My devoted readers will remember that the weekend Girl Scout Cookies were delivered, my household went wheat-free. If you’re new and you stumbled here hoping there was some uber-secret Get Girl Scout Cookies now that girls aren’t selling them site, sorry to disappoint, but stick around.
It’s now been a little over two months without wheat, or mostly without wheat (there have been a couple of celebration meals that included pizza) and I feel…terrible. Everybody loses weight when they give up wheat. I was losing, on average, .25 pounds a week, and that was with me working out. I was losing strength, losing energy, my stomach was a mess.
Luckily, when I started down this little path through the amber waves of grain, I also scheduled a doctor’s appointment because according to everything I’ve read (yes, on the Internet), I have no hormones, and probably no thyroid. OK, I may have them, but they’re totally out of whack.
The happy day of my doctor’s appointment finally came around two weeks ago. We talked forever (more than the usual 20 seconds at a regular doctor’s office), and he and I agreed that I was probably allergic to something I was eating instead of wheat. My concern was that it was more than one thing, and I wasn’t really interested in taking the time to figure out what it was, when for the low, low price of $200 and five vials of blood, I could find out what I was allergic to.
I got the answers on Friday, ironically, while sitting in the waiting room of the doctor’s office so his vampire assistant could take yet another vial of blood. So I open the email and find out that I am allergic to literally everything I have been eating since going wheat-free. Basically, I was trying to commit suicide with parsley and pineapple. Not together. That would be gross.
I’m allergic to goat’s milk. I’m allergic to casein, which is found in all cow’s milk products. I’m allergic to almonds, pistachios and cashews. Melon. Yeast. Vanilla. Mustard?!!? Really? Brussel sprouts, so Totally Awesome Step-Mother can now stop telling me I should eat them because she has a great recipe. To be fair, she does have a great recipe, but I won’t be partaking anymore. Also, I now have proof that I am allergic to several types of fish and shellfish. And peanuts. Cranberries. Bananas. It’s a really impressive list.
In my typical fashion, I think I took the news fairly well. I calmly left the doctor’s office and drove to the nearest Cook Out where I ordered a CHEESEburger. On. A. BUN. With MUSTARD. French Fries. Onion Rings (which the last time I checked, involved wheat). And a Mint Chocolate Chip milkshake. If I could have found a way to add beer to the mix and really load up on yeast, I would have.
Yes, I got serious about this on Saturday. I didn’t have dairy all weekend. Yesterday, I had to make a cake for a Boy Scout Court of Honor. Since I wasn’t eating it, I used wheat. No, I was not about to waste $8/pound special flour on Boy Scouts.
Here’s where things got interesting. While making the cake, I had about two tablespoons of cake batter (containing wheat and milk), and probably the same amount of frosting. Both homemade by me. And totally worth it. Until about twenty minutes later when I started itching like fury and my allergies flared and my stomach decided I was the dumbest person on Earth.
Seriously?!!? I’d been off milk for 2.5 days! I’m still itchy today. Which might have something to do with the fact that my Boy Scout popcorn “contains milk ingredients.” Crap. That was just not something I thought to check. Stupid cow.
Oddly, while I cannot eat any cow byproduct, I have no allergies to the cow itself. Hello Filet Mignon. Goodbye parsley. And yes, I really am allergic to parsley, which is maybe the dumbest thing I’ve ever had to admit.
Hi. My name is Kim, and I’m allergic to parsley.
A few days ago I was volunteering at Snarky Daughter’s school. It’s a small school, so if you show up at all during your kid’s years there, you’re pretty much guaranteed to know the entire staff. So it didn’t take a degree in rocket science to figure out that the Career Counselor was having a rough week. It was Tuesday.
We started chatting and I learned he was back in school getting his Masters, and we were talking about how became a school counselor, etc, etc. Eventually it turned to my day job search, which after a year, continues to be a chorus of, “You were a finalist, but we went with the person who had twelve years experience in exactly our field.”
