Stories I'd Tell in Bars

by Jen Lancaster

  DAY TWENTY-TWO: Have been cleaning out the pantry while on Whole30, so every day the squirrels get something new. Thus far, their favorite item is stale ice cream cones. There's nothing cuter than stepping outside and hearing a dozen squirrels chomping on their cones up in the trees. P.S. They HATE All Bran cereal.

  [Crows go crazy for saltines. Nothing else. Just saltines. I never see them around the yard, but if I toss out a few, it never fails that within minutes, we’ll have a murder. Of crows. In case that wasn’t clear.]

  I feel like I should have more to complain about, or maybe exclaim about, but this plan is ideal for anyone who’s ever been an emotional eater. Food truly has become fuel and what I eat, I enjoy, tasting everything that’s fresh and good about the pure, whole ingredients. Every bit of pressure has been removed from the equation, every bit of guilt.

  Instead, the feeeeeelings have been replaced instead with stacks and stacks of dirty dishes from all the cooking.

  Not a terrible tradeoff.

  DAY TWENTY-NINE: I bought two kinds of kale at the grocery store yesterday; I didn't even know there WERE at least two kinds of kale prior to Whole30.

  Every week I've completed a Sunday Run Day 5K on my treadmill. Today I shaved three minutes off my time since last week! Now my speed is only pathetic and not tragic. Progress! Also, I didn't know I had IT bands prior to this, but I do. Apparently, they hurt like a bitch when you run with a bad gait. Today's progress comes from having fixed my gait, as well as saying to myself, "What if I just ran instead of stopping to walk?"

  Next Sunday, I have my eye on you.

  Finally, even though I’m a day away, I can't take it anymore. I put half a Splenda in my NutPod cappuccino today. Tastes like chemicals and not sweet, sweet cream. I do not see that coming.

  DAY THIRTY: My Whole30 experience is over. I made it, save for the half Splenda, and I can’t be mad at me for that.

  I got in the habit of having a stocked kitchen and cooking every meal. Everything I made tasted good, not a dog in the bunch. Or maybe hunger is the best sauce, whichever.

  Going all organic/grass-fed/pasture-raised was more expensive at the grocery store, but we saved a ton by never having delivery or takeout. We've established better habits, which will be key moving forward. I'm talking breakfast salads; never thought I'd live to see that day.

  Even though it's against the spirit of the plan, I consistently weighed and measured myself throughout because I wanted to compare the data from last January when I was doing the Lose to Win program. I worked so much harder and ate so much less a year ago, yet I lost more the weight this time with far less exercise and more food. I’m down... twenty pounds!

  THE GOOD: I made positive strides towards my health without going nuclear. It truly does all start with food. I enjoyed feeling like a part of the Whole30 community, from reading message boards to sharing recipes to interacting on social media. I liked being part of a team.

  With an emphasis on animal fats, this is not meant to be a lifelong diet, per se. Instead, it’s a hard reset for the body and in that respect, it worked well. Now it’s up to me to figure out what does and doesn’t work as I add in foods.

  THE BAD: I’ve never washed so many damn dishes in my life. Thankfully I discovered parchment paper before I ruined too many baking sheets.

  [Yes, this implies some were ruined.]

  To celebrate the end of what proves to be both a challenging and invigorating month, Fletch and I head down to the city to meet up with Gina, Tracey, and Lee for a nice Italian dinner on Saturday. I skip my usual wine, opting for Tito’s martinis. As I’m now a paragon of clean living, I’m only going to contaminate myself with the pure liquor.

  After three drinks, I learn that my own personal prohibition has turned me into a total lightweight. While Fletch is in the bathroom getting ready for bed, I set off the alarm.

  Of course I summon the police.

  Of course I do.

  I step outside to have a conversation with the officers, delighted that this time I look cute from having been out, not all sweaty like when they’ve caught me post-gym, on the way to the grocery store, or in my pajamas, like the other nights.

  [We are so getting a bill.]

