Everything Zen

Somewhere between Thursday night and Friday night, I became angry. Not just angry. Infuriated. And upset. And weepy. And…blocked up. I couldn’t write a coherent sentence to save my life, so I decided that I was permanently damaged and would never write again and the the best I could do was to become a bricklayer or asphalt specialist or maybe a pig farmer.

By Saturday night I’d evolved into a giant lump of pasty flesh who did little more than eat and fart, sometimes at the same time. The entire weekend, I had a box of cheddar-flavored Triscuits surgically attached to my hands, and at one point (like, um, an hour ago), Adam gently pried them from my fingers and suggested that maybe it was time to stop, as I don’t think he’d heard me say anything without the crunch of wheat muddling up the words in several days. I even kept them with me at meals, along with a jar of peanut butter and a block of Asiago cheese.

This eating frenzy came in handy during Saturday night’s dinner at Panda Pavilion with my in-laws when the Israeli-Palestinian-terrorism discussion came up. I cannot explain why, but through some bizarre misunderstanding, Adam described terrorists as “brilliant,” meaning “kind of smart sometimes about terrorizing people which is very, very bad,” not “I love terrorism and terrorists! Where do I sign?” and for some reason, his father screamed – screamed - at both of us, with complete sincerity:

” Oh my God. Are you…son, are YOU A TERRORIST? ARE YOU PART OF HAMAS?** J – do you know anything about this?”

He was absolutely furious. And I was too hungry to risk giving up even a single sparerib, or even a chicken finger to throw at his head and my mouth was full, thank God. The whole room turned to a screeching halt, and I caught the woman behind us whispering, “Do they look Middle Eastern to you? They look so normal! Oh my God!”

I am now likely on multiple terrorist watch and no-fly lists.

The good news is that although my father in law thinks I am a terrorist, I’ve pieced together that the eating is PMS and it will pass, hopefully before I turn into a post-blueberry Violet Beauregard. It’d better, because as of this moment, in addition to various and sundry full meals, I have consumed two boxes of Triscuits, a block of Asiago cheese, a container of hummus, a block of dark chocolate, a bottle of chardonnay, a bottle of pinot noir, an alarming amount of shrimp cocktail, an entire plate of Chinese spareribs, and more! Much, much more! And I am still hungry.

It was just after I polished off a jar of wasabi almonds that I realized that I really wanted to go on a road trip, preferably with the almonds, and maybe some Combos. And, since the CIA is likely tracking my every move now, driving might be the best I can do. I miss road trips since moving to Florida, as driving anywhere is sort of pointless, as it’s all the same. Flat. Trees. Heat. BFD. And then, as I licked the bottom of the jar, I realized that it wasn’t the road trip I missed, or the Combos and almonds, it was the beef jerky.

Oh, beef jerky. I love beef jerky, but not just *any* beef jerky – it must be Damn Good. I promptly ordered four pounds of this stuff. You think you know beef jerky? Think again.

As I dreamed of the jerky hurtling its way to our home in a happy box, a strange calm settled over me. The jerky is coming. It’s going to be okay.

*Bush.

**The Hamas thing is particularly hilarious, as we’re Jewish, sort of. I don’t, um, think they’d take us. And terrorists? TERRORISTS. OH MY GOD.

18 comments July 16th, 2006