We moved on to the maybe it’s time for me to go back to school, get a degree in something else, rack up some student loan debt (two years before Snarky Daughter goes to college) and find a new job.
Me: I’m not against going back to school, but I need to decide what direction I want to go. If I could find my passion before I made a move…
Counselor: Sometimes you need to just take a leap of faith. Find a program you like and trust you’ll find a job on the other side.
Me: I lack faith. You know in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, when Indy has to take that step and trust that there is a way across the bottomless chasm (is there any other kind of chasm)? And he does it? Right. I’m the one turning around saying, “I’ll face the Nazis.”
But something he said clearly resonated with me, because within ten minutes I was changing my attitude. For the last six months, I’ve been putting my life on hold because I didn’t have a day job. I’m not trying to meet anyone because I’m afraid I’m going to have to move. Why would anyone want to date an unemployed writer? No, I won’t be serving another term on the PTA board because I can’t promise I’ll be here come fall. On and on it went, with me turning away from life because I might move this summer.
But on Tuesday, with the help of the counselor and then my hairdresser I decided to change it up. Instead of putting my life on hold because I might move, I’m going to start living and assume that the job will find me.
I thought I was good with all of this. And then last night I had a horrifying dream that while trying to park my car the brakes didn’t work and I went flying over the edge of a small version of the Grand Canyon. In dreamland, I didn’t have my seatbelt on, and yet remained in my seat, and knew that if I could get my seatbelt back on before the car hit the ground, I’d be safe. At the last second I got it back on, and sure enough, the car and I were fine.
There are days in my life when I really wish I had a dream interpreter. Yeah, this one is pretty clear. I need to take a leap of faith. Apparently I will survive. And no, I’m not going to put in a link to Gloria Gaynor because now that I’ve mentioned her, you’re all singing along anyway. You’re welcome.
If the job finds me here, great. If I have to move, guess what. Life will go on. Wherever I go, I’ll still be writing romance novels, so I’ll be happy. And I will have experienced life in the meantime.
Which just goes to tell you how today is going since it is both Monday, and raining. I actually love the rain, but I was really looking forward to working in the Garden Office today. Instead, I have to sit here and enjoy the flowers that got damaged when I was potting the plants. Notice the beautiful Blue Moon Beer vase.
So, I’m sure you’re all wondering how I was doing yesterday after Saturday’s Tackle Every Yard Project Imaginable. Well. Yes. The dog got me up Sunday at 6:45 to announce that she had to go out. (I really want a dog door.) So I rolled over and whimpered. Let the dog out, and went back to bed.
Twenty minutes later, I got back up with more whimpering, decided a full yoga workout was not in the cards, what with breathing hurting and all, let the dog back in and opted for working on one part of me at a time. Went back to bed with my Kindle and started a heavy-duty thumb workout with the Next Page button. After an hour, I figured I was ready to face the day.
Had some oatmeal and Advil for breakfast and then started baking, with occasional stretching added in. Then I got serious. Brownies. Oatmeal Cookies. Jell-O. You know. Everything a kid would like to take to school for a lunch treat. And yes, all wheat-free.
While the cookies were going, I went a little crazy and decided to change the sheets on my bed. Because, you know, it’s Sunday and I lead a really exciting life. Also, it was too cold to go hang out in Garden Office. While I was at it, I thought I’d flip the mattress around because that’s cheaper than buying a new one that lacks a crater in the center.
Let’s talk about how much a mattress weighs. I’m sure that under normal circumstances they weight what 50 pounds? Maybe? Whatever. Let me tell you, after digging all the holes, etc on Saturday, I had the arm strength of a butterfly. So that mattress weighed about 300 pounds.
Since I needed to take a breather halfway through moving it around, I noticed all the dust collecting around all the spindles on the bed. I love this bed. It’s a gorgeous Arts and Crafts style thing. There are two reasons never to buy this bed. 1) It’s a dusting pain in the ass. 2) All your friends will make bondage jokes when they see it. Every. One. Of. Them. I didn’t realize you all lived in the gutter with me, or that you thought I had that much fun in bed, but whatever.
