The Lesbian Housewyfe Picks the Wrong Week to Stop Eating Carbs

Sing along with me using the inimitable chorus of the Kenny Rogers song, “Lucille.”

(Here’s a link to the tune if you need a refresher.)

Ready?

♫ I picked the wrong week to stop eating caaaaaaarbs ♫

In my defense, I began cutting back my carb consumption before I knew that was the week my mother was going to die.

Recently, I interviewed a charming couple who make cookie balls infused with different liquors. A week later, a box of moist orbs covered with sparkling sugar tempted from my counter. I ate three for dessert that evening (YUMMY!!!) and surfed waves of hot flashes all night long.

A friend recommended eliminating dairy, sugar, and gluten, a diet that defused her hot flashes. She said that when she told people about the diet, they looked at her like she was eating babies.

Time to start the “Eating Babies Diet” if I want a full night’s worth of sleep anytime this summer.

I’ve considered this choice often over the years, especially after my wife got diagnosed with type 2 diabetes. What kind of wife am I if I can’t go fully low-carb?

And then the line of sourdough starters call to me from the back of the refrigerator. The scent of bread baking invades my nose, and my mind blooms with butter melting on the warm soft slices, fresh from the oven.

But after my liquor-infused, sugar-fueled, sleepless sea of hot flashes, giving up sugar and gluten seems a small price to pay for a few hours of unconsciousness. Plus, I’ve done this before. The plan is simple. Take small steps. When the candy runs out, don’t replace it. Choose a taco salad instead of tacos. Eat nuts as a snack.

The hardest thing for me to give up is that little bit of sweet at the end of a meal. Apples filled my fruit basket. After dinner, apple slices joined my tea. My timing couldn’t be better, I thought, munching the cool sweetness in the almost warm spring dusk.

That same week, a new gig started with all of its complexities, which will eventually be simple but now left me bewildered. Writing deadlines stacked themselves through the days as newsletters, articles, and essays vied for my attention.

My father called me as I submitted the third of the 10 pieces due to let me know that my mother went into the hospital. I wanted to go to West Virginia, to sit at her bedside and be there to talk to the nurses, to entertain her, to pin down the doctors when they showed up with information. Instead, I wrote and learned new systems as my father called with updates.

Overwhelm powered across my body. When sitting still, I trembled with the need to do something, but couldn’t think of what that could be, so I just kept writing. With Friday’s update that the hospital would be transferring Mom to the oncology ward on Monday, I decided to drive at the beginning of the week, arriving when she was installed in her new room. That choice gave me the weekend to prepare to be gone for an uncertain amount of time.

On Sunday, my father called to say Mom had taken a turn for the absolute worst and only had a few hours of life left. I jumped in the car with a bag of random clothing and a minimum of hope. Less than halfway along the trip, the final update rang through.

Safely installed in the parking lot of a truck stop, I wept and berated myself for not leaving earlier, not jumping in the car on Friday or Saturday, not making the effort when I was too overwhelmed to acknowledge her frailty. When the tears dribbled from a flood to a trickle, my eyes surveyed this banal place where I’d found refuge.

A kid walked out of the truck stop door, tearing open a bag of chips and shoving a handful into his mouth.

My stomach growled.

I prowled into the brightly lit space and pounced upon a bag of barbecue corn chips and a sugary fruit pie.

As I cried and broke the news to cousins, the sweet and spicy flavors assaulted my taste buds. Once that sugar high wore off, a Burger King chicken sandwich and fries filled the old tum-tum.

It was on.

My brother carried the carcass of my comfort feast into the family home, noting the contents. The next day, two boxes of mini fruit pies, apple and cherry, appeared for my consumption.

“Have I ever told you that you are my favorite brother?” I asked him, gazing into his eyes and feeling enabled in a way only family can.

Over the next week, I soothed myself with the following:

• Spaghetti
• Fried calamari
• Half a pizza
• Cinnamon-sugar-dusted crust bites
• Sweet orange-sauced chicken nuggets atop a bowl of rice
• Tortilla chips—sometimes with salsa! Bonus points for veggies!
• An eight-pack of potato buns as chicken salad or salami sandwiches, depending on my mood

Church ladies KNOW how to soothe the bereaved, so four bags of carb-filled comfort food appeared. My father and brother wanted me to pack up all of these offerings and bring them back to my home, where I am the only one who could eat them.

And I considered it. The soft sandwich loaves, the unopened bag of potato buns, the 16-pack of glazed donuts, angel food cake, chocolate chip cookies, lemon-glazed pound cake, bags of potato chips and pretzel crisps, a bag of what my father thought were chocolate covered cherries, but were actually peanut butter bonbons.

I took the bonbons. And the partial bags of tortilla chips and potato buns. Since my 12-year-old nephew was visiting over the weekend, the cookies stayed. I gave my father instructions to donate the rest of the food that they didn’t want to the firehouse where my older nephew, Eric the 21-one-year-old volunteer firefighter, hangs out most evenings.

Whenever you have extra carbs hanging around, find a group of really active guys. They will happily relieve you of your burden and thank you for your trouble.

Now that I’m home, I’ll start cutting back on the carbs again.

Next week.