I'm bloated and the blame lies squarely with Netflix.
Poke your finger in my gut and listen to me squeal. Not that hard. Now stop. Or else I'll hurl. Serious. Stop. Dammit.
It's not Netflix raising their prices that has me bloated. It's their suggested programming on my instant watch. My family watches a lot of Netflix. I think the raise in pricing is only fair considering the sheer amount of bandwidth that we suck up. Most everything Netflix suggests we watch, we do, because we pay them to tell us what to do. It's a bargain.
This morning, before any of us had ventured into the kitchen for any real food, my husband and I watched a documentary about how detoxing one's body by consuming only fresh juiced produce for two months straight results in much weight loss, much health gain, and probably a good amount of gas.
Netflix suggested Fat, Sick & Nearly Dead because we'd recently watched PBS Frontline: Facing Death and Beauty and the Beast.
Morbidity, that's how I roll.
Watching two men with bellies juice their way slim was fascinating business. At the very least, the day you start drinking healthy pulpy juice the color of cat vomit, every cheeseburger or twinkie you'd consumed in the past year dislodges suddenly from your colon wall in a less than dainty way.
My husband and I certainly are dainty folk. We've decided to juice ourselves silly for the next four days. They say four days is how long it takes to start feeling like you won't commit homicide because you want a rare mooing steak and a hot dinner roll with an assload of butter. Four days and you're supposed to feel like a ray of hyperactive sunshine dancing on the leaves of your organic phosphate free garden. Happy and ever so clean!
We bought a juicer years ago on a dare. Someone dared us to buy an appliance that we'd feel too guilty to store in the attic but not guilty enough to keep it from getting dusty in a kitchen cabinet. A wash and a trip to the grocery store and we found ourselves consuming liters of fresh room temp juice. Right now I'm sipping on a cocktail containing carrots, bok choy, apples, spinach, cauliflower and strawberry.
Without vodka. Sigh. Vodka is off limits. As is meat, dairy, breads, cake, cookies, pie, McMuffins, Taco Hell, and sneaking my kid's spaghetti dinner.
I'm not straightlacing this though. I'm gonna cheat. I'm allowing myself pureed vegetable soups and a cup of coffee in the morning, with non-dairy fake ass creamer and sugar.
I'm also allowing myself free reign to fart like a barnyard cow.
Day 1 hasn't been too bad. I'd like to count yesterday too because I've had a UTI and I've been consuming glass after glass of cranberry juice, echinacea and goldenseal, glasses of baking soda water and a large mug full of pureed asparagus before bed. The asparagus might count but the cranberry juice has been processed and packaged and therefore it's evil. Meh, so today is the only day that counts and that's OK, I figure that there is not a better time for a detox than when your peehole feels fiery.
The UTI is doing much better, I'm watching Medium on Netflix, and for the love of God I want a peanut butter and honey sandwich.
Don't make me hurt you with my butter knife.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
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