I May Have Jumped Off the Wagon, But I Did It with Class

There comes a time when you have to step back, assess the situation (there was a momentary snicker when I stopped short of finishing the word assess), and just get real with yourself. The situation being my diet; the assessment being that this is a very half-hearted go, to say the least. 

I'm okay with that.

In my defense, however, I had every intention of sticking with the plan during my meal tonight. Earlier this afternoon, between hunger pangs, I actually thought to myself, "I can do this. I will do this." But that all changed when I received a very unexpected, but very welcome, call from my pastor. His tidings were glad, in deed. On this very night, he possessed one very highly sought-after invitation to an exclusive unveiling of our region's newest and most state-of-the-art healthcare facility, which is set to open to the public in just over a month. For those in North East Indiana, you'll recognize the name Parkview Hospital. Yes, my pastor was inviting me to join him as he attended this extravagant event.  

I accepted without hesitation, knowing full well that delicious food would be in good supply, and all would eat to their fancy. And fancy eating, it was. 

The only catch: I had to wear a suit. A minor set back, as it did restrict my full range of motion of hand-to-mouth in rapid succession; a handicap to which I quickly adapted. 

There was a salad bar, and an array of fresh and exotic fruits. I had none of it. Instead, I had my fill of fancy cheeses, red meat, shrimp cocktail, and fancy cheeses on top of red meat. It was delightful. 

The hospital was pretty neat, too.

But I've said too much. 

Delicious Shame

I awoke this morning to the sound of my stomach trying to out growl my wife's. She won, much to my chagrin. I actually think my stomach is so under-used, it's lost the will to growl. Life could be better.

As miserable as I may be, you can't argue with results. My digital scale revealed that I'm down another one-point-four pounds from yesterday, a trend that is probably coming to a screeching halt after tonight.

Just moments ago, I inhaled a Chipotle burrito without even realizing it...it was like my mouth was on auto-pilot. In a fog, I tried to remember what brought me to such a lowly state. Then it came back to me...my temptress of a wife suggested the food of choice when I was at my worst. Resistance was futile. So I drowned my sorrow with two...no, three...Oreo cookies.

They were double-stuff.

It's okay, though. Thanks to the hormones I'm taking (HCG), I'm pretty sure I would pass a pregnancy test...or fail a pregnancy test, depending on your perspective. That's a post for another time.

I've said too much.

Bitter Fruit

One day in, and I'm convinced this diet was created by Satan, himself. I actually felt guilty for having an extra orange last night. 

And I still haven't acquired the taste for black coffee...it gives you Columbian prison inmate breath. 

After two salads, snacks comprised of strictly fruit, and having to pass on numerous junk food opportunities, life seems to have lost all meaning. Grasping for a way out, I declared that if I hadn't lost 2 lbs by morning, I was done. 

Of course, I lost exactly 2 lbs. Curse my digital scale. 

I've said too much.

Sent from my iPad

The Winter of My Discontent

I appear to love misery...especially if I can document it. I remind you that some time ago I deliberately cut out all caffeine from my life, and brought you along through the journey of my self-inflicted torture. 

A new journey begins today.

You see, I'm a little less than satisfied with my current weight situation. Most people who see me on a regular basis would be surprised by this. But the fact remains that just yesterday morning I tipped the scales at over 200 lbs. That's the most I've ever weighed, to my knowledge. I decided right then and there that it's time to look at my gut in the eye and declare war. So I said to my gut, "I solemnly swear to destroy you, gut." And I will.

So, today I begin a new starvation regimen, also known as a diet. A few changes that have already been made: I'm drinking my caffeinated coffee black (yes, caffeinated - I fell off that bandwagon months ago), and I'll be eating a salad for lunch. Yes. A salad...with the dressing on the side. And no cheese. 

Already I'm wondering what I've become. 

Black coffee. No cheese. No sugar. No spice of life (or fatty foods, as they say in the health industry). These next few weeks will shake me at the very core of my being. And yes, I will be blogging regularly to bring you into my pain. 

I've only just begun.

Sent from my iPad

Hot Mess

The phrase used as the title of this post adequately sums up my coffee experience this morning. What should have been a blissful cup of quality joe, brewed in an extra snooty fashion, quickly became a nightmare.

Splashing, spilling, hands covered in molten java.

While I was lapping the coffee from my hands to avoid more of a mess, I sat my chic travel thermos in one of my many, many cup holders...which happened to be the one in which my wife had spilled coffee the night before, the puddle still fresh. Hands now cleansed of their delicious grime, I gingerly lifted my designer coffee thermos to my mouth for another tasty sip, then whimsically sat the thermos, not in its flooded cup holder, but on my lap, unaware that the bottom was coated in the rich, palatable caffeinated goodness.

The coffee ring on my lap is visible, even now.

So to all those who stood within smelling distance of me today, wondering to themselves, "Why do I smell great coffee, and where can I get some?"

Now you know.

I've said...

...too much.

Bella's Revenge

If you have a natural fear of baby dolls, you should probably read no further. If you're still reading, I'll assume you're prepared to read a tale so chilling, it will send chills to the very core of your chilly soul. You're welcome to read such a tale after you read this mildly amusing story. 

You may have already assumed - which is dangerous, I know - that Bella is the name of a baby doll. Ellie's baby doll, in fact. Ellie is two. She has exactly one cousin and two friends who don that very name, and now every child has taken on that identity...including her baby dolls (emphasis on the plural). I actually applaud Ellie for her naming efficiency. 

Our tale begins this very afternoon as I was engaging in a little playful interaction with Ellie and Bella. As is often the case during such occasions, I will hold any one of the Bellas and pretend that they are real babies - all of this for Ellie's amusement, not my own. That would be incredibly weird. And before you go and think I'm a softy, you should know that these father-daughter play sessions are not without their disturbing qualities, which I'm careful to include so that my masculinity remains well in tact. I hold Bella, hug her, snuggle with her, talk in baby gibberish to her...and then I usually end up dropping the simulated infant on its head with great fanfare. This typically incites much heartfelt laughter from both children (the real ones) and adults alike. I may occasionally improvise if a coffee table is near by, or the corner of a wall, or - as is the case with this particular occasion - the ceiling of our living room.

I was holding Bella the baby doll (one that looks eerily similar to a real Bella we know), tossing her playfully into the air, each time getting a little higher until, WAP! The baby doll made forceful impact with the ceiling, and fell to the floor. We reveled with delight. 

That is until moments later when Ellie tried to mimic such behavior, throwing Bella's hard plastic head into my eyeball. 

Bella had her revenge. It was cold, indeed. But I feel inclined to remind her that accidents still happen...and there's a rocking chair very close at hand. 

I've said too much. 

The Bacon Deception

If you found this post hoping for the latest dish on actor, dancer Kevin Bacon, then I should warn you: this post has nothing to do with him. 

This post, on the other hand, has everything to do with the preposterous occurrences in my kitchen this very night. Allow me to divulge. 

While I was putting my handyman skills to good use converting our coat closet into a pantry, my wife declared that she was preparing bacon for our baked potato bar. My soul began to weep for joy, and I nearly broke into song. My elation was stayed, however, with the memory of a previous attempt at bacon, which prompted my asking, "Is it real bacon?" 

Her response was startling. "Yeah," she said casually. The song commenced. 

The song, sadly, was never meant to last. 

It was several minutes later when she revealed the truth about the bacon. 

"Well, it's turkey bacon," she confessed. 

I made clear my disappointment. Her response was chilling. "I think you'll be really disappointed tonight," she said coolly. 

I already regret this post. 

And yes, I've said too much. 

Sent from my iPhone