Bouncing along the dirt road, listening to the box full of frozen bones clanking around like I’d car-jacked Ezekiel, all I could hope was that I wouldn’t get pulled over because I didn’t want to have to explain to a cop why there was a bloody cardboard box filled with a chopped up cow skeleton in my trunk. Because of course the answer is: I’m cheap. You sure you want all these? the rancher had asked me when I went to pick up my neat little shrink-wrapped order of local, grass-fed, kissed-by-angels beef. When I nodded at the stack of bones to the side, he just shook his head. You must have a lot of dogs or something.
Dogs? Nope. Delusions of health grandeur! Something like that.
A honeycrisp apple approximately the size of Jelly Bean’s head. Surely if any piece of produce could imbue me with super bloat-repelling powers it would be this magnificent beast!
Truth: I have one of those period tracker apps on my phone. I’d like to say it’s just more evidence of my hysterical white lady hypochondriac shtick but this thing is dope. Not only does it track my monthly shark bait business but it also lets me track my mood and symptoms – the only thing that makes me feel less “gloomy” “exhausted” and “frustrated” is noting that the icon for “breast tenderness” is a fork. (Also, bloated is a cupcake and constipation is a bottle of something fizzy with a bulging stopper. Makes me giggle every time I click on it, virtually saying, “YES. This IS ME” – an overstuffed fizzy cupcake with a fork in her boob.) Which I have been doing all day today since the Tampaxalypse is nigh. Anyhow, by now I’ve written enough about my wicked PMS to choreograph my own musical where the streets are paved with yellow bricks of fish oil, flowered fields seduce with the magical scent of magnesium tablets and flying monkeys bring raspberry leaf detox tea in jumbo jars.