When your friend’s older brother gives the Irish setter a hand job, then brags about it, you can bet the outcome won’t be good.
That’s what I planned to write about today. But my mind is elsewhere. Upstairs I have a sick-as-a-woof-woof kid, begging for red velvet cupcakes.
I’m shocked she likes them. Her palate’s normally quite regimented. She doesn’t branch out. She could live on rainbow sprinkles, Hawaiian bread, mini supermarket brownies dusted with sugar. God help her, and me, if the quesadilla cheese is too yellow. Or too white. So her desire for maroon carbs puzzles me.
I live in a California suburb with good salsa verde. A Jewish-style deli owned by stomach-stapled Jews. They sell a passable black-and-white. There’s a Greek place with nice pilaf which I’d eat, but they use regular rice. Which I avoid. There’s no cupcake boutique in a 110-mile radius. I most decidedly do not live in West Hollywood.
Lately I’ve been contemplating food, and I don’t know why. Some of you know my checkered dietary past. When you’re anorexic — which I’m not, in an active way, thank goodness — food is a tool. It’s like your body’s a statue, you’re the sculptor, and your awareness and avoidance of food is the knife you use to unsculpt yourself. It’s a time-consuming activity, a really boring art studio to live in. I could write a book about anorexia as life zapper. (Actually, I did.)
I did a lot of crap to my body, way back when. I’m lucky I got pregnant at all. Sometimes I’m still figuring it out. I never made myself puke, at least. Or put a thing up my nose except a Q-tip.
I have more to say about anger directed inward in lieu of its rightful target(s). Right now I need to find a cupcake.