Day 8, Friday: Absolutely nothing happens

Someone with sesquipedalian tendencies is given to using long words. I’ve always had very mixed feelings about the excessive use of big words. Take the word “superfluous,” which is, in and of itself superfluous. One could just say “extra” but it feels so good to say “superfluous.” On the other hand, however, it is far more effective to say “what smells like shit?” rather than “what is that miasma?” Note that the former conveys the speaker’s message, and eliminates the risk of confusion. One should always remember that, in using an obscure or fancy appropriately-used-in-the-correct-context word, you may get an elated feeling of superior intelligence, and more “alternative” people with little-5-points glasses may want to hang out with you, but you really just look like an ass.

I once had a college Speech professor who was very proud of himself and all the big words he knew. Instead of telling us that something we were about to hear was useful information, he’d say it was chrestomathic. And of course, we’d all miss the words of wisdom he was about to impart because, either (1) we were still trying to figure out what chrestomathic meant, or (2) we’d already stopped listening, since we knew we didn’t stand a chance of figuring out what the hell he was talking about anyways. He was, as he might say, given to altiloquence*.

As much as I would like to boast of my being far too sophisticated to be played by his pedantry, it is only very many years later that I can admit to all this. Like everyone else who took the class, he’d managed to pull the wool of the Emperor’s New Clothes over my eyes too. We’d all smile and nod our heads, like we totally got what he was talking about, since we knew everyone got a B anyways, and none of us wanted to be the one to admit that she didn’t have an F-ing clue what Professor X was saying. Convinced by his gobbledygook jibber-jabber that we were all much better orators, every one of us gave Professor X highest marks available on his performance survey, all the while having been deprived of any effective education on the subject.

So, what I’m trying to say here, is that I could go to great lengths, using colorful language to describe a day that could accurately summed up using one word, but that would be unnecessary. At the risk of sounding average, my day was LAME.

I ate peas for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. In between those meals, I ate some chocolate. I hate peas. I love steak.

*Pompous language

Day 7, Thursday: A public service message

Guiltily, I polish off the rest of the marshmallows this morning. In an attempt at counterbalance, I follow them up with some of my green pea and spinach soup. To avoid thinking about how unappetizing the pea glop is, I let my mind drift. I ponder the accuracy of the 30/30 experiment. Turning to Wikipedia, my favorite source of information (besides my mother), I learn that 36.2% of people in Africa actually live on less than $1 a day. Every day. Not just 30 of them.

What everyone tells me I am crazy to be doing, over a third of the African population is used to. I can bear these 30 days with a smile, knowing that there is an end in sight. I fully intend to dive headfirst into a glorious pool of gluttony as soon as day 31 rolls around. This knowledge buoys me when I might otherwise fall into a state of hunger despair. But what if this was life?
I promise not to let my blog entries become morose. I certainly don’t think anyone I know is responsible for world hunger, and I don’t pretend to know how to solve it. I’m just saying that we should be thankful for what we do have, and help where we can. As I eat my lunch of falafel taco, I remember that there are those who go without.

During my dinner of whirled peas and spinach, I wish for an exchange program which would allow me to turn in my gross Creole seasoning for a giant jug of Texas Pete. I try to be content, though, knowing that the worst of my complaints aren’t half bad. I have food to eat, a roof over my head, a job that pays the bills, a husband who loves me, a supportive family, and ridiculous friends.

Day 6, Wednesday: The Moral Dilemma: Are the cookies really free if you have to give your blood to get them?

I have a 7:30 appointment to give platelets this morning, despite Adam’s pleas that I wait until my 30 days is over. For those who are unaware, giving platelets, or Apherisis, is the 2 to 3 hour process in which they take your blood out of you and send it through this spinny thing. From what I understand, this machine seperates your white blood cells from the rest of the goop. Then, sans whities, they mix your blood up with some saline, and pump the new concoction right back into you like it never left.

Besides giving you that warm fuzzy feeling of self-satisfaction knowing you're saving lives just by sitting on your ass with some needles sticking out of you, they also give you (as far as I can tell) an unlimited supply of cookies* at the American Red Cross.

They don’t just give you cookies at the blood bank, they give you Oreos. Those who know me well are fully aware that I freaking love junk food. And cookies - cookies are like legal crack to me. I once ate so many ginger snaps I threw up, and those are only like a 6 on the cookie scale.

But the Oreo, what can I say about the Oreo? I have a fairly well developed theory, the thesis of which asserts that there are three foods on this earth which were created through a most unholy, yet perfect, union between God (or the Devil) and the Scientists. In an all too rare alliance, God (or the Devil) and the Scientists teamed up to bring mankind the most delicious unifications of science and nature. The trifecta to emerge from this rare coalition is as follows: Doritos, Velveeta Shells and Cheese, and finally, the crowning jewel, the masterpiece of masterpieces, the Oreo – the most magnificent matrimony of deity and learning. †

So as I lay there, hooked up to the machine, watching Parking Wars with my extremely friendly man-nurse, I am wracked with two questions:

(1) Are the cookies “open to the public,” since anyone can give blood, or am I actually entering into a bartered for exchange situation, in which they agree to give me Oreos in return for my bodily fluids?
(2) Do I care?

Since my man-nurse is new, I am blessed with a few extra needle sticks and an additional half hour or so to contemplate my dilemma. As it winds up, I am released from my chair only minutes before I am expected at work, eliminating the need to reach such important conclusions at this time.

I take the need for an expeditious departure as sign that Oreos and I are not meant to be today. In order to avoid the temptation, and a lecture about how I should rest in the recovery/cookie area before leaving, I sneak out sheepishly. But before I do so, I grab a bag of Teddy Grahams to give to Adam later. After all, I’ve earned it, and they’re so cute.

For lunch I have, you guessed it, a falafel taco. And 60 marshmallows. I figure I’ve gotta get my blood sugar up.

Another falafel taco for dinner, but I decide around 8 that I should cook something else for tomorrow. I’m come to rely so much on falafel, I’m neglecting the rest of my food. I don’t want to be stuck eating plain rice for the last 12 days. That would suck even more than eating falafel taco every day.

Tonight, as I prepare food for tomorrow, I learn that whole dried peas take a hell of a lot longer to cook than split peas. Also, whole peas are not delicious when you have nothing besides spinach and salt & pepper to flavor them. Yuck.

60 more marshmallows for dessert (blood sugar, you know.) And a frozen blackberry.

*Note: this may not be true in all states. In Michigan, I actually got a tuna salad sandwich, which although delicious, was not a valid substitute for cookies)

†An honorable mention goes out to the Cheeto