Steak Steak Steak

It occurs to me that my entries haven’t been very cohesive or concise lately. My writing isn’t as tight as it usually is – instead, I’ve been writing a bunch of unrelated thoughts out and/or going on and on about something in stream-of-consciousness. Next thing you know, I’ll be writing like a 15 year old cutter and contemplating how many carrots I can pretend to eat before my parents notice that I’m faking it, and how Tommy didn’t talk to me in the hall today and OMG maybe he doesn’t like my backpack so like WTF, LOL, sorry this sucks!

Anyway. I’ll try to work on that.

Also, I just wanted to let you know that this week I updated the about page to reflect recent events, and I also updated the Pudding Pop page so that people will stop emailing me all “Just thought you’d like to know, they’re back!” which is helpful and friendly, but yeah. I know.

My mother takes “meat and potatoes” to a whole new level. I think she may be a secret cannibal. Or perhaps she has a severe iron deficiency.

See, my mom loves steak. She LOVES STEAK. My mom could eat steak for every meal, every day. Cold leftover steak for breakfast, steak for lunch, new big-ass steak for dinner. She thinks that a huge slab of broiled steak on a plate is a perfectly adequate dinner, thankyouverymuch.

Dad enjoys steak too, but he’s not all wearing a Crazy 4 Steak tee-shirt and stuff like my mom would if she had such a shirt. I think my sisters don’t like steak at all, but I can’t remember for sure – one or two of them might like it. I like steak and I’ll usually have a little bit when that’s what’s for dinner, but too much steak is too much, man.

Luckily, my parents have an on-again, off-again relationship with the stupid Atkins diet, where steak is perfectly acceptable. In fact, the day I saw this, I seriously laughed my face off and immediately emailed it to both of them.

They didn’t get it. They were like, “What’s funny about that?”

Incidentally, Sammi and I refer to the Atkins diet as the Communist diet, because you can’t eat bread, and in Communist Russia, they never had any bread, and also, you know, the whole thing about Communism as a strict and unpleasant regime, and Sammi and I LOVE BREAD, dammit.

I always know when the fam is on-again with Atkins because one day I’ll come home and look in the fridge and there will be like, eleven dozen eggs. And I’ll get worried and whip open the freezer to find it full of steak. As a last resort, I’ll whirl around and open the cupboard door, and when I see sixty-five cans of green beans, I know I’m doomed.

“DAMMIT, are you guys on the Communist diet again?” I’ll yell, and Sammi will hear me from the other room and go “Oh CRAP, no bread?” and sometimes she and I will run out to the store and get bread just so we won’t die, and then my parents get all mad that we’re tempting them with bread in the house and we’re like “Dude. Bread is GOOD.”

Also, during this time, when I mention any weight I’ve lost (and usually it’s about a pound a week, perfectly reasonable), someone will say “Imagine how much more you could lose if you did Atkins with us.” And, well, yeah, maybe I would have lost more, but I’d be frickin’ miserable and I’d spend all day thinking about bread and all night dreaming of little bread babies running around and then I’d crack and shove an entire loaf of Wonder Bread down my throat and it’d choke me and I’d die.

I’m all about eating healthier, but I am NOT. Giving. Up. Carbs. Carbs are good. And I’d get awfully tired of steak for every meal (as my parents do, which is why they keep falling off the wagon).

So, no Communist diet for me. In fact, I’m having pizza for lunch. Take that.