Nerd. Purveyor of Shenanigans and Bacon.
Aspen is a West Highland Terrier. In the Gaelic language, this apparently stands for dog “will eat anything when you’re not looking.”
God forbid anyone might have to answer the phone. Or poop. Or clutch their chest in a Fred Sanford style heart attack with a candy in one hand. My dog would step on my face as soon as my lifeless body hit the shag carpet and she’d go unapologetically for the nougat, prying my lifeless fingers open long enough for her slimy butt tongue to make a grab at the sweet.
Fair warning: I am in the throes of writing a paper for my college class, but there’s just something so delicious about not doing what I’m supposed to. So I’ll share this instead.
My husband’s been telling me about this event he thinks a local nonprofit needs as a fundraiser. You’d think they would be fine going to somewhere like https://www.gofundme.com/c/blog/cost-of-raising-child for ideas, but he’s insistent.
He calls it The Middle Earth Strider Fun Run.
Now it doesn’t matter if you’re a Tolkien fan or not because I’m going to break down the gist of the conversation for you.
I said to him, “What in the fresh hell is that?”
“It’s a 4-day fun run for 135 miles.”
First of all, in my world, the words “fun” and “run” never belong in the same sentence. Like ever. It’s a little like saying “that’s a pretty swank colonoscopy bag you’re sporting.” It’s not. Add the “4-day” bit in there along with the mileage, and it’s basically an off the charts “no.”
I know I should never ask him for clarification, but I always do. Because I’m a sucker like that.
“So you have three people,” he says. “It’s gotta be a team of 3. And there’s a man, an elf, and a dwarf.”
Silence.
“The woman is the elf, the guy is the man, and the dwarf just has to be someone short. Like under 5 feet. Or five-foot-two, depending.”
I reminded him that plenty of people are under five feet, and they’re usually children.
“They can be under five-foot-two. But it can’t be children,” he says. “I thought maybe the dwarf could have a weight restriction, like they have to weigh at least 200 pounds.”
I just can’t.
“And these people run for 4 days straight?”
“No,” he counters, “because it would be like the Iditarod.”
“So you have obese, height-challenged people under 5 feet pulling sleds?”
“No. And under 5’2” or over 200 pounds. Though, I think with the over 200-pound thing, you might get giants instead of the dwarves, so forget the 200 lbs. We can just make height and age restrictions and they run legs.”
“But they’d be short legs, right?”
“That’s a good one!”
Silence.
“Plus there’d be shirts!” He enthused.
Postscript: I showed my husband this post, and he told me the image at the top is all wrong because “Strider, Gimli, and Legolas never went into Mordor. That’d be a Frodo and Samwise Fun Run, and for that you’d want children. But they have to have hairy toes.” So there’s that.
Okay so it’s not a real black bear. In fact, it’s more along the lines of a Black Bear Diner.
When I asked my son which restaurant he most wanted to visit, he said, “I’d like a Black Bear Diner Big Bear Deluxe Burger.”
That’s great, I thought, as I nodded to my 23-year-old son, excited with glee at wrapping his mitts around the commendably-sized portions of beef and bread. I’ll just order my usual taco salad minus the beans (pictured left) and the shell and call it a low-carb day. There’s no reason to go crazynuts after all.
Alas, that was a nice plan, wasn’t it?
Today, however, the side of my face is imprinted with QWERTY keys from resting on my laptop and my stomach wants to show me what Old Faithful can do. Even the bacon I cooked this morning isn’t sitting well in that churning, gurgling cesspool of indigestion.
Sure, I went into the restaurant bedecked with black bear caricatures and kelly green wall coverings anticipating a little something extra. I mean, I deserved a few extra carbs after over two solid weeks of Atkins ’72 and 17 pounds lost. What’s the harm in the taco salad with the shell and with the refried beans so long as I placed them to the side, grabbing a small bite here or there as needed?
Only I didn’t order that. Oh no. I could have, but I didn’t. Instead, I made eyes at the menu’s Patty Melt, and she gave me eyes back. It was a little like the Katy Perry song, only I didn’t plan to lip lock a girl; I planned to embrace Patty. Oh, Patty. And because it was a smaller meal, it only (?!) clocked in at 910 calories and 100 carbs. As many carbs as I typically eat in an entire week–combined.
After my moments with Patty, and feeling very little pain (probably the carb rush and endorphins), the dessert menu magically appeared at the table. As I stared down at the dancing bears beckoning me to partake in something delectable, I told myself why not? I’ll share the triple brownie fudge sundae, so it wasn’t like I was eating the whole thing myself. Besides, did I deserve this?
450 more calories and 100 more carbohydrates full of dessert, I walked out of the restaurant feeling full.
But alas. That was yesterday. Today. Today! Today, with a runny nose and water weight gain of 2 pounds, I’m feeling like I’ve been smacked with the barfy stick. I haven’t felt this bad since I had the flu a few months ago. I feel, in a word, miserable. Oh, Patty! How could you?
As remnants of Black Bear Diner apple crumble leftovers waft through the air every time I open the refrigerator, I announced loudly I’d pay anyone a dollar to eat it. Heck they didn’t even have to eat it. They could throw it in the shrubs. Who knows? Maybe a black bear will find it. I think I might just deserve to see that.
Simple kicks tail when it comes to everything in life. When it’s your diet? It doesn’t get much more simple than old school diet plans. Regardless the regimen you’re following, you already deal with occasional stink eye when you mention you’re doing keto. Mention you follow a plan that’s almost 45 years old and people are going to give you crap about it.
The question is, can you take that crap? Are you tough enough to hang with the kids on the diet playground when the smack starts flying like five year old fists of fury? There’s no room for sissies here, my friend. This is all or nothing. Play for keeps. The dodge ball to the face of diet shade.
Let’s just see if you can swing it.
You know, your diet’s so old…
– Disco wacka-chicka music plays every time you crack the cover.
– The book mentions prohibition.
– Abe Lincoln was a testimonial.
– It’s written in Sanskrit.
– On papyrus.
– All the serving sizes are in Roman numerals.
– Pterodactyls are induction approved.
– Atkins mentions his experience at the Last Supper.
– And the first Thanksgiving.
– It mentions getting salt from the almost-Dead-but-still-hanging-in Sea.
– The book’s writer sat next to Ben Franklin in kindergarten.
– Atkins told Eve apples weren’t okay until after induction.
– He knew the Burger King when he was just a prince.
– The book was dedicated to the Flintstones.
– Atkins records his menus on the Mayan calendar.
– He okayed the Boston Tea Party, so long as they limited the heavy cream to 2 teaspoons.
– He knew Captain Crunch when he was still a private.
– Socrates gave his glowing review on the back of the book.
– Betsy Ross wrote the recipes.
When it comes to fighting fire with fire, just make sure you give as good as you get. Unless there’s bacon involved. Because then there’s just get. It’s bacon.
But then your plan is so old, you think I mean Sir Francis Bacon.
Oh! Oh! I know what you’re thinking:
The world needs a fat, shlubby, snackhappy nerdygirl who’s completely self aware talking about her weight loss issues and everything else happening in her world that she thinks is interesting enough to write about.
If that’s the case it’s your Birthday because shlart’s* about to get very real up in here. making that hand gesture all around my face like Madonna vogueing, only notsomuch (*keeping it safe for work, yo).
That’s right! The birch* is back, y’alls.
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