The First 14 Days of the Atkins, with Foreword by Vincent Price

You know, when Pearl asked me to write a little something, I had to ask her if she realized that I’ve been dead for quite some time.  She laughed, of course, in that offhand way she has, and said she rarely found death to have any bearing on the quality of one’s writing.  That Pearl.  

So what does one say about a dietary endeavor?  If one is honest, or being promised a certain amount of money to be paid via PayPal within 24 hours of having produced a foreword, one says only this:  Pearl, once you’ve been properly stuffed with eggplants and cheeses, I’d like to have you over for dinner.  Yes?  Maybe rub a little garlic around the back of your neck? Massage a little lime into your scalp?
Mmmm.  Delightful.
Day One:  I have succeeded in setting off the fire alarm whilst searing a steak on the stove top.  Bonus calorie-burning points accrued during mad dish-towel-brandishing dash between the front door and the fire alarm.  Ate steak and a third of a cabbage and bacon casserole and was still hungry.  Several hours later discover another reason that sleeping alone is a good thing. 
Day Two:  Election Day.  I lay down a solid foundation of salad and chicken wings and then, apropos of the night’s tensions and totally against the diet's rules, have five glasses of wine. 
Day Three:  Hangovers without mashed potatoes and gravy are a cleaner, higher-pitched experience.  Eat a salad the size of my torso.
Day Four:  I feel thinner.
Day Five:  Right.  That’s three days of yoga, five days of salads.  I feel strong.  Punch me.  Seriously!  Punch me in the stomach.  Feel that?  Ya feel that? 
Day Six:  Day-long trip to the Mall of America fueled by a very large omelet – and two Bloody Marys.  Mmm.  By the end of the day, I fall face-first into a bowl of chips and salsa.  These things are not on the diet.
Day Seven:  I successfully fight off a bowl of oatmeal.  Go to the grocery store and buy several sacks of vegetables.  Put in fridge, reflect on the fact that there’s no food in the house.
Day Eight:  A half-bag of chocolate chips, in the freezer since June, taunt me from the other room.  Insolent bits.  “Come the day,” I whisper toward the kitchen, “you shall be devoured.”  And then I realize, this is what they want.  Bastardos!
Day Nine:  Eat a platter of vegetable stir-fry the size of a toddler.
Day Ten:  Have dinner with Willie at Old Country Buffet.  He eats three desserts inches from my face.  My nostrils flare and stay flared until the next day.
Day Eleven:  I’ve painted my nails.  They look delicious, like little candies.  I lick a couple of them on the early-morning bus commute, and a woman across the aisle pulls out a notebook and scribbles furiously.
Day Twelve:  Theory regarding vegetables making a lousy base for a night of drinking holds up.  Spend most of the day reflecting on this from the couch. The sausage and cheese platter I assemble cheers me.
Day Thirteen:  Do a sculpt/boot camp/yoga charity event from 10:00 to 1:00.  I celebrate my athleticism by falling, trembling, backwards into a chair where I consider staying until spring. 
Day Fourteen:  I think my pants are looser. 
I celebrate with a salad.