I never said I'd write EVERY day. No one wants that. Besides, I've been held hostage by my kitchen, unable to escape to write anything I wasn't paid to write, including SOS notes and my will, as surely this experiment will kill me.
I will start this off with a qualifier: the food I have made (with the exception of It Which Shall Not Be Named...yes, coleslaw is the fucking Voldemort of food) has been goddamned delicious. Like...mind blowing on some occasions. But that doesn't mean I don't have some complaints and observations. Have you met me? I have ALL the complaints.
When you tell people you're on the Whole30, and you WILL tell people because you have to turn down all the fun things they suddenly want to give you when NO ONE was handing you free pizza and booze last month, one of two things will happen. They will ask you what that is, and you will hurriedly and ashamedly rush through the basics while madly waving your hands to indicate it is merely a fly's worth of nuisance. You will do this because you can hear yourself, and you're suddenly every person who wears a scarf perfectly and takes Barre class and you are confused. So you'll explain you're doing it for the anti-inflammatory properties and try to appear normal and grounded while the other person chews their free pizza, wondering why you hate fun.
The other thing that will happen is you will have found someone who's been on the plan. They've done it, perhaps several times, and they ask what day you're on. Much like starting a popular television show after everyone else, this scenario yields a result of knowing, slow nod from the other person no matter WHAT day you say you're on. They now know your mood, what you're eating, and what your poop looks like. It's...mildly unsettling. You try the whole waving-your-hands thing to make it a smaller deal, but you're usually larger and more out of shape than this person, so it looks even stranger. That person then bites into a croissant while talking to you, and you want to grab them violently by the arms and ask them to reveal the secrets of the universe. You refrain, but barely.
So we've made it through Easter. All the candy (including Reese's eggs) and treats are behind us, hidden in the house and away from our greedy grown-up hands. The day of, we had leftover brisket with eggs, and then the Bird went outside for an easter egg hunt in the courtyard. Our good friends, who own our condo, were in town. They were kind enough to research the plan and only brought compliant snacks. One of those was a salami we couldn't eat because it had wine in it, but we were ok. MAKE SURE YOU HAVE FRIENDS THIS NICE.
It helped, too, that we had all the damn eggs from her basket that we had dyed. I made deviled eggs with avocado. The four of us ate them all, which means we all ate 22 egg halves with avocado. 5.5 deviled eggs each. I kind of want to throw up now.
Speaking of eggs...y'all...I hope you like em. I have gone through - no exaggeration - 4 dozen eggs in these last 7 days. Yes, one of those was for Easter, but WE ATE THEM, so they count. I have also gone through an ENTIRE THREE POUND BAG OF ONIONS. Like...the kind you buy because it's cheaper than getting a couple, but you know half of them will go bad. I just bought another bag. Of onions. And eggs. I SMELL AMAZING, I BET.
Another observation: I am finally using pretty much every piece of plastic storage ware we have, and I never. Ever. Stop. Doing. Dishes. The dishwasher is running, and within seconds the sink is full. No WONDER no one wants to cook all their meals. This right here is some bullshit.
I broiled some salmon for dinner, as lunch was all the snacks ever, and then we crashed. I didn't of as much prep for Monday, and that...that is where this week went off the rails.
We had a thrown together egg scramble for breakfast, because I wasn't going to eat salmon and butternut squash soup for breakfast, as the plan suggested. No. Sorry, no. I'll make the soup later, I just...no.
I don't remember what I gave my husband for lunch, but I clearly threw something at him and hoped for the best. I got in the shower, and promptly realized I had a performance that night. And I hadn't written it yet. PANIC. Awesome.
I gave the Bird all the things I can't have - because all she'll eat are breads as a main course lately - and got her to school. I worked like a madwoman on all deadlines, TAXES, and my piece for that night. We owed a million dollars, my piece was finished, and my deadlines were almost met. Now I could sit back and - DAMMIT I HAVE TO MAKE DINNER.
This whole week has been like this. Like it jumped out of the damn bushes at me. If I was on top of the food, I was off on everything else. If I was on top of everything else, I was scrambling for food. If I finished something, I had to jump back up and do more things.
Side note: my husband wound up re-entering something on our taxes because the return was rejected. We then wound up owing two whole dollars, as opposed to two thousand. I thought all this fat was supposed to be good for my brain. I think I'm having several strokes instead.
Once I felt my ass hit a chair for a satisfying 1.5 seconds, I got back up, broiled the pork chops, made the spiced apple sauce...and then ordered a pizza for the Bird and her sitter. Because I'm the best Mom in the world.
I went to the super cool Salonathon that night, met incredible artists, and was welcomed by them as a first-time performer. Seriously, it was delightful. I drank water, and came home sober at 1am. Turns out? I still knock into shit and make too much noise when I come home, booze or no booze.
I crashed, knowing I would have to get up in five hours if I was going to prepare everything for the next day as I should.
Wanna take bets on how that went?