It took over an hour to dust this bed because the only way you get the dust off the spindle bases is with a toothbrush. Also, I had to stop every eight minutes to drop dough on a cookie sheet.
Finally, a lifetime later, my room was clean. No worries. I had a window open so you know everything was covered in pollen again by dinner. Yes, I know. I have allergies, I shouldn’t have open windows. But I’ve been locked in the house all winter and it needs airing out.
So, cleaned my room, cleaned the kitchen. Scrubbed the kitchen floor with a Magic Eraser mop head and if you haven’t tried one of those yet (and you have linoleum) you’ve got to try it. It’s like a before and after photo from a Mr. Clean commercial. And no, I did not take those before/after pictures because it would ruin the mystique that is me.
Romance writers. We have awesome sex all the time, have perfect husbands, and pristine kitchen floors. You’re buying it, right?
Onward through the day, I finally hit the Garden Office. Heaven! Wrote, did some research, and watched the Ex and Scout Son kill themselves replacing the belt on the lawnmower so that Snarky Daughter and I could mow the lawn after dinner.
Made dinner, mowed the lawn, took a bath, and read a really cute, sweet romance, Goodnight Tweetheart by Teresa Medeiros. Basically, Sunday was a day of doing really easy chores and watching other people work really hard fighting a lawnmower.
It’s just part of the glamorous life I lead as a romance writer.
There was a moment this morning when I considered writing all day. Then I got out of bed and saw how beautiful it was outside and how cool it was outside, and I thought, why try to make a deadline when you can mow the lawn.
Just guessing, I’d say I have three acres to mow, and because of the weather, this was the first weekend it needed mowing. That’s always a joy because it means charging the lawn mower battery, checking the oil, adding gas, putting air in the tires. Love me some mowing season.
So I do all of that, which has me climbing all over the mower, and then it takes me about five minutes to get the damn thing started because what gas was in it was months old and apparently gas has an expiration date. Whatever. Anyway, it took forever to get the thing going and then there was that moment when I couldn’t figure out why it wasn’t moving because, oh yeah, I put it in neutral when I started it. So would someone please explain to me why the mouse in the garage decided to hide under the tire while I did all of that?
Needless to say, I’m down one mouse. Alas, I only mowed for ten minutes before the belt that runs the 52-inch mowing deck shredded itself. Now the yard looks like I went to it for a while before deciding to take a beer break. For a day.
Some writers, dedicated writers, would have taken that as a sign that they were supposed to go back in the house and you know, write. I took it as a sign that I should split day lilies and iris, and plant some flowers in pots and make the freshly painted deck (my springtime office) look wonderful.
I have tons of empty pots kicking around in the garage, but didn’t have plants. So I talked Sarcastic Roommate in to going to Walmart with me so I could get some cheap annuals and have instant gratification. I also somehow talked her into helping me clear out some broken concrete left over from when the swing set came down a few weeks ago, and doing some weeding. I’m still not sure how that happened since she hates bugs, but she’s toying with the idea of putting in a small vegetable garden, so I was pointing to every spot with chickweed taking over, saying all that space is open. She said, “What’s chickweed?”
Chickweed is an invasive plant with shallow roots. Some people make tea with it. Those people should feel free to stop by and get some because there’s a bumper crop in my yard. Taking over the lawn and flower gardens. It’s even tried taking growing in corners of the deck. So, I grab some and rip it out of the ground and show her, and the next thing I know, it’s an hour later and we have a pile of weeds.
Nine hours after I wandered outside, I gave up the good fight and tossed a Mike Hard Lemonade into the freezer and headed for a shower. Do not mock the Mike’s. It’s the perfect yard work drink. Those who mock can be here at 10 tomorrow morning with shovels, rakes and hoes and we’ll do another ten hours of yard work, and then we’ll see how you feel about the Mike’s.
The difference between this weekend and last weekend is huge around here. I should have taken a “before” picture, but I forgot until I was halfway done staining the deck and then it was too late. But imagine a camo-colored deck. Originally it had been a seafoam green, then it was an army green, and the dogs had worked very hard at removing layers of both and exposing the wood.
