Monday, July 25, 2011

Disneyland for the Digestion - Got Juice day 2

I hate The Food Network.

Hate the grocery store, with all it's conveniently placed baked goods on pretty tables at the store's entrance.

I hate my son for making toast, creating toast smells and scraping butter on his toast louder than he should.

My husband wants to quit our juice fast today.  I pressured him into not quitting earlier.  He's pressuring me by tuning into Diners, Drive-ins and Dives.  The chef just fried potatoes, piled slow roasted pork loin on top of that, then peppers, and then because there isn't enough solid food on that plate, threw on an egg covered in parmesan cheese.

I hate that chef.

I hate YOU Guy Fieri.  Except I love you...but I hate you.   But I must love you because I want to lick bacon grease off your fingers.

Moments ago I was apologizing to Justin for chastising him because he hit a wall in the afternoon.  Seems I hit mine three hours later than he did.  As I type it's passing, and I'm not especially hungry, but digestion feels...unsatisfactory.  You know what I mean.  When you sit down to comfort food, and not even have to overeat, but swallowing down a meal that makes your tummy say "ahhhh" and then you want to nuzzle all things soft and furry.

My nuzzle deprived tummy is beginning to suffer from neurosis.  There is no "ahh"...there is only Woody Allen styled whining and then a reference to premature ejaculation.

I juiced kale.  Kale.  What the hell?

...and now I have to pee.  I wasn't warned about the diuretic effects of leafy greens.

Which for some reason made me think of Alton Brown.

Sorry Alton.  Let me look at your fingers.

Sunday, July 24, 2011

Disneyland for your Digestion

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.

Monday, July 18, 2011

Minutia XVI

For the last two weeks life has consisted of a series of busy nothings, as that tart Jane Austen liked to say.  Lots of little chores snowballing into more than half of July gone.  All of them about as interesting as Fordyce's Sermons.  (Google's auto search gives some interesting image results for Fordyce...not safe for work results.  That was a warm little diversion.)

Let's pull some minutia out, shall we?

It's worth a year of wait to get fourth of July food made under a tent at our city park after our fifteen minute parade.  I picked up a plate of excellent tacos with a good portion of chopped tripe included.  God bless the USA, even down to the innards of our swine.  Was it republican swine or democrat?  Dunno.  Pork barrell is pork barrell.

Family reunions are all the more entertaining when you tape the paper covers on the picnic tables properly.  Wrapping tables to hide all the etchings of filthy words and penises is an art form.  Drawing your own filthy words and penises on the paper to make up for what you covered doesn't count.

My mother in law is ill and recovering from infection and a blood clot in the hospital.  I love her. 

I went to a hair salon as a walk in and a half hour later I'd donated sixteen inches to Locks of Love.  Hairdressers salivate when they see me in their chair.  This is the third time I've donated hair and probably the last.  When she asked me what products I used on my hair I had to suppress spouting, "I'm a Dapper Dan man!"

My oldest son took off to a four day long leadership camp very early this morning.  There is a feeling of not having gotten anything done because I didn't spend part of my day trying to get it through his head that it's not his job to boss around his younger brothers.  I hope he finds a girl that is willing to make out with him because that'll improve the attitude of the whole house.

My dumb gay cat Booger has taken to peeing on the garage floor.  He thinks this is a cute thing to do.  I think my garage smelling of lemon Pinesol after I scrub is an improvement on his cuteness.  He's getting old and at least he's not piddling in the house.

Home improvement is near completion.  In the past two years I've redone a bathroom, redid all of our floors with tile or carpet, painted walls, refinished the laundry room and last Monday we poured a backyard patio.  Wednesday we finish the landscaping.  In the fall I redo my kitchen counters.  Then there are only small fixes after that.  Maybe I'll knock down a wall just for kicks.

If this house looks good hopefully we'll sell it.  I'd like to move to civilization...or at least much closer to a Walmart.  In this economy, when the wage earner is a public schoolteacher, that's a big wish.

In the twenty acre parking lot of the twenty screen movie theater, we unknowingly picked the spot right next to the fresh puddle of puke.  When I opened the door and the smell hit, no one minded moving the van to another spot an acre further from the box office.

My sewing machine is in the shop.  That's easier to fix than a blood clot.

Justin picked me up a book at a garage sale.  A modern take on Pride and Prejudice from Mr. Darcy's perspective.  This lead me to read the gushing reviews of this awful book, which lead me to some other fanfiction, which lead me to some really out there fan fiction detailing every single sexual position Mr. Darcy and Miss Bennett managed while time travelling a thousand years into the future, having been whisked away mid dance from the Netherfield Ball to have Star Trek type adventures and then returned to the ball in a most amiable embrace.  There are some very frustrated cat owning womyn out there who need to stop making Mr. Darcy into a pussy.

The Hoarders marathon ends in a half hour.  I have two swallows of wine left.  Note to self, hoard more wine.

My husband turned 42 years old.  I baked him this.  Happy Birthday HunnyBunny.

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