Glitter and Doom

New Years Eve is amateur night.

Everyone knows that, and yet I still insist on going out every year. Generally to the same place, with the same people. And it’s the same place and the same people I see lots of other booze soaked nights of the year, so it’s not even that special. At least this year the bar offered open bar and I drank my weight in vodka during that time to make it worth it.

So as I rang in the new year double fisting vodka tonics and drinking champagne from plastic cups I thought….

Wait, I didn’t have any thoughts because by that time I was three sheets to the wind and bouncing around showing people charms hidden on the heels of my shoes.

The next morning though I woke up and thought my head may explode and all I wanted was grease. Instead I had my husband’s kids asking about breakfast and telling me about their new year with Grandma and all the cookies they ate, and how Trent (6) peed in his sleep, and he’s really sorry, and…

Kill me.

So Happy New Year to me. I had a sprained ankle courtesy some douche bag who can’t read or work doors, (see Cat in Heels on that one) had to shampoo kid pee from upholstery, make cereal and coffee, wash blankets, and try to not kill my still sleeping husband who was convinced his head may fall off if he tried to lift it.

I punished him by making him make me breakfast, which he barely got through, and then we both sat down to share the wonder of “The Neverending Story” with the kids, who agreed that it’s a great movie and our dog kind of looks like Falcor.

I started the New Year with a champagne hangover and a kitten on my face.  I suppose this isn’t all that different from any other Saturday, so, like any other weekend, I gathered the hungover bumpkins I found in my living room and we headed off to a dive diner at 3pm for breakfast. 

By the time we had all consumed enough coffee to engage in human conversation rather than just grunts and shrugs, talk turned to resolutions.  Well, not really.  What we really discussed first was what we were all going to do that day, but as this conversation mostly just consisted of intentions to lie in bed, watch movies, and play with puppies, we can skip over that.  Then there was the quick conversation about resolutions that seems to happen every year. 

I, for one, think resolutions are crap.  Consequently, I tend to hang out with like-minded individuals who make no promises to join a gym or grow a garden.  Now this is not to say that I have lazy or uninspired friends (nor to imply that I myself fit such generalizations).  It’s quite the opposite actually. 

I make resolutions all of the time.  Not that I would ever call them that, but that’s exactly what they are. When I decide that I’m going to start doing yoga with Cat once a week (which lasted about two months). Or that I’m going to read at least one book for pleasure on top of my schoolwork.  Possibly that I’m going to write every day.  Or that I need to cook more, even if it’s throwing some crap in a Crockpot.  Whatever, I come up with new things to put on my to-do list daily.  These are everyday promises made on rogue Tuesdays in July.  Thoughts that come up while wandering the Square on a Sunday in November. 

This is not to imply that I am in some way perfect or actualized in any way, quite the opposite.  I’m messy, disorganized, occasionally unhealthy, prone to disco nap with my kitten, and the borderline weekend alcoholic that any good, single twentysomething in Chicago is.  But I embrace it.  I refuse to think that self-improvement is limited to certain times of year and I will go out of my way to avoid such empty promises because lying to yourself is a huge waste of time.  Lie to other people.*

I would like to say that I was this articulate while discussing resolutions with my friends, but it’s more likely that I said something demeaning about people who are athletic and shoved some eggs into my mouth.  It’s okay, I’ll tell them next year.

*Like your parents who call you on Saturday “mornings” at 1:30pm and say “you sound sick” when it’s clear you’re just sleeping.

I’m ashamed to admit that Cat’s reports of my unfortunate licorice breakfasts are accurate, but to be fair I don’t usually eat candy for breakfast.  I’m not that unhealthy.  Generally I just drink a pot of coffee.  Maybe a croissant if I’m feeling fancy.

Okay, so breakfast is not my strong point. 

But my caffeine addiction aside*, I tend to be pretty healthy.  As a vegetarian you either learn how to cook for yourself healthfully or you wander around in a iron deficient haze wondering why you’re sleepy all the time.  Eventually you realize that chocolate, though technically vegetarian, is not really a food group.  This is when you recognize that you either learn to cook properly or starve to death.  My saving grace when I reached this crux was farmer’s markets. 

