I'm posting this on the 14th, so please bear with this late update.
I woke up to the building fire alarm shrieking, and immediately flipped right the fuck out. The first thing I did was put pants on. Second was to stuff my computer in the bag where I keep my wallet, and then follow it up with my bus pass and the bra that was lying on the floor by my chair. Last but certainly not least, I stuffed my phone in my pocket before I put shoes on and walked out the door.
For a while, nobody had any idea what was going on and I was pissed. This had woken me up, my period started on the way down the stairs, and I was fucking hungry. To put it one way, I made the sensible decision to find food and a bathroom. To put it another, I stormed off in search of comfort food and someplace to put in the one emergency tampon I always keep in my bag.
Miraculously, there's a 24 hour diner within a couple blocks. Diner is the wrong word- let's try restaurant, because it's way too fancy to be grouped in with Denny's. There are actual leather chairs, high booths, and the servers wear bow ties. But they don't mind my grumpy face and Frosty the Snowman pajama bottoms as I run to their fancy-ass bathroom.; they know me there.
For a couple hours I sat at their counter, watching the cooks, and eating some of the most delicious banana fosters french toast I've come across in my life. Except that something wasn't right; usually the glaze was wonderfully sweet but today the oily sweetness just tasted... fake.
This may sound dramatic, but that was when I started to have some doubts about this experiment. What was it doing to my taste buds? Would I no longer enjoy the foods I like eating now?
For a while I stared at my plate, watching the french toast and bacon soften up with the syrup and glaze soaking into it. Then, I picked up my fork and finished the plate. If eating real food was ruining my taste buds, then what kind of fakery was I putting in my mouth before?
I had the urge to ask the server to take the other half of my meal away, but I automatically finished. Another thing I have to think more about later: portion size.
The minute I got home, I changed clothes and climbed back into bed until David got home. After how I woke up that morning, I deserved it. Even in the rising heat it was a decent sleep.
Waking up had me grumpy. The combination of cramping, hunger, and heat would do that to anybody. For some godforsaken reason, David found it amusing and giggled at me as I trudged into the kitchen.
Oatmeal with a whole peach diced into it was dinner. For some reason it didn't feel sweet enough until I put about 3 teaspoons of sugar into it, plus some honey and strawberry compote. When I finally got into eating the whole bowl, it was sweet enough. Maybe a little too sweet, even. Note to self: eat the oatmeal with the fruit before I put much sugar in.
David put a can on the table next to me, part of a little game of ours. We live right above a grocery store with an aisle of wacky looking beverages and every time either of us goes down there, we get a new kind of drink. Last time I got him a bottle of corn tea I couldn't stand the taste of but he was fine with. This time he got me mangosteen juice from somewhere in the Middle East. It was nice and light, refreshing, kind of tasted like peach perfume smells.
That's probably a habit we should figure out but it's too damn fun to stop. Maybe I could drink half of it at a time? Or just have a sip off of David's drink when he gets something.
I kind of regret eating that oatmeal. It's too damn hot.
I woke up to the building fire alarm shrieking, and immediately flipped right the fuck out. The first thing I did was put pants on. Second was to stuff my computer in the bag where I keep my wallet, and then follow it up with my bus pass and the bra that was lying on the floor by my chair. Last but certainly not least, I stuffed my phone in my pocket before I put shoes on and walked out the door.
For a while, nobody had any idea what was going on and I was pissed. This had woken me up, my period started on the way down the stairs, and I was fucking hungry. To put it one way, I made the sensible decision to find food and a bathroom. To put it another, I stormed off in search of comfort food and someplace to put in the one emergency tampon I always keep in my bag.
Miraculously, there's a 24 hour diner within a couple blocks. Diner is the wrong word- let's try restaurant, because it's way too fancy to be grouped in with Denny's. There are actual leather chairs, high booths, and the servers wear bow ties. But they don't mind my grumpy face and Frosty the Snowman pajama bottoms as I run to their fancy-ass bathroom.; they know me there.
For a couple hours I sat at their counter, watching the cooks, and eating some of the most delicious banana fosters french toast I've come across in my life. Except that something wasn't right; usually the glaze was wonderfully sweet but today the oily sweetness just tasted... fake.
This may sound dramatic, but that was when I started to have some doubts about this experiment. What was it doing to my taste buds? Would I no longer enjoy the foods I like eating now?
For a while I stared at my plate, watching the french toast and bacon soften up with the syrup and glaze soaking into it. Then, I picked up my fork and finished the plate. If eating real food was ruining my taste buds, then what kind of fakery was I putting in my mouth before?
I had the urge to ask the server to take the other half of my meal away, but I automatically finished. Another thing I have to think more about later: portion size.
The minute I got home, I changed clothes and climbed back into bed until David got home. After how I woke up that morning, I deserved it. Even in the rising heat it was a decent sleep.
Waking up had me grumpy. The combination of cramping, hunger, and heat would do that to anybody. For some godforsaken reason, David found it amusing and giggled at me as I trudged into the kitchen.
Oatmeal with a whole peach diced into it was dinner. For some reason it didn't feel sweet enough until I put about 3 teaspoons of sugar into it, plus some honey and strawberry compote. When I finally got into eating the whole bowl, it was sweet enough. Maybe a little too sweet, even. Note to self: eat the oatmeal with the fruit before I put much sugar in.
David put a can on the table next to me, part of a little game of ours. We live right above a grocery store with an aisle of wacky looking beverages and every time either of us goes down there, we get a new kind of drink. Last time I got him a bottle of corn tea I couldn't stand the taste of but he was fine with. This time he got me mangosteen juice from somewhere in the Middle East. It was nice and light, refreshing, kind of tasted like peach perfume smells.
That's probably a habit we should figure out but it's too damn fun to stop. Maybe I could drink half of it at a time? Or just have a sip off of David's drink when he gets something.
I kind of regret eating that oatmeal. It's too damn hot.
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