The Little Apartment that Could

As we pack the contents of our tiny apartment in boxes, I am increasingly aware of two things. First, we're hoarders. Second, we had some good times here. We're moving to a home that has everything we could ask for in city life. Something about it instills this need to raise the bar and exist in it as respectable adults who don't qualify as candidates on Clean this House. Or Intervention. Still, I can't help but grieve that loss of innocence, those discoveries that accompany a new marriage.

Sure, there are downsides to having dinner blow up in your face and instead of cleaning tomato sauce off the ceiling, deciding to belly up to the pub across the street and spend 4 hours, 800 calories and $100 more than planned on a particular evening. However, those impromptu evenings across the street in our lovely neighborhood produced great things - memorable conversations, laughs that hurt your stomach muscles, levels of learning about each other that wouldn't have happened when the only question I'm asking is, "Are you sure you like your dinner? It's a little overcooked. And vomit-like. Anyway, hope you like it."

It's also unfortunate when you purchase Octomom's couch and only 4/5 of it fits in your living room and you're forced to store the remaining piece in a (former) guest room and decline all offers for family and friends to visit. But when life overwhelmed, it was like a big, comfy, protective adult fort.

It's time for the next phase. And I have big plans. I'm going to cook well, clean constantly, spend a lot of time at Home Depot (I heard they have hot dogs). I will ban the husband from eating shredded cheese straight from the bag with his CTA train disease-infested hands. I will never, ever burn dinner again in my beautiful new kitchen.

Ugh, I'm exhausted. Did I tell you about the bar across the street from our new place?


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Losing my religion

We eat pretty well. And by well, I mean we eat reasonably healthy food, prepared by a really crappy cook. And the guy who makes pizza at Whole Foods.

For me, food has become disappointingly faith-based and I just don't feel a sense of belonging. I follow the rules. I eat blueberries and flax seeds. I substitute yogurt for mayonnaise. I write DANGER: DEATH IS IMMINENT with a Sharpie on the husband's (toxic aluminum) can of Diet Coke. I am an active, pay-my-dues participant in the Church of Food but apparently the road to enlightenment in this religion is a confusing one, requiring committed study. Not just Eat, Pray, Love which, until recently, I thought was just a self-help book about eating too much and asking for forgiveness.

The current teachings in the Book of Health are:

If you wish to be cancer-free with a life expectancy of 107, eat broccoli. Only, eat it raw because actually cooking it strips it of all health benefits, which means you just ate a nutrient-free house plant for dinner. You're likely deficient of vitamin D, a hormone known to increase bone health and fight various forms of cancer. To increase vitamin D levels, make sure to get natural sunlight for 20 minutes a day without sunscreen. Unless, like me, you've been previously diagnosed with a pesky melanoma and live in Chicago, city of darkness. Ah, but wait! Milk is packed with calcium and vitamin D, so grab the nonfat variety and drink up. Unless you're concerned that cow's milk is not meant for human consumption and creates cancer-feeding mucus in the body. Who needs milk when you can sip antioxidant-rich red wine? Just be careful of the sugar, however, because it leads to diabetes and obesity.

So anyway, now I'm totally into Scientology.