If you don't hear from me next week, call the cops. I've likely been murdered in cold blood by one or more of my beloved family members.
We started the Whole30 this week. Today marks day three of no sugar, processed food, grains, gluten, dairy, tobacco or alcohol for any member in my household. And I feel a mutiny brewing.
Did you catch that? I said no alcohol. I live with teenagers. And blog on most Fridays about what I'm eating and drinking to keep my sanity.
My sixteen-year-old, occasionally melodramatic daughter came home yesterday with an announcement. "I'm hungry, I'm cranky, and I feel like crap. Get outta my way. I need a cup of coffee."
I quickly dodged aside, questioning the validity of her claim. "Are you really hungry, or are you just craving something, like...oh...I don't know...a Coke and four servings of Honey Mustard Pretzels that you normally consume at 2:45 every weekday in front of the TV?"
"Moaham!" She mastered the art of stretching my name into seven syllables at a very young age. "I'm dying over here! I was a _____ at school all day! Ask Ally! I hit her in the boob for being mean to me! She's really mad at me! I AM HUNGRY!!"
So very calmly, I reminded that good manners don't include boob punching and borrowed a quote from the book, It Starts With Food by Dallas and Melissa Hartwig, which prompted the health-conscious clean up we are slogging through. "Are you sure you are hungry? I mean, does steamed fish and broccoli sound like it would help your hunger pangs?"
"I DON'T WANT ANY FISH! I'M GOING TO EAT THIS BANANA!"
I left the room so she could enjoy her caffeine fix and fruit while commiserating with Willie, Phil and Si.
This morning, it was her thirteen-year-old brother. Usually mellow and go-with-the-flow, he actually whined before school: "Thank you for breakfast. I am stuffed. BUT I'M STARVING!"
My head cocked, I informed him that his statement made no sense at all. But his partner in crime, aka Dad, chimed in. "You mean you're full, but you're craving something else?"
"YES! I WANT SOMETHING ELSE!" he shouted. And he barged off to the bus stop with a huff and some extra oomph in the slam of the door.
My soul brother in all of this, Mr. Musky, demonstrated a little confusion over coffee this morning. "What should I eat for lunch today? Can I buy some stuff from Wal-Mart? What can I have? Can I eat at Panera? Chicken noodle soup should be ok, right?"
Sigh. "Hon, do you want me to make you a lunch, too?"
"No. I don't. I'll figure it out. Don't worry about me. Hey - during the break on Sunday between Jake's hockey games, I'll just take him to McDonald's, ok?"
Glare from me. "No. Not ok."
"Oh - I forgot. Gosh - this thing is restrictive!"
"Right. Because it's just soooooo hard to pack a lunch on Sunday when I do it every other day of the week," I snapped back. Truth be told, I may be tipping the scales toward irritable too.
Sadly, a good family friend passed away this week, and we will be attending his visitation tomorrow afternoon. At 4:00. In a town 78 miles away. Which means that we will be traveling home from one end of Chicago to another during rush hour traffic. Chicagoland Friday Rush Hour, you deserve your own special corner in Hell. My best friend from 250 miles away will be at my house to greet me when we finally arrive home. I haven't seen her since February, we have a lot of catching up to do, and we've been known to gab until the wee hours of the morning while consuming immeasurable vats of whiskey.
But there will be no apéritif for us to enjoy and share. Because there are no apéritifs AT ALL in the next twenty-seven days, eight hours and three minutes of my future.
There. Now there are four whiners in the house.
More coming tomorrow, on an apéritif-less Apéritif Friday, about why I decided to subject myself to this madness, how I convinced my family to join me on the health-it-up ride, and of course, a recipe of what we're eating.
But no cocktail. Sniffle.
Madly careening forward in the first car of the insanity train ~