Day 17, Sunday: Excerpts from the diary of a sample-phile

Ron and Jen crashed at our house last night. This is good, since letting either one of them behind the wheel would have been about as safe as taking a preschool class on a field trip to Jurassic Park, after all the dinosaurs got loose.

Noontime, Adam and I drop them off at Jessica’s, where they’ve left their ridiculous behemoth of a vehicle.

Well, I’m already out, and I haven’t yet eaten. And since Jeannie has previously suggested to me that Sunday, right after the Methodists get out of church, is primo sample time, I’m totally “why not stop at Whole foods?” Adam, not hung-over enough to be granted a sympathy pass, but too ill to protest, agrees to accompany me.

This week’s cornucopia of swank snack swag is distinctly less cornucopious than last week, but I am definitely not disappointed. Whole Foods does me right with orange slices, four cherries, double helpings of tuna salad, and triple on the salmon salad, possibly the worst cheddar cheese I’ve ever had (which is still pretty good since I’ve never met a cheese I didn’t like), chicken salad, curried chicken salad, and some sort of sandwich wrap.

Despite the fact that I found this picture of a pimp-hat adorned Andre 3000 (who I’m pretty sure only goes to Whole Foods for sans purchase sampling, and looks super-cool while doing it) in a Whole Foods ad,
uppity Adam abstains from sampling, because I guess he feels guilty or something.

My ever-observant husband asserts that he can tell which people are really here to purchase food, and which are my sample stealing comrades. I contend that he can only spot some of us, those with a no-nonsense, honest approach to gratis grazing. I prefer the stealth-ier method, which basically entails stopping between servings to look at and compare nutrition labels. Those of us in the know would never, ever pretend to compare prices, however. Doing so is like broadcasting your fake-shopper status, since no one who actually shops there has even once, in the entire history of Whole Foods, ever looked what the stuff costs, because if they did, the part of their brain that does math would explode, thereby completely negating the positive benefits of buying organic. So I’m pretty sure I’m snacking under the radar. I could be wrong, and everyone knows I’m on a sample safari, but I don’t really give a crap. It might even be fun to get caught. I would never go down without a fight. Mmmmmm. Thanks Whole Foods.

Later in the afternoon I am overcome with the immediate need to rent a movie, a desire which is, more likely than not, influenced by Blockbuster’s close proximity to Publix. Searching for an actual reason to enter Publix (the lack of which would certainly not have prevented my visit,) I decide I desperately require tampons, of which you can never have too many.

As expected, Publix’s fare pales in comparison to Whole Foods’ smorgusboard o’ free stuff, but the fresh(ish) baked wheat bread, chicken with vegetables, and garlic bread is not unappreciated.

After leaving Blockbuster with the second Narnia movie (which was just all right for me,) I have one final stop to make. Adam has requested that I get him an Angry Whopper (which was way better than all right for him.) These next ten minutes prove to be a critical test for me. I pass, proving I am a indomitable machine, unmoved even by the monarch of flame-broiled beef patties. I am god-like. I accomplish what was formerly believed impossible. In the two miles between Burger King and home, I manage to refrain from eating a single fry or taking even the teeniest, most dainty sip of Diet Coke. I am an awe-inspiring icon, to be emulated by food addicts worldwide.

I make a giant pot of red beans and rice, and eat some for dinner. They’re good, but I sure would like a snarfle of that Angry Whopper.

Day 16, Saturday: Let’s get Coco-Nutty

For breakfast I eat a falafel patty, and at lunch I finish off the rest of yesterday’s lentils and spinach.

Tonight is Jessica and Ron’s birthday. The plan is predrinks at Jessica’s apartment, then to our house, and off to the bars on Crescent. Early on, I realize my newfound purpose for the evening. Answering a higher calling I’ve rarely felt, I assume the roll usually reserved for those less fond of the drank then myself. Tonight I’ll be the Designated Driver.

Adam, in his wisdom, suggests that I might feel more involved in the party if I get a fun cup (i.e. a light-up pink martini glass, or plastic sequined beer mug.) I am painfully aware that a fun cup filled with water is a poor substitute for any cup filled with alcohol, but immediately agree to his suggestion, because (1) the need for a fun cup creates the perfect excuse to shop Richard’s Variety Mart (RVM), and (2) RVM is right next door to Trader Joe’s, which has never failed me in the free sample department.