Maybe now that I have this nice office to work in, I can write.
Getting dressed today, my finger shot through the lace of my bra. No real surprise there since, like all the others, this one is about three years old. Yes, I need new underwear. But 1) I hate buying underwear, and 2) I was hoping to be able to buy smaller underwear.
Since I started doing DDP Yoga back in October, I’ve lost about six pounds and over 13 inches. I’m thrilled about the inches, verklempt about the pounds, and keep hoping that I’m going to step on the scale one morning and see some serious weight loss. So I keep avoiding buying new clothes.
Exercise. You’ll lose the weight. Go wheat-free. You’ll lose the weight. Do all of the above, you’ll lose one pound a month. Yeah, I know. Have my thyroid and hormone levels checked. I’m on it.
Anyway, back to my underwear and too much information. Between being a romance writer and buying in to all those ads in Glamour, I believe a woman’s underwear should be sexy and match. Every day. Well, not so much when I work out, but the rest of the time.
So, I was searching through the panties (why do I feel like I’m five years old when I use that word?) at one of those nationwide department stores, trying to find a pair that matches the bra in my hand. I know they exist because, hello, there’s a five foot photo of some hot model wearing them on the wall.
“Can I help you?” Because the only thing better than shopping for sexy underwear is getting help from a complete stranger.
“You could find the matching panties.”
“Not going to happen.”
I stop rifling. “What do you mean?”
Get this. They want us to buy the underwear in sets, but they don’t ship them that way. They ship the bras in one shipment, and the panties a few weeks later. AND most stores only get one or two panties of each size compared to the 20 or so bras they get, so if you’re not the first one there, you’re outta luck.
I still can’t figure this one out. I mean, the designers designed them to go together. We want to buy them together because, secretly, deep down somewhere, we’re hoping Johnny Depp is going to show up, strip our clothes off and see us in this underwear, which will make us look as hot as the model in the ad. Our significant others want to see us in them because they don’t really believe we’d throw them over for Johnny Depp. Plus, they know the odds of Johnny Depp showing up (slightly better since he broke up with his girl friend, but I fear I have a better shot at winning the lottery), so they figure they’ll score.
And they’re probably right, because when we wear sexy underwear, we feel sexy. So everyone, even Johnny Depp, wants us to buy the panties and the bra together.
Apparently only the guys in logistics want us in grandma panties and bras that hide everything from our armpits to our waist and lack lace. I’m not sure what that says about them.
Maybe by now they’ve figured things out. And maybe when I go shopping, I’ll have lost some more of those pounds.
My house is white again. For some March brings basketball. Don’t get me wrong. If you’d had a webcam on me beginning on Thursday, you would have found me watching the ACC Men’s Basketball Tournament. Really.
Twenty years ago, driving cross-country with my then fiancé, we hit ACC country in the middle of the night. We crossed some river and here we were. We’d been chatting about something mundane, probably about what it would be like to live in more than five square feet again. (We’d been driving for three weeks, with an over-packed travel trailer.)
But we crossed a river, maybe into Georgia? And the Ex looked at me and said, “OK, you have to choose a team.”
I didn’t pretend not to know what he was talking about. In the two years we’d been dating, I’d learned there were parts of the country who cared about college basketball. Who knew? Not me. I grew up surrounded by professional teams.
“Chapel Hill.” Not living here yet, I didn’t realize we referred to the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill as UNC or Carolina. As if the other schools in the UNC system don’t even exist.
Without missing a beat, he said, “Pick again.”
I’d considered applying to Chapel Hill, so I didn’t realize what the problem was, except that the Ex went to their rival, NC State.
The Ex explained that I could choose any other school in the ACC (there are 12, soon to be 15), just not Carolina. Pretty sure I was wearing my Carolina sweatshirt at the time, just to spite him. Because I like to pick.
“State pretty much sucks, right?” (See previous comment.)
