This post could be about my perma-nausea – the persistent, hungover/seaksick/queasy/woozy feeling that seems to peak in the morning, evening and at unforeseen moments in between. This post could be about how I wallowed for a couple days, dramatically dragging myself out of bed in the morning and keeping saltine crackers on the nightstand in some effort to ward off my early morning blood sugar nosedive. This post could be about how I grimaced at the smell of garlic and could be nowhere near the kitchen during most hours of the day or night lest I lay eyes on some deeply offensive food group like cookies, salad or anything not made exclusively from white flour. This post could be about how this morning, I put on my big girl pants, dressed up like some reasonable facsimile of a competent attorney, went and saw my client in jail and realized how frigging great I have it, you know, not having to spend my birthday incarcerated and not facing potential deportation from my home. And then I ate a tuna fish sandwich because damnit, I
was in my big girl pants
I am very lucky and I need to just deal
But that’s not what any of this post is about. Because I am nothing if not a promisekeeper, here I am to deliver on my utterly captivating here-is-how-my-diet-has-radically-changed post.
Once upon a time, way back in the forever-and-ever-until-now, I ate fruits, vegetables, and whole grains. I delighted in perusing the aisles of my local Whole Foods (because I am a liberal who detests the CEO’s philosophy but loves produce more). I loved cooking and baking, having dinner parties and browsing food blogs
and other cliehe stuff that white people like, like camping and picking my own
fruit. Today, I am sorry to say, I am but a shell of my former self. That Sarah
of the past is dead to me now.
In the span of several days, my diet has shifted radically from this:
|Not pictured: copious amounts of oatmeal and lemon-ginger tea.|
 Replace “stole that blind guy’s hot dog” with “the time I cheated at Banagrams as a 29 year old woman” (it wasn’t my fault I saw the other side of my tile letter “T” now was it?).
 Yes, yes, grateful for these signs, embracing any possible, plausible “affirmational (not a word) symptom” of a bona fide pregnancy, etc. But also not unwilling to concede that this is all just a dirty trick, played on me by SHINGLES. That bitch. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see at the…first ultrasound this Friday. (Like how I stuck that in the footnote, eh?).
 Cookies are a food group. What?
 Too graphic?
 I know. You can tell I’m pretty proud of this. The thing is, I don’t even like tuna that much. But the bar is low here.