RVM, although lacking in the free sample arena, makes up for this fact in every other way. If you are ever in need of a birthday gift for anyone, no matter what their interests, head straight for RVM. You will undoubtedly find what you had no idea you were looking for, and the happy recipient of the glow-in-the-dark Fidel Castro Magnets, Weiner Dog cigarette holder, or Grow-Your-Own-Dominatrix is bound to thank you. She probably doesn’t own one already, and you’ll look awesome next to the unimaginative fools who bought her Chicken Soup for the Gardeners Soul, a scented candle, or a picture frame.

Of course, RVM fails me not, and I leave the store with a plastic cup molded to exactly replicate a real coconut. Only this cup is better than a real coconut, not just because it is dishwasher safe, but because, printed in playfully rustic dandilion gold lettering, as if in after-thought, it mischievously calls upon, not just the lucky owner (me, thank god!), but all those fortunate enough to come in contact with coconut-shaped-cup, to cut loose and forget about our financial troubles, if only for the night. The cup’s mantra “Let’s Get Coco-Nutty,” is one we might all benefit from listening to and living by.
Coconut-shaped-cup and I step into Trader Joe’s, where I am treated to chocolate covered gingersnaps. They are crazy good, if you like ginger. They might be good even if you don’t like ginger, but I’d be a bad judge of that. Score and score!

Seven-ish we arrive at Jessica’s apartment. Jessica, who is clearly out to get me, keeps her thermostat at, from what my inner thermometer reading tells me, about 40 degrees Fahrenheit. The cold alone, I can handle, but when paired with the miniature crock-pot of cheese dip Jessica has “graciously” laid out, an almost devastating combination threatens to ruin my 30/30. Unable to maintain my core temperature, I am forced to warm my hands by the heat of the crock pot, enduring the alluring aroma of wonderfully, deliciously, creamy, melty cheese dip and the contented sighs of others enjoying aforementioned dairy delights. As more guests arrive it becomes apparent that the plot to bring me down extends beyond just Jessica, as each new arrival declares that the “temperature is just fine.” Taking a cruel joke and running with it, Jessica’s brother Robbie reaches over my shoulder, scooping an excessive amount of dip onto his chip, dripping the creamy white substance down my leg.

Despite the Cold Apartment/Hot Cheese conspiracy, and with the help of coconut-shaped-cup's continuous reminder to "Get Coco-nutty," I manage to have an okay, if sober time.

Overcome with remorse for his part in the plot, "a friend" extends the olive branch, offering to smoke with me before we go to the bar. I normally don’t smoke the reefer, but I normally don’t stay sober around wasted people either. Sobriety among the extremely inebriated can be an agonizing experience. After very briefly considering the question of whether weed was food, which it is clearly not, I take him up on the offer.

I drive the group to our house, which is conveniently located within walking distance of the best midtown bars, and blaze up before stepping out into the frigid night. Taking care to smoke enough to make everything happy and hazy, but not so much that I become a nonfunctioning paranoid schitzo, is an art I was afraid I had forgotten. But like riding a bicycle, reaching the perfect balance was a skill not lost despite my letting it fall to disuse.

Thank the lord baby jesus above for pot, because my sober self would never have made it to the bar, sensitive as I am to the cold. And had I made it to the bar, I surely would not have lasted through the Jaeger-bomb induced obnoxiousness of my friends.

I am accustomed to being just as deeply entrenched in the throws of stupid drunk fun and craziness. But, as everyone knows, this form of fun is entertaining ONLY to those who are actually intoxicated, leaving any sober attendees with the desire to jab out their own eyeballs. Tonight surely would have been the death of me, had I been forced to confront the situation as a tee-totaling non-participant.

However, as a pleasantly stoned observer, I have reached two conclusions, (1) No, you do not want another Kamikaze. You just had one, right before you fell on your ass, which is why your Jack and Coke is spilled all down the front of your shirt, and (2) everything really is better on weed. (except of course driving, which is a given)

Not fueled, as the others are, by a Redbull and alcohol-induced desire to remain awake into the wee hours, discussing things that no one will remember in the morning anyhow, I eat a falafel patty upon our return home and fall into a blissful cannabis coma. Coco-nutty indeed.

