an emily blunt rant
I had just settled into my swank, new, Beverly Hills apartment;
hardwood floors, crown molding, French doors. A steal at 1000.00
a month (gas and water includednatch).
I began to nest upon my Ikea ergo-dynamic designed-faux leather-politically
correct-Feng Shui couch when suddenly and without warning my
inner hormonal clock clicks into overdrive! The female munchies,
the PMS snackfest, the ovarian orgy of food cravings were rearing
their ugly head.
how I tried to resist. I grabbed my new Shape©
magazine hoping to guilt myself into dietetic bliss.
then I heard them
a call, nay, a bellow, from the kitchen
it was the Markham cherries. Sweet and tart. Tangy
and robust. They began an opera of cries from my cupboard. They
called my name - low at first then more desperate as I perused
the workout pages of the month, feverishly trying to ignore
them - imagining my slender thighs in that smart DKNY ensemble
if I resisted...
They called louder and more insistent.
I rationalized, "Well, they are low in fat and high in
citric acid. So what if they swim in a sauce of pure liquid
sugar? Besides every girl knows premenstrual food fixes
don't count towards your monthly caloric intake! Of course I
would have to eat the entire jar - as they are so susceptible
Before I knew it, I was lurched in the 4x4 kitchen feeding straight
from the jar, like a rabid Rhesus monkey, on the forbidden fruit!
I was actually being good, I thought to myself, since I wasn't
eating them as God had intended on a sea of whipped cream,
resting on a crepe!
the last voluptuous cherry slid down my parched throat I heard
another call from the cupboard perch above!
'You'll need protein to balance all those
carbs!' True I thought. But, whom was it calling me with such
knowledge of food osmosis? I quickly realized it was the Polar©
Smoked Oysters demonically afloat in cottonseed oil (high saturated
fats no less) that beckoned me. NO! I will resist. I will not
Then my ovaries and I had an idea. The Rysa©
whole wheat, high fiber, crackers I could lie the oysters upon
while toughing would, should, technically, cancel out the thigh
expanding fats they contained. Brilliant!
Before I knew it I had the small tin in my hand and was ripping
back the tab to reveal the innocent little mollusks neatly sleeping
in a row. I began to feed like a human tick, proud of my ability
to think on my feet and combine foods in a manor that would
make any high priced celebrity Hollywood weight physician proud.
Then , as the last smoky tidbit found it way down to my stomach
I heard it! It
was the fridgadaire and its Metropolis of nibbley bits demanding
my attention from behind me. Louder, and more demanding than
either the Markham cherries or the Polar©
Smoked Oysters had been! A beast! A beast!
I will not feed from the fridge. I am a lady after all. I will
resist the ovarian chants that filled my head like a symphony
of calories! I have control. I can do it.
Hmm. Right. So, as I polished off the last crumb of blue cheese
from the third drawer I thought, "Two Midols©
and a cup of tea would hit the spot!"
was filled with a new joy. This normal desire for pharmaceuticals
and healthy teas meant the feasting I had tried so hard to quell
had finally ceased - until next month anyway.
I put a pot of water on, swept away the cans, tins, and baggies
from my simian feeding and went back to my fancy couch, enjoying
the silence that had fallen over the apartment.
switched on the wide screen and clicked over to the Food Channel
where The Iron Chef ,with its fish bladder delicacies, was about
to begin. This show would certainly not stir the demons
of premenstrual munchies from their calm den!
felt a small victory at least, at last!