  I try to explain that this is all a result of my ham-fingers and Whole30 and Tito’s vodka. There’s some backstory about how squirrels eschew All Bran as well. The officers on the scene are trying not to snicker into their walkies. The lack of inherent danger is clear, at least the danger to anyone but myself, but they don’t go rushing away. I’m glad they don’t seem resentful at having had to come.

  Also, I’m sure we’re being invoiced.

  “Okay,” says Officer Wiseass. He appears to be in charge. “Blink once if you’re actually in danger.”

  I blink. But then I blink again.

  “Shit! I need a do-over. Wait, did I tell you about the Tito’s?”

  THE LESSON: I learned a lot about myself over this month. I learned it’s possible to move past a plateau without medical intervention or drastic measures. Don’t let someone tell you what’s right for you, not matter how many degrees he or she may have. You know your body best. There’s no harm in trying a less invasive solution first. And eating the right foods can make all the difference.

  The most important take-away is that I learned I’m able to adapt, to change, and to exercise self-control.

  Still working on learning the alarm system, though.

  Thirteen

  Moms Gone Mild

  “I like the dreams of the future better than the history of the past.”

  - Thomas Jefferson

  I am not missing this weekend.

  That’s my mantra as I stand here, ticket in hand, waiting to board my flight home from Los Angeles. The airline won’t let anyone on the plane until someone gives up a seat because they’ve oversold the flight. A harried gate attendant makes yet another announcement asking for volunteers.

  Right. Like Imma help you out, American?

  I have medallion status, yet I’m number twenty on the upgrade list, with a fully-checked in First Class section.

  Fat freaking chance.

  It’s imperative I get home because I have something like twelve hours before I need to be in the car, on my way down to campus. Joanna has been looking forward to this weekend now for thirty-one years, ever since we were freshmen roommates together. Granted, she was sure we’d be visiting both our daughters at Purdue for Moms’ Weekend. She was half right. Even then, I knew it was only happening for one of us.

  Joanna asks for so little. That’s why there was no way I was going to bitch about Moms’ Weekend not gelling with my business travel schedule. I’d make it work. Unless American bumps me and then we are going to have ourselves An Incident.

  Thankfully, the gate attendant suckers someone else into giving up his seat. I love when they say, “Please volunteer or we’ll have to volunteer for you.” That’s not Draconian at all.

  At least they’re better than United, who will literally punch you in the face.

  I board and make my way to my window seat in the bulkhead, close enough to First Class that everyone up there can be warmed by the burning hot waves of resentment radiating off me. I’m delighted it’s a newer plane so at least I have my own personal video monitor, none of this crane-your-neck-to-see-the-one-tiny-hanging-screen-for-six-rows-of-seats business.

  I’m less delighted when I discover my monitor is broken. A father and (I’m guessing) ten-year-old daughter follow along right behind me. They have the middle and aisle seats in this row. They brought their own king-sized pillows because I guess they are unaware that pillows exist in Chicago, too.

  Immediately the dad shoves said pillows in the overhead compartment, thus filling the entire bin, super-thoughtful on a full flight. While he’s not particularly tall, he manages to manspread so wide that every single passenger trying to get by must turn sideways and shimmy.

  Now I hate him and he should be afforded no additional
courtesies ever.

  The daughter, clad in a Harry Potter shirt and Harry Potter socks, whips out a bag of Bertie Bott Every Flavour Beans, opens a Harry Potter book, and selects a Harry Potter film on her personal viewing screen.

  Her, I like.

  The flight attendant finally says something to Johnny Kneecaps because it’s taking everyone so long to board around him. What is it about planes that amplifies every single annoying behavior? Other than the fact that you’re trapped and you can’t just leave and the off-chance you might accidentally die due to the earth’s gravitational pull and I think I just answered my own question.

