Well, I’ve been away from my blog for awhile now on a fantastical voyage of self-discovery to lands far-flung.

No.

No. I haven’t actually. I’ve been stewing in self-pity and body odor and I haven’t left the house in weeks because I now telecommute. Living the dream. Help. Me.

Ahem! No need for the maudlin! Even those of us who lack a publisher that can fund a “Send me to Italy, India, and Indonesia So I Can Have a Questionable Epiphany” world tour can have a life-changing journey of beauty a la Elizabeth Gilbert. Check it out! World Market (love your wine, guys) has Eat, Pray, Love movie tie-ins. Because drinking Republic of Tea from a white elephant pot before you meditate in front of your Buddha blinds is completely like going to India or Bali. In fact, they say if you hold the pasta bowls up to your ear you can hear the fountains of Rome. Ahhhh…..

My journey begins with a failed attempt to run another marathon which, when you think about it is exactly like a failed marriage.  Or…you know….not.

Hey we’re on the cheap here. Cheap crisis. Cheap-as-free travel. Or complete lack of travel.  We go now to:

The Living Room

or

A Tale about the Pursuit of Pleasure

or

“Food Porn is So a Valid Lifestyle Choice”

I have mixed up a pitcher of mojitos and a nearly bathtub-sized bowl of fresh guacamole and now I am going to watch Man vs. Food with my beloved. If you are not familiar with the show, the host/star Adam Richman travels to various cities and attempts food challenges in each of them. Things like downing a whole-cow-sized steak in an hour or a burger the size of a tractor tire or buffalo wings spicy enough to melt chrome. It’s not a show I thought I would like at all, but since my husband introduced me to it I’ve become strangely addicted. I cannot explain the allure except to say it is excess in its most excessive glory.

We are watching one of the hot wing challenges which always fascinate me because I can handle about a cold-oatmeal level of heat in most of my food. Watching someone eat at Adam’s level of vigor seems to inspire the competitor in me. Can’t run on my bad knee? Depressed and inactive? Well, I will eat with gusto then! (Makes complete sense) What was once appreciation of mint and lime and creamy avocado has degraded into shoveling and guzzling. But ain’t it America baby? Passion = gluttony! And little pink houses for you and me.

Soon my beloved and I are giggly and groping and making juvenile  jokes about chicken. (Is it weird to get turned on by food porn? Yes. Yes it is. And now we move on to the next plot point such as it is). We make off to the bedroom for furtive sexy-time while the dogs are still fooled into thinking we’re coming back to the living room because we left the tv on. (Sexy-time on a bed covered in dog hair is so very Gilbertian. So much like billowy mosquito netting blowing in tropical breezes.)

Afterwards we pass out in over-indulged comas. Around 2 am I wake with a terrible feeling that someone has tilted the bed up on two legs and sent it spinning.

The Bathroom

or

The Pursuit of Devotion

or

“Praying to the Porcelain God”

Have you ever had that dreadful moment of realization that you are far drunker than you thought you were a moment ago? You were taking it slow. Having, yes, maybe a silly conversation with your friends at the bar, but it wasn’t like you were falling off the stool or slurring or anything. (At least it didn’t sound like it to you). Then you get up and…..oh….you sit right back down. Time for some water.

Well at 2 am in bed it was way too late for me. The guacamole has already begun its arduous journey back out of my body the way it came in.

Oh dear God.

Anyone who doesn’t think you can get spiritual while vomiting has not had the dry heaves. I guarantee you it is a Come to Jesus moment. Please…Vishnu…Jehovah….Allah…Buddha…sweet baby Jesus…make it stop.

Between bouts I lie back down and am so still a bird would think me an inert object, as the guru said. I chant my mantra: “I am not nauseous. I am not nauseous. I am not nauseous. I am not….agghhhhhh”

Then it is back to supplication before my disgusting altar. (Seriously. When is the last time I cleaned the thing?) Oh God. I am humbled before you. I am a foolish mortal. I swear I will never drink again. Suddenly the bargaining ego is vomited up (there’s nothing left in there anyway; it wouldn’t surprise me to find a kidney in the bowl at this point) and I achieve acceptance. The vomiting will be done when it is done. Not my will, oh Universe. I am merely a vessel for the vomit. I achieve peace.

Then I puke again.

The Kitchen

Or

The Pursuit of Balance or at Least a Decent Hangover Cure

Or

“Even in My Eyeballs I Feel Different”

In the morning light, as I look through bleary eyes at my darling children chasing each other around the house with the pure innocent exuberance only the very young have, I gather myself together. I tell my wide-eyed young in my sweetest voice that it would pain me greatly to have to throw them off the roof this morning, but if they don’t play quietly….well, Mommy can’t be responsible for her actions. My two-year-old gives me a time-out. This is, frankly, exactly what I need.

I look around the kitchen at the dirty dishes and dog hair on my floor and feel the guac standing at the back of my throat, ready for another appearance. And really, this is like the miracle of the fucking loaves and fishes because I have vomited everything in my body but my eyeballs. I give thanks to the universe for the abundance it has seen fit to bestow upon me. I suddenly realize what’s really important in life……. What’s that? Love of family? Be real. It’s money. Moneymoneymoneymoneymoney. My kitchen is not and never will be Bali and when do you think is the last time Elizabeth Gilbert did dishes anyway?  I could be as balanced as a zen-master if I could just have a tenth of those book royalties. I feel the peace of true wisdom settle over me.

Then I puke again.