Day 15, Friday: Tell us what you've learned from this experience

Breakfast consists of a falafel patty and a hunk of “chocolate.” There is only one piece of chocolate left, and the immediate need for strict rationing is obvious. Around lunch, I polish off the last piece, eliminating the burden of such extreme measures. Unfortunately, I have also eliminated candy from the next fifteen days of my life.

I make a small pot of lentils and spinach, and eat them for lunch and dinner.

Today is a pretty big day! I’ve managed to go 15 days without breaking down! But what does all this mean? I went into this thinking it would be some big life changing experience, really giving me a glimpse into what life was like for the less fortunate. So here I am, half way, and at what appears a good time to step back and examine what I have learned thus far. How has all this affected* me?

In their blog, the original 30/30 couple describes their experience as “transformative.” In the interest of time, it would be nice to cut and paste their feelings and adopt them as my own, changing a word here and there, not dissimilar to my freshman year research paper on Canterbury Tales. Unfortunately, I can’t do this for two reasons. (1) they don’t really elaborate, so there aren’t enough words to transpose and call my own, and (2) I think their heads are up their never tested on animals, steroid and pesticide free asses, and I won’t pretend to have such a sudden, exaggerated insight into the psyche of the poor.

Their easy use of the word “transformative” is both surprising and sadly comedic to me. Basically, I'm supposed to buy the idea that going on a diet has somehow opened a door of enlightenment for these people, granting them access to some deep insight into the lives of the poor? Um, no.

If they really want to understand, maybe they could have three kids and each work two minimum wage jobs to pay for their food, clothing, and a run-down two-bedroom apartment in the ghetto. Then, for the full effect, struggle to stay awake during the 45 minutes a day they’ll get with their children, trying to catch them up on the education that they’re barely receiving at Inner-City Central High. Oh, and don’t forget to worry about the fact that, even if Jr. manages to get into college, unlike you, who had to drop out in 11th grade because Medicaid didn’t cover in-home care for your father, there won’t be any money to pay for school.

Granted, the above scenario might be difficult to recreate, so I’ve thought of a few, simpler techniques. Don't paying any utility bills, and see how many days you can live without power and water (in colder climates, insight points are given for time endured without heat.) If really dedicated, quit your job. Try to stay cheerful at your new job waiting tables at Denny’s, and don’t fall asleep during your graveyard shift at Ingles, despite the excruciating boredom of stocking shelf after shelf of nonperishables, especially on three-and-a-half hours of sleep. If possible, get really sick and become unable to work, much less pay your medical bills.

I know this sounds particularly harsh, but as I think it’s safe to assume they’ll never read my blog, I don’t feel any moral responsibility to spare their feelings. I’ll lay it on you straight: Those guys were spoiled P-words. Oh, I’m so sorry for you that you had to give up organic produce! Even before starting the 30/30, I view any fresh produce as a luxury. It’s seriously not that bad, people! Sure, the first couple of days were a hurdle, but that’s because I’m so used to over-eating. After fighting through the first few days of hunger, it didn’t suck too big. I’m getting all the nutrition and calories I need, and I’ll definitely have food left in the end.

At this point, I haven’t noticed any of the physical or emotional changes they spoke of in their blog. I can't see any strains on my relationship with Adam. I imagine, however, that the diet might serve as a convenient excuse for those inclined to argue under better circumstances.

So what is my half way point analysis? I guess, if anything, the experience was transformative in that I realized I eat like a cow, and pretty much all my social relationships are built around food and drink. I know I sound like a bitch, and I’m sorry. I’m honestly glad for the attention they’ve brought to the cause, and I’m happy people want to take their social justice classes and learn about what goes on in the world beyond our middle class bubble. But I don’t feel the experiment makes any revolutionary or groundbreaking point. We already knew being poor sucks.

But then, perhaps my thinking is flawed and my criticisms are indicative of a malnourished brain. Maybe the transformative revelations come later in the month.

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*I am unapologetic for the fact that I often use affect when I mean effect. I have given up trying to distinguish between the two, since it takes more work for me to figure out which is proper in a given situation, than it does for the listener to figure out what I mean.