  We take off on time and without additional incident. Once we’re in the air, I log onto the Wi-Fi, which doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t, why would it? You know, I’d probably be distracted from my worries about corkscrewing into the ground from thirty-five-thousand feet, were I able to check Doug the Pug’s Instagram feed. I bet he’s saying something pithy about pizza right now and I’m missing it. Ooh, or how about when his owner places her hands in Doug’s armpits and makes it look like Doug’s dancing with his widdle legs outstretched, and hims neck fat envelopes his whole smooshy face and he seems even more smiley than usual and it’s all I can do to not kiss the screen and nom on hims sweet, sweet jelly rolls?

  Maybe it’s for the best I can’t view him right now because, dignity.

  I pull up iTunes and none of the downloads I started completed. Et tu, Apple? Do you want me to sit here and read a magazine like a chump, like it’s 1984 and technology doesn’t exist? I decide to watch the one thing I’ve downloaded on Netflix and have not yet seen – Sausage Party. If you’re unfamiliar, it’s Seth Rogan’s animated flick about food items in the grocery store having adventures and casual sex.

  [I know, I know.]

  I’d hoped to view this in the hotel or at home alone, where no one could judge me, but no such luck. I put in my earphones and I start the movie. After a while, I sense a second set of eyes peering over my shoulder. Uh-oh. While animated, the film is not kid-friendly.

  At all.

  I position myself so the girl next to me can’t see. She keeps trying to sneak peeks anyway, which I would totally do, were I ten and saw what looked like a racy cartoon. I turn off the profanity-laden subtitles (I read everything I watch – weird habit) and angle as far away from her as I can. My screen is basically perpendicular with the plane’s window now. She continues to telescope her neck, totally oozing over into my personal space. Her breath smells like marshmallow and watermelon jellybeans.

  At this point, I believe I’ve done my duty. My screen is as sheltered as possible without my actually turning it off. I’m hunched around it like a prisoner protecting his lunch tray from the other hungry felons on Lasagna Day. The dad shoots passive-aggressive looks at me, as though I’m the problem here. Why does he feel that his rights in this situation supersede mine? It’s not like I’m trying to lure his kid into my panel van with the promise of puppies and Pez.

  Here’s a thought, Dad – if you don’t like the fact that your kid is crawling into my seat to invade my privacy and to view inappropriate content on my screen, stop her. Distract her. Change seats with her. I’m not the one in charge of safeguarding her.

  When I was growing up in the 1970s, every adult could yell at every kid. Totally allowable. That was part of the social contract. I’m not saying it was right, I’m just saying there was a hierarchy. A pecking order, with kids on the bottom. Didn’t matter whether these grown-ups were complete strangers; we were obligated to listen. If we were being brats, they could call us on it. I can’t imagine turning to this child and saying, “Yo, Hermione, sit your ass down. This movie is not for you.” My God, we’d have an emergency landing in Denver and a team of air marshals would cart me off this plane faster than I could say, “Expelliarmus!”

  Because as a culture we’re not doing the whole “it takes a village thing” anymore, it’s on you, Pops. Stop airing out your crotch and do your job. Better yet, complain about me to a flight attendant and get me moved to First Class.

  That would serve me right.

  When the grocery store orgy scene comes on, I close my iPad.

  I give up. I’ll just read a magazine.

  I’m home long enough to wash some underwear, kiss some dogs and make sure Fletch hasn’t gone feral (or vice-versa.) I sleep for a few hours before I head down to pick up Joanna on the way to Purdue.

  Even though I have GPS, I’ve since become a huge fan of Waze because of L.A. traffic and it’s the fastest, most effective way to go anywhere. I’ve preprogrammed everything before I get to Joanna’s because I know she’s going to want to navigate and that’s just not going to happen. In fact, it’s why I insisted we take my car.

  Joanna still uses Google maps and likes to give directions in retrospect, all, “You should... have exited there!” as we whiz past at seventy-two miles per hour.

  As the copilot, she offers instructions by way of mathematical equation, i.e. “We’ll want to merge in three times the number of kilometers it took us from the turn off.” This is her only fault, the sole flaw in the Hopi blanket that is her life, and it is a charming one, unless you are the driver because then you will want to plow headfirst into a tractor trailer full of steel coils. We’ve had discussions about how crazy-making this can be, but to no avail. We do not fight ever – too much mutual respect – but if we’ve squabbled, this is why.