With glorious bushels of fresh produce, stinky cheeses, crusty bread, local honey and overpriced flowers, the local farmer’s market is my absolute favorite way to spend a Sunday afternoon.  I can gather cheap, ethical, locally grown produce to my hungover heart’s content.  Arms full of greenery, I can skip the two blocks home and plan out healthy, fresh meals for the week. 

There’s only one problem with this brilliant equation: I live in Chicago.  Consequently, my local farmer’s market only exists in “summer”, from June to October (which is already stretching the bounds of nice weather).  So what’s a veggie to do for the other 7 months of the year?  Good question.  I’m still working that one out. 

Of course, I could just shop at regular grocery stores, but a) that’s not fun and b) their produce kinda sucks it.  So usually, I venture to the all produce grocery store, but that is unfortunately far away and doesn’t sell anything but produce, leaving me to make two trips anyway.  My other option is “healthier” stores like Trader Joe’s or Whole Food’s.  But as far as I’m concerned, “healthier”  usually just means “expensive” and I just avoid such places.** 

So yesterday, after returning the XXL pajama pants my mother gifted me for Christmas, I found myself in Lincoln Park and less than a block from the largest Whole Foods in the world (or maybe just Chicago, but this is a huge grocery store).  Figuring that I’ve eaten nothing but sugar and butter in various forms for the last week, I shrug and wander in.  This was my first mistake. 

My second mistake was that after battling through the aisles of fair trade locally roasted coffee, imported organic produce, handmade all-natural soaps and cheese made from free-range rabbit milk or somesuchshit, I had a cart full of groceries that would have cost me roughly three times my monthly grocery budget…for a week’s worth of groceries.  Oops.  So in a moment of panic, I abandoned my cart somewhere near the un-packaged grass-fed chicken eggs, grabbed the four items I absolutely needed (and guacamole, because, you know) and ran for the checkout. 

100% consumer recycled bag in hand, I searched for an exit and noticed that this monstrosity had a bar.  Like a straight-up ten tap, fully stocked bar.  As frazzled as I may have been by my trip to the grocery store, I managed to acknowledge that my problems are silly and head out.  I also acknowledged that I probably would only hate myself more if I spent $9 on an organic beer that would likely taste like wheatgrass.

I spend my trip home pondering who are all of these people who not only have enough money to shop at this store, but are also somehow magically not working at two in the afternoon on a Tuesday.  The answer still eludes me.  Then, in the way that all Chicagoans do in the depths of winter, I begin planning for spring.  I google “Logan square farmer’s market” hoping to revel in the hope that one day this city will not be covered in snow only to be greeted by:

“Welcome to the Logan square indoor winter farmer’s market”

Well, that solves that. 

*Which for the record is a trait that Cat and I inherited from our Paternal side.

** I realize these are all really bourgeois problems, but I work from home and I’m on break from school, so I have too much time to think about crap like where I’m going to buy more grapefruit.

Yesterday morning my mom called and she was a little off. She chattered on about Christmas and the dog, my dad, my sister (I didn’t bother asking which one) and a few other things I couldn’t make out.

It was like Mom drank a whole pot of coffee, the only problem being she doesn’t drink coffee.

I told her she was off and she got defensive. 

“Not crazy, just a little…hyper.”

“Oh,” she said, possibly relieved. “I had toffee for breakfast instead of Cherrios.”

Of course you did. Because toffee is a perfectly acceptable breakfast for an adult who raised three girls and has grandchildren.

Oh wait. I had cookies for breakfast. And Figgy had Pringles, and I was on cup number eight or so of coffee, and eating more cookies because it’s the holidays and everyone knows cookies are calorie free around the holidays. Then this morning I had a mini chocolate bunt cake for breakfast and I got a breakfast report of Good and Plentys from Figgy (which is funny because last week that’s what I ate for lunch one day). 

Apparently our family finds it OK to eat crap food anytime. Like last night when my husband was eating truffles at 1:30 in the morning while I made them for work people. Or the cold pizza we would eat for breakfast in high school and college which was learned from Dad.

The best part being that the totally crap food isn’t a treat. It’s a meal. No sides, no supplements. We don’t even pretend it’s not a meal. Cookies, toffee, potato chips, truffles, pizza, theater candy…it all goes. No apologies or second thoughts needed.