Hello Whole30! Goodbye Happiness!

by Marinka on January 9, 2017

I have wonderful news. For my enemies, that is.

Today, I am starting the Whole30 Program.

You probably heard about it, but if you haven’t, it’s a gateway to happiness and a “reset” to eating habits. Since I’m almost 50, I suspect that reincarnation would be easier at this point, but I forgot to convert to Buddhism, or whatever religion it is that reincarnates you, and besides, I bought the Whole30 book, so I’m in!

Actually I bought the book last January in anticipation of a new me in 2016! And then I thought, “well, I have to digest [haha, I laughed to myself] the book to understand it, to REALLY understand it and then I have to study the recipes and then I have to research full body transplants and then I have to make sure that a fascist asshole doesn’t become our President-Elect, and then I have to prepare a meal plan and then I have to shop for ingredients and then-” Well, things didn’t go as I had hoped. Although every day I way up grateful that we are spared the dangers of Hillary’s private server emails! I mean, who wants a President whose emails the Russians can’t hack! Not me, comrade!

Back to me and my Whole30 diet.
It starts today.
Here is a list of what I can’t have: grains, legumes, dairy, sugar, alcohol.
Here is a list of what I can have: stuff that isn’t grains, legumes dairy, sugar, alcohol.

The Guy I Went to Ireland With is doing this plan with me, and last night we tearfully admitted to each other that we don’t know what “legumes” are. Don’t worry, I’ve since looked it up. But haven’t told him. Yet.

So, please wish me luck and maybe send a few gifts. Non-edible, preferably. Can’t go wrong with jewelry.

I plan on writing about my brave and selfless journey for the next thirty days and then I will take you along with me as my modeling career takes off on day thirty one.

Oh, and since no Whole 30 post is complete without a food reference, last night I made chicken and kale in a crockpot and now my kitchen smells like death. Also, I’m having coffee without milk. It’s entirely possible that I will be canonized before too long.


Next Year

by Marinka on December 25, 2016

I’m not a mathematical genius, but if everything goes well, I will be 50 in 2017. It’s hard to believe, since most days I feel like I’ve been 50 for years, but maybe it’s just because I’m wise beyond my years. You’re probably nodding along, and this is why I like you. Well, one of the reasons. The other is that you didn’t vote for Trump. If you did vote for him, I don’t like you. But don’t take it personally, I also don’t like fascism, neo-Nazis (or old school Nazis for that matter) and French manicures. But what I loathe, loathe, I tell you, are French pedicures and Trump. And not necessarily in that order.

But this isn’t a post about him.
It’s a post about me.

This year, the Guy I Went to Ireland With and I had a Serious Conversation. Probably more than one, but at my advanced age, who the hell can remember. The Serious Conversation was about the fact that we don’t have a Christmas tree. His point was two-fold. Number one: He reminded me that I am Jewish and Jews don’t celebrate Christmas. And Number two: He pointed out that while we are both blessed with this great love affair that has Cupid patting himself on the back and/or using one of his arrows as a back-scratcher, we don’t live in the same apartment so I can get my own Christmas tree in my own apartment and maybe an oak tree, too, if I am some sort of an arborist all of a sudden.

My rebuttal is that while he is technically correct on both points, I don’t see what that has to do with anything because “facts” are now “meaningless” to “me”.

My position is that even though Jews don’t celebrate Christmas, Soviet-era Jews celebrate the New Year, which they usher in with a Christmas tree (“yolka” or the “Green tree”- perhaps to differentiate it from those aubergine trees some people are so fond of). And second of all, I know that I can put up whatever I want in my own apartment, but if there’s one thing I learned from Putin, it’s the love of annexation. It’s my heritage. It’s in my blood. It’s my right. So, yes, I can have the Christmas tree in my own apartment, but I want to have it in the apartment of the Guy I Went to Ireland With, because Christmas trees come with Falling Christmas Tree Needles and he has a better vacuum cleaner than I do, and also I don’t want that thing at my place. Have you ever tried getting rid of one? Disposing of a body would be easier. Case in point, there’s a recognition for friends who would help you bury a body but not one for friends who would help you get rid of a Christmas tree. Not a coincidence.

We compromised, as all loving couples do, and he is now a proud owner of a Christmas wreath.I can’t tell you how many hours of joy it has brought us! And the reason that I can’t is because it was probably all of 15 minutes.

But I’m not the kind of person who measures joy in terms of time. Or measures anything in terms of anything else, apparently, because I grew up during a time when it was ok for girls to suck at math.

And yet, I suspect things will be different next time this year. For one, I will be older. Fifty, unless my math is way off. So when I speak, it will be as a Woman of an Certain Age Who Is Revered in Our Society. And when I insist on a Christmas tree, it will be backed by a new Constitutional amendment that every household must have one. But there better not be any French pedicure legislation. Because we all have a breaking point.

Happy Holidays!
See you next year!


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A Scene in Front of a Fountain

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