When your friend’s older brother gives the Irish setter a hand job, then brags about it, you can bet the outcome won’t be good.
That’s what I planned to write about today. But my mind is elsewhere. Upstairs I have a sick-as-a-woof-woof kid, begging for red velvet cupcakes.
I’m shocked she likes them. Her palate’s normally quite regimented. She doesn’t branch out. She could live on rainbow sprinkles, Hawaiian bread, mini supermarket brownies dusted with sugar. God help her, and me, if the quesadilla cheese is too yellow. Or too white. So her desire for maroon carbs puzzles me.
I live in a California suburb with good salsa verde. A Jewish-style deli owned by stomach-stapled Jews. They sell a passable black-and-white. There’s a Greek place with nice pilaf which I’d eat, but they use regular rice. Which I avoid. There’s no cupcake boutique in a 110-mile radius. I most decidedly do not live in West Hollywood.
Lately I’ve been contemplating food, and I don’t know why. Some of you know my checkered dietary past. When you’re anorexic — which I’m not, in an active way, thank goodness — food is a tool. It’s like your body’s a statue, you’re the sculptor, and your awareness and avoidance of food is the knife you use to unsculpt yourself. It’s a time-consuming activity, a really boring art studio to live in. I could write a book about anorexia as life zapper. (Actually, I did.)
I did a lot of crap to my body, way back when. I’m lucky I got pregnant at all. Sometimes I’m still figuring it out. I never made myself puke, at least. Or put a thing up my nose except a Q-tip.
I have more to say about anger directed inward in lieu of its rightful target(s). Right now I need to find a cupcake.
Rothko's Rolodex 
Just FYI…Starbucks carries cupcakes (vanilla, chocolate, and red velvet) during this delightful season of love…..there’s a SB within a one mile radius in all directions from your place, I believe. BTW, I think their vanilla cupcakes are the best, better than any fancy cupcake boutique I’ve ever tried (not that I’ve tried many)!
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There’s something about this particular season of love which makes me long for a flamethrower.
Cupcake boutique? Sounds like it could be a good idea??
Meant to say “a good thing…”
I used to call it maintenance anorexia. Knowing you’re as obsessed with our West Egg upbringing as I am, the ex recently met a psychologist whose entire career in working with kids with eating disorders was inspired by our high school. Angela Carter (who had an incredibly complicated relationship with food) called it slow suicide by means of narcissism.
Fascinating. Did she go to North or work there? Interestingly, I remember stats from 1983-84 revealing that Great Neck was the biggest hot spot for teen abortion on Long Island. Which of course brings to mind our friend, Franny Glass…
She went to North and considers attending our high school traumatic for girls which I found really strangely vindicating. I vaguely remembered those abortion stats, also super unsurprising.