Eat it.

Or, In Defense of Food.

I'm super-cranky today. I'm having one of those cranky days that involves tears, loads of self-loathing, and the Anger (or Angrrrrrrrrr!) that is my constant co-pilot is off the motherfucking charts. So, there will be a lot of obscenity ahead. Lots and lots of (borderline nonsensical) obscenity. Let's fucking talk about food and stuff we love to eat without ANY hang-ups or fears or fat content or calorie-fucking-counts.



I had salmon today. It was awesome. I had this flatbread fold-up thingy involving eggs and cheese and sausage and mushrooms for breakfast. It was awesome, too. Felt like a Twix bar. Goddamn if I didn't enjoy that Twix. It hit the spot and helped to soothe my savage beast (that is not a euphemism). Pork chops for dinner? Hot damn, those were good, too. I'm feeling the urge for a good caesar salad tomorrow. I'm lucky in that my workplace has a righteous cafeteria and a staff of fabulous Hispanic dudes who salute me with, "HEY MAMA!" and give me shit about not liking super-spicy things in my eats. My aversion to spicery stems from having gallstones at 17 and a sure-fire trigger for an attack was pretty much anything containing a kick. I was de-gallbladdered in 1998--oh hell's bells, I have to tangent on this for a moment.

The Final Attack came on the weekend "The Negotiator" starring Kevin Spacey and Samuel L. Jackson was released, and I remember watching the movie while feeling hellacious thanks to the wretched, spasming gallbladder from Hell. I was living on my own in the city at the time (why I wound up moving back home with my parents after being on my own for 13 years is a tale for another day), and I'd pop out to the 'burbs on the weekend to see how the seniors were getting along, visit with my three siblings, etc. etc. blah. My oldest sister and I are movie buddies and of course we had to see "The Negotiator". I started feeling funky Friday night, but figured/hoped it was just wicked indigestion. Once the vomiting began, however, I knew after a years-long hiatus that an Attack was in full swing. Usually, if I chucked, things would calm down and I'd be feeling fine. However, hurlage was not doing the trick. (Sorry to bring up vomit - har - in a post about food, but I've got a strong stomach. Remind me one day to tell you about the Christmas Vomiting.) I went to the movies the next day and was still in pain...sat up most of the night, still in pain, and finally...I broke down and said, "take me to the E.friggin.R".

Long story longer, once the Demerol kicked in, life was so good. And the g-bladder stopped spasming. However, my very mysterious doctor whose name I can't recall was insistent it come out, which was fine by me because hey, time off work! He preferred to work at night, so I didn't go under the knife (rather, the laparoscope) until Monday evening. I remember really enjoying anesthesia a whole bunch. I liked how I couldn't mark the passage of time. A curtain dropped and then it came up and everything was all done. I was fascinated by the feeling of my organs shifting to fill the space left behind by my non-existent gallbladder. And I was delighted to have two full weeks off of work, despite only really needing one because by the end of the week, I felt like a million bucks. Ten years on, I still regret not milking that shit a little bit more. /tangent

ANYHOO. I <3 my workplace cafeteria because the selection is massive. You can have sandwiches made, salads whipped up, a full-metal salad bar containing two of my favoritest things: mushrooms and artichoke hearts. Ohhhhh, artichoke hearts. If I want a beef or a turkey burger, I can have it. And not just because they *make* it, because I am allowed a fucking cheeseburger and fries whenever the hell I fucking want it. If I'm in the mood for a salad, by gum, I am going to have a got-damned salad. It's not part of a "plan", I'm not counting friggin' Points, there's no exchanging, there's no guilt, there's no shame, there's just me making my choices to suit what my bod is telling me it wants. I wish we (the Royal Fat Acceptance We) could convince the masses sooner rather than later that holy fucking SHIT, food is good. That spinach is tasty as hell and so are those Nilla Cakesters (srsly--a nice sweet treat that can't be beat), to stop seeing eating as a Shakespearean tragedy that unfolds three times a day (or when the hell ever) because the risk is so high that you might be...BAD. That nourishing ourselves is so totes superior to dieting ourselves.

I do have to bring down the room for a mo', though, because my body's pissed (yet adorably so, much like Jennifer Aniston) because I've been a slackhound in the activity department. I've been wrangling with a particularly shitty case of ennui the last few weeks (*cough*years*cough*), and trying to tend to my surly brain has superceded my trotting to the gym. It infuriates my logical side because my logical side screeches, "YOU FEEL SO MUCH BETTER BRAINALLY AFTER YOU WORK OUT, JACKASS", but my dumb-dumb far-too-sensitive-lately emotional bits just want to go home, curl up in bed, watch Animal Planet, sleep. I need (and I say that in a low, urgent voice, shaking my fist) to get back to the shiny gym and my strangely belov'd treadmill because I've got some songs on my iPod that are perfect for strutting on it. (And I need to recharge my freaking iPod because it's damn near spent, now that I write/think about it.) I'm going to Lollapalooza in a mere two and a half weeks and I have GOT to be on my game for flailing, jumping, and weird dancing/gesticulating to Rage Against the Machine and *happy, happy sigh* Nine Inch Nails.

I'll explain the weird dancing/gesticulating another time.