I was just slathering the remnants of my luncheon avocado on the backs of my hands because in the winter they get dry. Online I read that it’s a result of not having enough fat in your diet. I don’t know how that’s possible, because I eat a lot of sugar. Maybe too much. (Last month’s issue of The Sun made me question everything about my health, as if I already don’t. There sure were a lot of people writing about bad health in this one. I guess that’s what happens when you get old. You start freaking out about your health. I’m only twenty-five and I do it, so goodness knows how bad they have it.)
Anyway, avocados have lots of fat, so I ate one and for good measure rubbed the rest onto my skin. A week ago I read in Oprah that you can use coffee grounds on your face as a sort of at-home facial. Annie yelled when I came to get her out of her crib that morning and wouldn’t kiss me. But you know, I don’t know about the coffee grounds. It sort of stained my face brown… very obvious when you’re pale. It reminded me of a few months ago when I put tapioca or flour or rice– something white and dry– into my hair because Oprah said it’ll absorb the oils so you don’t have to wash it. It did nothing of the kind and I walked around the house shaking tapioca beads out of my hair (or whatever it was) while Ashley smirked and said it was probably meant for black people.
Oprah’s readership has suffered in the black demographic, by the way, because she mostly features white women. Plus she’s got wacky white columnists like Martha Beck who seem every month closer to Dorothea Dix. (She’s the woman who wrote that incredibly compelling book called “Expecting Adam,” and then she and her husband became gay and separated and she got a red frizzly perm and very thin and weird and outlandish and each passing month I look for her column first because reading progressively more schizoid columns is 1) entertaining and 2) vaguely reassuring.
(The avocado appears to be working. I just washed the dishes and it formed a protective green slime. It itches but that’s all.) Annie, for the record, is seated at the table in a striped romper featuring a ghostly dog, with a glass of orange juice into which she is methodically dipping a Fitch Lumber pencil and sucking the eraser, which appears more adapted to retaining juice than graphite.
Off to make Sofya’s bread. Four ingredients: flour salt yeast water. So simple. So cavewoman.