He agreed, but stressed I didn’t have to choose State. But I did. It’s that Cubs fan thing coming out. I’m used to supporting the underdog. As it turns out, State is sort of my alma mater. I attended a week-long textiles class there, so I have a certificate from them. That’s almost a diploma.
So, Go Pack!
Anyway, spent the majority of a beautiful weekend watching TV, knitting and eating a lot of stuff that had wheat in it. Saturday was gorgeous, but State was playing so I hung out with my neighbors and cursed at the appropriate times. If you saw the State/Miami game, there were lots of appropriate times.
In case you wondered, yesterday it was a balmy 77 here. 77!!!
Usually by the time ACC Tournament comes around, we’ve had some great weather and I’ve had time to pressure wash the house. This year, we had a cold snap in March, so the house was still green.
So, after State lost and Carolina won — Go Heels — (the neighbors are Carolina fans and they fed me) I realized we had another hour and a half of sunlight. Woo-hoo. 77 and sunny. I ran home (OK, no running), said a prayer that the pressure washer would start, and washed half the deck.
Yippee! By the time I was done, I could barely move. I’d started my day with DDP Yoga, then gone out to weed a garden for a couple of hours, drank the pain away while watching basketball, and then tackled the deck.
No, I could not move this morning. Which was fine since it was supposed to be about 55 today. But then I let the dog out, and I REALLY wanted the house to be white again. So I whipped up a batch of wheat-free biscuits, plopped them in the oven, told Scout Son to take them out when the timer went off, and ran to the store for bleach. No, it’s not environmentally friendly, but it’s the only thing that takes the mildew off the house, so suck it up.
Two hours into the process I stopped for lunch and to put on dry sweats. Also, I’d had to put more gas in the washer, and it apparently needed a rest before it would start up again. At that point I really wasn’t sure I’d be able to get it started again because my hands looked more like claws, locked into place.
This would have been the time to stop and, you know, watch the championship game. Did I? No. Tarheel Neighbor will read this and flip out because I’m sure if I’d been sitting on her couch, wearing any shirt I wore earlier this week, drinking and knitting in “my spot,” Carolina would have won. (Um, the game ended four hours ago and I just found out who won. Not Carolina. Oops.)
Five hours in, I was done. My house is white, the deck is clean (and needs to be painted), and the kids cleaned every downstairs window. Those who know me and love me will ask, did you get on a ladder?
Yes, I did. BUT, for once, I got one of the kids to hold it whenever I was on uneven ground or using the maximum force attachment. And good news! It’s going to be too cold for the next week and a half for me to paint the deck. Go Pack at the NCAA!!! And Carolina too!!! And I’d be ever so grateful if someone would take out the University of Miami in the first round this week.
For me, March Madness involves a pressure washer. What about you?
Really exciting day here at Chez Hope. Snarky Daughter is on Spring Break because she goes to a school on a college schedule. So she’s lurking around the house, with her nose in a MacBook Air all day. Yesterday we went ice skating and I realized I was really falling down on the conversation side of things. I have no idea what to talk to her about.
Sigh. I’ll figure it out, I’m sure. It didn’t help that I’d only had about 5 hours of sleep. But ask me about the totally awesome chat I had with Magesh at Amazon at midnight. Didn’t have a problem keeping that conversation going for twenty minutes.
Anyway, today, much excitement. First there was the crash that didn’t sound quite like a crash. It was really windy here today, so when I heard a thuddish kind of sound, my first thought was we’d lost a branch. Woo-hoo. So I wandered out around the side of the house where the thud had come from in my bunny slippers (what all professional writers wear to work). OK, they aren’t really bunny slippers, but only because I can’t afford the Killer Rabbit slippers on thinkgeek.com. In college, I had moose head slippers just like these (yes, you can find everything on the internet, even 20 year old slippers). They were awesome.
Right. Focus. So, wander outside, but no, the only branches over there are the ones I have successfully ignored since November. Hey, what’s the point of picking these up until I’m ready to burn them. More will collect in the meantime and I’ll have to do it all again. Also, it’s cold out and I’m a wimp.
