Head, shoulders, knees and blueberries.

I started a raw regimen yesterday on the advice of my outside the box sister. Her suggestions are typically of the unreasonable nature ("Quit your job!" "Return these library books late!"), but suddenly, my two great loves, cheese and pate de fois gras, were making me feel sick when I ate them. If that isn't rock bottom, I don't know what is, so here I am sipping a green smoothie.

I only happened to start yesterday, but the karmic combination of it having the momentous timing of a significant day of change of my youth (Lent) and my adult devotion to the significance of inadvertent significance (the unplanned symbolic timing of Lent), I feel pretty good about the change. As is my wont, I'm already concerned I've done it wrong. For instance, my green smoothie is not green. Don't get me wrong, it's an equally unappealing brownish red color, but when OTB sister ever made these for me, they were always green. I filled the blender to the top with spinach, added some water, bananas, raspberries and blueberries. Perhaps its the latter that caused the color change...but they were the fruits on sale. Also, it's particularly delicious, which is always cause for suspicion when it comes to consumption.

I'm back in London after a two week tour in frigid New England. The weather here in comparison is downright balmy. Beyond that, albeit wonderful, detail, I miss New England, particularly my young protege, who lives in New York with artist parents whose idea of order results in food delivery. I am helping with their impressive, impossibly disorganized archives, and he would often busy himself near by, arranging his cars in straight lines and cataloging his dinosaurs. It's like he sprang from my own brow.

Obviously, I've yet to determine the direction of this little thought net on the interwebs, but for now I'm pretty content just exercising my typing fingers, ideally with vaguely complete sentences. This is day two of my raw transformation and it feels good. I even ate dates. But of course I've been invited to a great Indian restaurant tonight with my favorite London couple (and unfortunately my least favorite, but sigh, the cruelty of it all, I couldn't decline because I see the good ones so rarely). My favorite couple will inspire me to want to joyously share delicious foods, while the bad couple will seriously threaten my commitment to sobriety...the whole night promises to be a challenge. I wonder what OTB sister would eat in an Indian restaurant. I don't expect to be totally raw my entire life, but jeez louise I can at least go forty days right? Do I have to surrender my (pretty inactive) social life altogether?

Anon.

Receipts from Duane Reade

I am organizing a family of superartists with literally decades of archival material to be sorted. While there are rare handwritten scripts from famous playwrights, there is also a glut of receipts from their sunchips purchase at Duane Reade. First of all, sunchips? Really?

Second of all, one of the artists hopes to digitize the receipts then shred the original and create his own paper to build a sculpture. What is to be done here? Run screaming from the room? Call the IRS? Surreptitiously throw them out. They cant possibly have tracked them all. But then again, the couple had an argument last night about which rags to keep because rags were expensive when dressing a cast of twenty Jewish refugees from the interwar years. And I am talking actual rags not a personal judgment on their clothing styles which is a subject for another post.

Tune in next time for more from

Fife Le Peu Super Organizatrix