OK, I lament. I lament.

Wah.

Not that I particularly care for bread (though a hot loaf and soft butter are almost erotic) and pretzels, but I was hoping to be a little more normal, to have a little more leeway (leeway, slack, give—all noble causes) with food in my life.

And the running. It will suffer.

But on Thursday (my dad's birthday, which, preoccupied oaf that I am, I forgot), I got a migraine following an aspartame-sweetened piece of French chocolate from AmyLee (from France but not a conehead by any means). I got another yesterday in the truck on the way to Red Brick Station with the extended fambly (in-laws--my husband's sister-in-law, nephew, niece, and niece's husband). What had I eaten? Crap, crap, I say.

Could it have been, oh, I don't know (Satan?): the sour cream and onion Pringles? the Pretzels? the two Michelob Ultras (no, not them)? the four nonpareils (non-perry ellises)? the sourdough bread with tomatoes and cheese?

Could it have been the stress of the knowledge of my lard ass growing?

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My husband and I had a big blowout fight the other night. I didn't get to bed until 11:30 and couldn't fall asleep very easily (but I slept for 7 hours once I did). It was about many things—our lives, our child, my failed low-carb store, my obsession with my diet, my running.

He laments my poor body image (though I imagine, if he told the truth, he would also lament my poor body!) and criticizes me constantly for what I eat or don't eat. He watches me binge, and really, he knows he can't stop me, though he tries. ("Stop eating that," he says. Oh, all right then! "You're going to bitch about it later!" You're right. But you'll have to kill me to get me to put down the cashews, hon.)

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So I'm obviously going to have to quit carbing up. I had my first bagel in well over a year on the day of my first migraine. It followed my first plate of pasta (plate—ha!—half cup). No, it's back to bananas, strawberries, cottage cheese, and LC wraps. We'll see if I can handle the running. Maybe I'll be able to force myself to run more efficiently.

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My friend, Lucia, is in the same boat. She and I e-mail each other daily with our psychotic diets: No more low-carbing for me; I'm eating sensibly! Me too! I only had six bites of pizza and a pound of chocolate. Great! My bottle of wine was just what I needed after that sheet cake.

And then we discover our IBS or migraines or reflux or whatever-it-is-today is back with a vengeance. And so are we—back to low-carbing with a vengeance.

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In other non-food news, Kathy has offered to design a web site for me, and I am absolutely thrilled! Her work is terrific, and I'm sure it will be well worth the price of the crabcake and Michelob Ultra!

I just e-mailed a guy to see if I could use his cicada photo for my next mosaic. Superman is not finished, but he's boring me to death. I still have a thigh and a half left, in addition to the underwear and the silver bullet penis. Zzzzzzzzzz.

I haven't written any more of my novel, Brood X.

I started to write a brilliant poem this morning on my run. Now I can't think of what it was about.

Our washing machine began spilling spits of grease on our clothes. It cost us $70 to find out the ten-year-old Amana is dead. It would cost as much to repair it as it would to buy a new one. So it's off to Best Buy today, since we have laundry to do tomorrow! And my daughter wets the bed almost every night!

I got to use a Nikon Coolpix yesterday. It's really easy to operate and very light. I will be allowed to get a camera with some of our tax return money, as long as I have read Gerry Mander's In the Absense of the Sacred first. OK. That's doable. I really wanted to have that camera for my trip to Philly, though.

Two weeks to Philly. I'm eager to see my friend Joy and meet Max and Cerise for the first time. I'm also glad to be hooking up with my friend and former UB professor and dean, Neil Kleinman. We're going to meet at the hotel and go for a drink.

And I'm out of things to say, so I'll say this: Ciao.