So, back into the house. For some reason I can’t remember I wandered into my room, and found the source of the thud, which should have really sounded like a crash. Athena has been working very hard to keep the house ladybug free. In her enthusiasm, she took out my bedside lamp. Thank you, Thea.
At this point I should say that I really want to redecorate my
life, um, house. The lamp in question is 15 years old and totally out of date. Also, the CFL that was in it (remains unbroken) is pretty full of dark and really low on light, so really, this whole light concept is an in name only thing. The lamp shade (also unbroken) is dark green. My bedroom is periwinkle blue.
In considering a move across country, I’ve been wandering the house figuring out what is worth paying to have it moved 3,000 miles. Believe me, this lamp, and it’s sister, were not on the list to go. In fact, they wouldn’t be on the move list if I was moving two blocks. I keep them because I think I’ll be starting over soon and I don’t want to cart more crap than I have to, or waste money on something I’m going to give away or sell in a yard sale in three months, but I still need light. Or something like candlelight but safer. I still have one, so I’m good.
In other excitement, Scout Son, Snarky Daughter and I all played Munchkin Deluxe tonight. It’s a pretty simple game with some of the worst written directions I’ve ever read. I’m sure they make sense to the D&D set, but I didn’t have the patience for D&D either. Anyway, if you’re playing with someone who can teach you so you aren’t dependent on the directions, it’s really a lot of fun. And vicious. I like being evil. Are you surprised? No? How odd.
Anyway, given the choice between writing a cover letter for a job and spending quality time putting curses on my kids, you can guess what I chose. And I won. Well, they kind of let me win. The kids were being gentle for the first couple of rounds because I had no idea what I was doing. They will not be as kind next time. Which will make it even more fun!
I think I need to get rid of all the tables in my house. You’ll recall a few weeks ago, while minding my own business and picking up a pen or something, the coffee table jumped out and viciously bit my forehead. That still sounds so much better than my depth perception failed me and I banged my head on the corner.
At 5AM this morning (is there any other kind of AM?) I woke up from a totally weird dream where I was being laid off, rolled over and smashed my eye into the corner of the nightstand. Regan Black will kindly stop laughing as I managed to do basically the same thing at her house last year.
I’m not sure which is a worse omen for a job interview, a dream that you’re being laid off — they gave notice by giving you and 8×12 HOT PINK envelope, because that would be subtle — or giving yourself a black eye four hours before said interview.
What I do know is that instead of a final read-through of the job description, I was matching my eye makeup to the quickly growing bruise on my eyelid. It should be stated at this point, that I’m not a makeup girl. I barely know how to use it, and until a year or two ago, I had one set of eye shadows. That I even had cream, green and brown eyeshadows, let alone knew how to use them together, is a miracle.
I’m not really a klutz. Really. But I am beginning to think I need to have an eye exam because the tables are getting seriously pissed about something. And they’re taking it out on me.
Crackers. Crackers. Crackers.
No, I don’t crave bread. I’m not a big sandwich person. But I would gladly kill for some crackers.
According to the book, people who don’t eat wheat will eat 300-400 fewer calories than people who eat wheat. I’m not sure how this is possible since all I want to do is eat everything that is not wheat in the hopes it will taste like…wheat.
See, this is the problem with binging on wheat last week. Now I’m going through withdrawal. Yes, there is wheat withdrawal.
But it will be worth it. And with all the time I’m saving by not stuffing my face with crackers, I am writing. And since I’m cranky, you know I’m torturing my characters.
They don’t want wheat. They want… well, we all know what they want. But they’re not getting any either. Hopefully by the time they do get some, I’ll be through my withdrawal and a happy camper again.
Have I mentioned the 9 cases of Girl Scout Cookies that are still in my living room? I ordered 8 boxes of cookies before I got this great idea. Snarky Daughter bought 2 boxes, and Scout Son bought 1. That’s 11 boxes of cookies We. Can’t. Eat.