  I help her bring her things out to the car and we load them up in back.

  “How were your meetings?” she asks, hugging me as she welcomes me inside.

  “They went well,” I say. Which is true. I have a few projects in play and I was out there talking to producers.

  “Everyone was nice?”

  I love how Joanna’s such a mom, that her greatest concern is for people having been kind to me.

  “Everyone’s nice out there,” I assure her. “I heard nothing but yeses.”

  I’ve been doing more business in Los Angeles lately. I find I prefer being there over New York now. If nothing else, an L.A. “yes” is the same thing as a New York “no,” but the L.A. yes feels so much nicer.

  “Everything will work out for the best!” she tells me.

  “You realize the long-shot, million to one, best-case-scenario is a network sale. That means we’d move there.”

  Joanna looks thoughtful. “Then I hope you crash and burn.”

  I laugh. “Thought so. Let’s load up.”

  We make multiple trips back and forth to the car. We’ve both stocked up on festive items for her daughter Anna’s sorority’s silent auction, as well as snacks for the hotel room. I offer her a fresh, cold bottle of water from the cooler and we jump into the front seats. I’m about to change the satellite radio station from Backspin (classic hip hop) when she starts in about directions.

  Call me psychic, because I totes predicted this.

  She says, “Okay, I’ve got Google maps ready. What you’re going to want to do is-”

  “Don’t need it,” I say, offering her my widest smile. “I’ve already programmed Waze. It’s a traffic reporting program with directions. They tell you the fastest possible way using satellites. Thousands of users self-report so it’s all real-time. There’s red light cameras, they tell you about stalled cars, plus it tracks your speed. Really, it’s the perfect app.”

  “Is it going to tell you to take Ogden? Because you’re going to want to take Ogden. I don’t care what it says, I have to insist you take Ogden.”

  “Hey, look,” I say, pointing at the display, “Ogden.”

  She argues with me about Waze (ever-so-politely) for the next ten minutes, even though it gets us to expressway more quickly than her route. At this point, I’ve not changed the radio station.

  I know exactly what kind of music Joanna prefers. In fact, I know almost everything she likes, as we share many commonalities. While we’re diverse adults, we came together at a point in our lives when we weren’t fully forme
d, so we developed into who were together. At the core, we’re much the same. Take our sense of style, for example. Both of us have an undying love for stiff cotton and bold, preppy colors, cut conservatively. A few years ago, she was in New York with me for a press junket. I had to do some media in the Condé Nast building. While dressing, I asked her what she thought of my black loafers and white socks.

  “Love,” she replied.

  She wasn’t shining me on, either; she meant it. It wasn’t until we were both in the lobby, watching fashion editors swan past in their four inch heels, we realized exactly how in synch and out of touch we were.

  “Bodies hauled off after squeezing the trigger, hmm? This is a nice song,” Joanna says. I know what she’s doing. She wants me to change the station but she’s too Lutheran to complain directly. Instead, she’ll hint.

  Now I must mess with her because of the whole Google maps thing.

  That’s how people know that I love them, by the way; I bait them.

  [If I don’t harass you a little, sorry. I guess we’re just not that tight.]

  “Did you want me to change the channel?” I say. This is officially a power struggle.

  “No, it’s fine. If you like it.”

  I nod. “I do.”

  “You relate to it? This music? Does it bring you back to growing up on the mean streets of Indiana? Remind me, did you get your first AK-47 before or after the Miss Huntington pageant?”

  “If you ask me to change the station, I’ll change it.”

  “I’m fine.”

  We ride in comfortable silence for a while. I’ve been watching for a coffee place but haven’t seen one. I’m exhausted and could use a boost. Feels like there’s nothing but barren cornfields on this stretch of road.

  “I am dying for a latte. Are you?” I ask.

  “I had coffee at home.”

  “So did I, but it was two hours ago. Are we going to be near a place to stop soon?”