Have you ever had one of those days when things were out of synch? Not the, life is so terrible will an hour past when I don’t want to chew my own leg off to escape, but the casual, WTF, itchy ant bite between the toes annoyances that occur. Tuesday, I fell down the rabbit hole. The morning began in throes of sleepless dreams leaving me scratching my head and wondering whatever happened to the peacefulness that used to envelope the fluttery sleep of my youth. Then again, maybe it was just the pizza from the previous night. I staggered out of bed in search of coffee, and the Mister joined me conveniently AFTER the litter pan was scooped and the cats were fed.

Mister Hombre and I have agreed to improve our eating habits. Neither of us has the metabolism of a sixteen-year-old male pursing a bed buddy, and both of us have grown too fond of desserts, and then there is an issue with a certain favorite pair of pants. We need to reestablish our willpower. This change in consumption shouldn’t be difficult. We’ve already cut down on heavily processed and preserved foods. Most of the vegetables we eat are fresh, little comes from cardboard boxes, and we enjoy fish and pork. The hardest food to part with will be the bread dipped in olive oil. There is something about the formality of the agreement that increases the pressure. SInce we took the pinky swear, I’ve been bummed about the whole thing.

For breakfast, I irritably sauteed mushrooms, scrambled eggs and brewed fresh coffee (incidentally, this would have been a typical breakfast, pre-diet pact). The Mister crawled into the kitchen complaining of congestion and feeling run down and blah. Translation: the Mister will feel uninspired and inhabit the sofa for long periods of time.

After breakfast, he felt compelled to offer his sympathy about menstruation in general, stating he thought this must have been similar to the way I felt last week. I offered to punch him in the lower abdomen and pour a gallon of water down his throat so he too could share the joy. He said no thanks and retreated to the sofa. I took him a fresh cup of coffee as a peace offering.

Most of my day was spent in the kitchen. I don’t mind cooking, but when there are regulations involved it sucks the life right out of me, and the f-bombs roll. Rules are inhibiting and stifle my creativity. I prefer a freeform approach to food preparation. At least the eating restrictions don’t place limitations on coffee consumption, but it hardly compensates for the planning required. Lunch was simple, but you wouldn’t have known by the number of complaints that escaped my lips. I suppose I left the Mister with the impression I to slaughter the chicken myself, grow the lettuce, harvest the tomatoes, and light the grill with two sticks and a piece of twine.

The afternoon required more time in the kitchen, followed by a trip to get groceries. We returned home in time to cook again. Damn it! The Mister is most excellent when it comes to pitching in for dinner preparations, but he was still feeling a bit blah, so I left him on the sofa. The evening meal was nothing special but satisfying. (Grilled tuna and asparagus, for those of you who just need to know.) The absence of wine was rather disappointing.

Okay, it was more than disappointing, it was the source of most of my complaining. Granted, I can function without wine. My beverage palette isn’t big. I drink water, coffee, hot tea, wine, and martinis. This new eating regimen forbids all alcohol for two weeks. Fine, I can do this, but I don’t have to like it. Due to sleeplessness, I’ve stopped drinking coffee after six. That leaves water and tea. While they are healthy alternatives, they don’t excite my taste buds. (I suppose the fact that I only have chamomile in my cupboard at the present time could be part of the problem. So, all you tea drinkers, tell me your favs, mkay?)

After eating, I was still in a foul mood. To add insult to injury, the cat chose to lay next to the Mister on the sofa instead of with me in the studio, our internet service provider was M.I.A. and not answering phone calls, there was a baseball game playing on television at rock concert volume, there was an idiot stationed in a powerful white house position, and Phil Hartman was still dead. In my defense, I could have dealt with all these little inconveniences…if only there had been wine.