Hi there, blog world. I’ve been neglecting you lately. Oh, how I wish I had remembered to bring my computer on my recent road trip with my mother to upstate New York. The trip provided a lot of fodder for blogging, none the least of which was trying to find acceptable food choices en route. The first night, after stating no fewer than a dozen times the ONE restaurant I could wrap my head around eating in, my mother asked if McDonald’s was okay for dinner. McDonald’s?! Really?! The next few days are a blur of grilled chicken salads. I can’t wait to see what my dietitian says about my food logs for the trip. They basically boil down to:
Breakfast – cereal and yogurt
Lunch – salad and grilled chicken
Dinner – salad and grilled chicken
Snacks – granola bars and yogurt (and a few cookies)
The rare exception was last night, when my mother said she wanted to avoid going out to a restaurant (fine by me) and wanted to bring dinner back to the hotel room. Would it be okay, she asked, if we went to the gas station around the corner. In her defense, it was a gas station that had a sub shop in it, but it was still a gas station. Thankfully, said gas station also had beer, thereby making the entire experience far more enjoyable. A wise woman once said that liquid calories are still calories and if a drink makes the rest of the meal easier, by golly, do it already. (However, she did not condone drinking, especially not if you are under 21 – and neither do I.)
I’m sure there are grander life lessons to be learned from this trip, but for me, I’m just happy I survived 27 hours in the car with my mother. And hopefully at tomorrow’s weigh-in, I won’t find out that I quadrupled in size over the past four days. Because somehow, that still matters to me — and I hate that it still matters. Some things never change.
Ready for a poem, friends? This one was initially meant to be a sonnet, I think, but I abandoned that for a longer poem. Brevity is not one of my strengths. Perhaps you’ve noticed?
P.S. If I never see a piece of chicken again, it’s too soon.
Like a teenage boy, you shift your body
closer and closer to mine.
The air carries with it a weight of melancholy
that pierces my heart as your fingers trace the line
of the scar on my chest.
And your touch is so seductive, at first,
that I do not notice that your hand comes to rest
over the one place I asked you never to touch.
I always gave you anything you wanted
of my friends, my money, my days.
The landscape was always haunted
by you and that was okay as long as you stayed away
But before I can scream and tell you stop,
your hands dig deep and rip it apart –
Shredding between your fingers,
the very essence of me and my heart.