Just sitting there. Taunting us. Well, me. Because I am letting the kids have a cookie a day. At this rate, we’ll be out of cookies by Christmas.
All you folks who give stuff up for Lent? I have a whole new respect for you. Because that binge thing last week? I am paying for it now. The interesting thing is I know I’m not hungry as I’m lusting after crackers. I feel full. So I tell The Voice in my head to shut the hell up. I am not hungry. Because I’m not.
Channel your inner Gloria Gaynor here:
At first I was afraid, I was petrified
Kept thinking I could never live without you by my side…
I want to be healthier than my mom was. Yesterday I told you about how much pain I was in last week when I was eating all the wheat. But today’s Day Two and the pain is almost completely gone again. So is the swelling. I still have a headache, but I blame the coffee table.
Now, I just have to make it through Day Three. For those of you who haven’t ever tried cutting carbs out of your diet, Day Three is the day from hell. It’s the day the cravings are typically the worst.
Channel Gloria again. I will survive. I will survive! I will survive!!
When I started telling friends and family that my family was going wheat-free beginning this week, the resounding response was, “Why?”
It’s a complicated answer, but here’s the basic deal. Studies are now showing that wheat isn’t good for us. In fact, it’s really bad. It’s been connected with increased symptoms of diabetes, asthma, allergies, migraines, Autism/Asperger’s, depression and a whole host of other things. The list is really long. And it contains pretty much every problem my mom was having when she died one month after she turned 65.
When I started listening to The Wheat Belly Diet book in the car two weeks ago, I got worried really quickly. Not only were my mom’s health issues on the laundry list, but so were my biggest issues (pain, inflammation and migraines) and Scout Son’s.
So I came home from a job interview and said, “Hey, guess what? We’re giving up wheat.”
But when I started sharing everything I learned, everybody was on board, even Sarcastic Roommate.
I know what you’re thinking. She’s crazy. Wheat’s been around for centuries. How can it be bad?
Well, here’s the deal. The wheat our grandparents and all the generations before them ate, had 14 chromosomes. But it was a bitch to grow. It’s tall. It’s prone to bugs and disease. So in the ’50s, scientists got the great idea to genetically alter it. And then did it. Today’s wheat is dwarf wheat, easier to grow, drought and bug resistant. And with 42 chromosomes, it’s barely related to the wheat we used to eat.
Now if we’d done some, I dunno, animal or human testing before releasing our miracle wheat on the population, we might have figured out that what we’d made was a health issue monster. But there were starving people to feed worldwide, and money to be made. And realistically, I’m not sure we had the testing know how back then to realize there was a problem.
Today, we know better. So, today, no wheat.
Want some more joyous data about today’s wheat? It triggers the same responses in the human body as heroin. Enjoy that bagel! And when you get off of wheat, you go through the withdrawal symptoms equivalent to quitting smoking. Headaches. Crankiness. Lethargy.
Now, I questioned some of what I read. I mean, seriously. Inflammation? Headaches? Pain? But last week, wanting to look and feel my best (and because we had all these wheat products in the house), I ate wheat. Hell, if I could have rolled around in it, I would have. I ate more wheat than I have eaten in months.
And I felt like shit. By day 3 of Eat the Wheat, I was ready for Vicodin for every injury I’ve had over the past ten years, and a bunch of those places were swollen again. I had headaches, stomach aches, and was always desperate for my next meal. It was insane.
So I was really happy when Day One came around. But I won’t lie. There’s some withdrawal going on here. And I have a humdinger of a headache, although that may be because the coffee table jumped up and beat me in the forehead. That’s the only possible explanation, because the other option is that I didn’t see the corner there, where it’s been for the past five years.
Anyway, it’s the end of Day One, I’m cranky and I have a Jumping Coffee Table induced headache. But I didn’t have wheat, which is saying a lot considering my family bought a total of 11 boxes of Girl Scout cookies from Snarky Daughter. The kids are tapering off wheat and can have a cookie a day. I’m trying to stay clean.