the slightest. I’ve gotten some suggestions for how to spice up the meals, most of them having to do with sweet potatoes. I’m over the sweet potato thing. I need someone to invent a new food. Apparently I’m a picky eater, at least that’s what Alexis says. I think she is unraveling a little big. She looked defeated today. Was getting frustrated with the food she was cooking and how it was tasting. Then we scramble to figure out what is wrong, like we are doing something wrong. And the truth is, we’re just stuck. We’ve been doing the same thing for ten straight days and we’re over it. Only we can’t just say that and fix it. We have to first get down on ourselves for not being perfect. I hate when she gets down on herself. I’d be dead in a river somewhere without her on this diet. I can see her source of pain though – who would want to make three meals a day for someone that is acting like it’s hospital food? Time to buy her a new spatula or something.

8:11 p.m.

Woody just farted. I often think that I smell terribly but all it takes is one dog fart to put things back into perspective.

Alexis is at the grocery store now re-upping for next week. It’ll be a pretty decent sized bill. Which infuriates me. Not because she is spending money but because this diet is completely fucking offensive financially. We’re the greatest country in the world yet to eat healthy you have to be rich.

8:22 p.m.

“$151!” She texted me excitedly.

Silence.

“I feel like anything under $200 is a victory,” she continued.

“You are alone in this thinking,” I said.

8:39 p.m.

Still, this rotisserie is fucking good. And we got cashew butter. Oh, the excitement. Silver lining … silver lining … silver lining. Nope. I got nothin’. I guess if there was something today it would be that the thought of peanut butter actually makes me sick. I can taste the sugar that it’s made of. I’ll call my palette more honest now. Meaning I can get by with less. Meaning cashew butter tastes like the duck butter of a donkey compared to peanut butter but compared to absolutely nothing it is delicious. I didn’t have a car for a number of years. Just a scooter and a bicycle. It wasn’t about money, it was about choice. I hate cars and everything that they have brought our culture. But when you have one they are the greatest and you drive it everywhere. Sometimes, I would get tired of my scooter and start thinking it was time to get a car. That it would make life easier. But instead of getting a car I would exclusively ride my bicycle for a week straight. Do everything on it – groceries, work, bank, concerts – you name it. And after a week of the bike the scooter was the greatest gift to my commute I could imagine. Deprivation is a form of renewal.

8:47 p.m.

Alexis has our weekly meal calendar on the fridge like one used to have in grade school. Only I can’t find the Mexican pizza on Fridays. She did the grocery shopping based off the list and swears up and down that this food will last us ALL WEEK. She is really dedicated to taking care of us. There are so many different roles to be played in a household. Men used to jazz it up like going off to work and making money was the main show. And that it was difficult enough to warrant no other responsibilities in the house. But it’s fucking cake compared to making four walls feel like a home. What a great hoax we were running for so many years. Anyway, that means our cost will be 1/3 of the first week. If $151 is all in for the week then we will actually save money on food considering we won’t be eating out. This is a message I can get behind.

I have a boxing lesson in the morning. I am hoping the punches bring some lightness. I feel like I’m moving through sludge. Somewhere out there are people frolicking through shallow river beds enjoying cheeseburgers and hot fudge sundaes.

2900 words though. Stephen King says to write 2,000 words a day. To close the door and write and not worry what the world has to say. I guess it’s a gift to be able to compose so many words each day and not feel like you’ve run out of things to say. I have all these dreams of things I’ll do once our company IPOs and we have Lil’ Wayne money. Most of them are short films I want to make. Mostly comedies. Mostly making fun of life. Funny thing is – I could probably do all of them now. We say that we want things, or that things would be different if… but I’m guessing things would only be different if we were different. Perhaps it’s a reasonable goal to make one of these films this year. Perhaps I’m already free and just afraid of what that really means.

9:29 p.m.

We (Alexis) are making a form of bread out of almonds and baking soda and a little salt. It will probably taste like saw dust but if it helps me get the eggs down in the morning then I’ll buy 2,000 shares.

Buenas nachos my friends.

Read Day 9 HERE.

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