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One small step for man, one giant leap for my uterus

It was a lovely weekend, all in all. I had three ideas for three separate stories, including the continuing transformation of one that I’ve been resisting setting to paper, and yet it keeps infiltrating my brain. I think maybe I’m afraid that people will think it’s about me again. Like the baby story. Or, as I explained to Chauffi and Patsy Cline two weeks ago ‘The woman in the baby story is totally different than me. For instance, she keeps her house much neater.’ And probably takes kick boxing classes, but that is neither here nor there. I probably should have spent some time actually writing it down, but with not having a computer to work on and not wanting to save everything to disk’ blah, blah, blah, excuses, excuses.

I had a brief epiphany about the no sugar/flour thing. I believe, but I’m not sure, that sugar-free Jell-O pudding is ok. Note to self: check on that, because dammit, it seems too good to be true. I am entirely suspect of almost anything that makes me happy these days. Because if I do it and enjoy it, it MUST be bad for me somehow. I’m certain that we’re just seconds from learning that Coca-cola Inc is putting crystal meth in Dasani water.

I woke up early on Saturday, as is my general tradition. It was cold and threatening rain, but I wore shorts and a t-shirt in an attempt to make it warm outside by sheer will. I scurried to the farmer’s market at about the time it started raining, but ran between the drops and picked up some fresh white mushrooms and some very delicious strawberries. I believe that was the first market of the year, but it was packed as always with the trendy, the yupsters, the college professors and the folks who buy the old Victorian mansions on the river. The fish mongers weren’t there. I hope that doesn’t mean that they’ve quit, as I traditionally score some delightful salmon and whitefish from them, depending on their day’s catch.

By then I was starving, so I went to the snooty deli but then kicked myself when I remembered that I couldn’t get my normal vegetarian grilled sandwich, as the artisan sourdough bread it sat between would send me back into carbohydrate addict remission. I grabbed some freshly squeezed orange juice (quite the novelty in Green Bay, by the way, not a given as it is on the coast), and a sizeable fruit salad. I pouted at the display of snickerdoodles and then without thinking, popped a sample chunk of their rhubard scone. As soon as the sugar and flour hit my mouth, I froze. What had I just done? I have all sorts of moral fiber and understand why I shouldn’t have a snickerdoodle and then they wave a chunk of free scone at me and I become some kind of eating automaton? What is up with that? Then a little mutinous voice whispered to me ‘Well, you’ve already cheated, you might as well just get a couple of snickerdoodles for the road.’ And the logic’it was sound logic. But I held strong, shaking my head, thinking about how good the cold orange juice was going to be, promising myself a Starbucks iced tea after the morning errands. Math is hard. Dieting is hell.

I then reconsidered my itinerary and decided that I should load up on some protein post haste, otherwise I would be headlong into a bag of Oreos before the weekend was up. I drove across town to the butcher that I like, long jumped over the rain puddles from the growing deluge, and ordered a whole tenderloin and some chopped sirloin. Tenderloin is one of the few meats that I actually like quite a bit and doesn’t make me want to vomit when I look at it raw. Chopped sirloin, even though it costs more than some cuts of steak, is the only ground meat that reliably does not incur the wrath of the flutter tummy. I think it is because it is not questionable. Or perhaps they have hypnotized me with the price and I assume that I’m getting something that isn’t disgusting. I don’t know. Whatever the reasoning, it works. I then scurried to our wholesale club and picked up a truckload of broccoli, cheese, milk, and bananas. If you build it, they will come.

The rain had pretty much killed our plans of going swimming at Club ‘Rent, so Esteban went into the lab catch up on some work and I went home. Aha, but the entertainment system still had a blue screen instead of a picture. I threw in Mozart’s Requiem instead and made myself comfortable with a glass of iced tea and Harry Potter. And if there is a better way (with your clothes on) to spend a rainy Saturday afternoon, then I don’t know what it is.

When Esteban came home, I roasted the whole tenderloin in the oven (which is, by the way, my favorite way to make it, as it stays much more juicy and flavorful than cutting it into fillets and cooking individually. Also, it is practically fool-proof with a meat thermometer, and it’s best for there be parts of the loin that are medium rare, medium, etc.) and also saut’ed the mushrooms from the farmer’s market in my favorite wine (Hogue Johannesburg Reisling’ I’m a cheap date), butter, garlic, and fresh parsley. Then I steamed some broccoli (big deal in our household because it is one of Esteban’s most hated foods and I generally don’t make it for myself) and made some Fat Biscuits (which is what we call Pillsbury Grands) for Esteban, as they are his favorite. I was going to throw together a blueberry crisp, but then remembered that if I eschewed flour, I couldn’t make a crumble topping (although in retrospect, I probably could have used oatmeal, which isn’t an Atkins approved thing, but fits in my guidelines of no sugar or refined flours) and I wouldn’t be able to have it with ice cream, so I just decided to forget it. All in all, we had a quiet night. Esteban worked on his laptop and I read Potter. It was almost like we were actual adults instead of kids with credit cards and a house.

Sunday was a lost day. I did manage to go to the grocery store (for some Splenda, which is apparently a sugar substitute that doesn’t taste like ass, and where I also replenished my stock of the low carb bread that is perhaps made with Styrofoam, but is the only way I can understandably eat peanut butter) and make a run to Appleton to try on the cropped pants on sale at Lane Bryant and then decide that it was stupid to buy pants that I will only be able to wear for another two months and then will most likely be too lose again next summer (just like the shorts I bought last summer when they were snug, but are now falling off my ass and look sloppy as hell). But mostly I worshipped at the alter of JK Rowling. I didn’t even take time to read the newspaper, not willing to waste the strength of my eyes upon the stupidity that is our local rag. I had forgotten my reading glasses at work and thus trudged through the 870 pages blinking, squinting, and unfocusing every step of the way. I finished at 11:30 pm and then made myself some peanut butter and banana on toast and sat crosslegged in our living room, staring at my reflection in the television with the blue screen, drinking milk from my Koi fish tin cup, getting teary eyed about Neville Longbottom and how far he has come and how much I wish one of them would just give him a huge hug and tell him how lucky they were that he was their friend. Oh Neville sweetie, I’m so proud of you.


You know, this diary has over 600 entries and yet it continues to surprise and amaze me. For instance, whenever someone on a miscellaneous message board talks about their uterus, someone will inevitably respond with a Weetabix link. Which is sort of puzzling and also very cool. Somewhere I became the spokesmodel for uteruses everywhere. I’m not sure where to put that in my brain. I’m a bit puzzled, honestly, because it seems like an automatic. I’m always expecting someone to say ‘Aw, Ruth Buzzi did a schtick where she talked to her uterus in 1965.’ Because I always secretly suspect that I’m a hack.

So, I thank you. My uterus, of course, thinks you can all go screw yourselves unless bring it some freshly baked bread smeared with melted butter and honey, but there’s just no reasoning with that thing.

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