A Bucket And A Rock

Today I’m just this side of useless.

Hubs and I have been in training to become MMA fighters…well Hubs bought a book written by an MMA trainer, which is nearly the same thing.

Guaranteed to make you look like a beast. Actual fighting skills not included.

I love this book. I did one of the workouts and then strutted up and down our street in a roid rage, looking for someone to choke out. All I could find was our 90-year old neighbor and he’s in a different weight class, so I haven’t technically put my title on the line, but I’m pretty sure that I’m invincible. Seriously, I am this close to earning a Tap Out t-shirt and a tribal armband tattoo.

I’ve been following the book’s diet plan religiously: no refined foods, lot’s of whole grains, fruits and veggies.  Because you can eat like a hippie and not lose your agro edge, which is important to know if you chase gang members for a living or shop at Target on a weekend. The diet has me feeling like a finely tuned machine. A washing machine, but not just any washing machine. A really good one. Like a front loading Whirlpool with all of the extra settings that I would never use.

But here’s the thing about a deluxe Whirlpool washer, you need to treat it well. You don’t dump a bunch of crayons and gum in it and expect your next load to be pristine…are you getting lost in my metaphor? See, I’m the washer and the crayons and gum are…yeah, I know my metaphor sucks. What do you expect from a gummy, crayon filled washer?

Somewhere in those suds is a better metaphor. (image via dreamstime)

You see, yesterday after my yoga class I was feeling a little smug and self empowered, so I impulsively decided to treat myself to a piece of key lime cheesecake, as a reward for my hard work and potential bad@ssery. I took my cheesecake home where I ate it in half hour increments because that makes it healthier…in my mind, you know, where it counts. I haven’t had any refined sugar for a couple of weeks so I caught a rush off that cheesecake like a cheap date.

Then we went to a little shindig at our neighbor’s house, which turned out to be a dessert party. I have the feeling MMA fighters don’t hang out at dessert parties. Whole grains and vegetables were notably absent and all of the fruit was coated in custard.

I was strong. At first. But I got hungry and the kids didn’t eat all of their treats and I hate to waste food and did I mention I was hungry? So I had a little off their plate. I mean plates. And by a little I mean that I licked those plates clean. And then I had a teeny tiny dark chocolate, espresso brownie of my own, but not on a plate so that it wouldn’t count, but apparently nobody explained that rule to the brownie because that sucker was DEADLY.

I knew it was a mistake immediately. I felt light-headed and sick, like I’d just smoked an entire pack of cigarettes, dipped in crack and rolled in the scat of llamas that have dined solely on poppies.  It occurred to me that I hadn’t really eaten anything except desserts all day. So when we got home I made myself a super healthy meal, but by then it was 8:00 and the damage was done. All I could do was wait for my stomach to revolt, which it did at about 10:00 (bye super healthy meal), and vow to treat myself better today.

Feeling the llama’s wrath. (image via mushypony.com)

This morning I woke up with a full on sugar hangover. I need a nap and a large German woman to knead my muscles and throw me in a sauna to detox. I have zero energy and no pithy thoughts.

The Whirlpool is broken. What you’ve got here is a bucket and a rock.

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12 thoughts on “A Bucket And A Rock

  1. Now that’s what I call a metaphor! I ate no dessert yesterday and followed my vegan diet religiously and my stomach has been revolting, waving placards that read “Squirt Or Die” all day long. This isn’t fair. This is only supposed to happen when I eat bad foods and drink hard liquor, and I shouldn’t have to suffer like this when I already suffered through vegan soy cheese that didn’t melt into the casserole I made last night. Do you actually have one of those front load Whirlpools? If so, I’m jealous.

    • Perhaps your body is rejecting soy cheese. Have you tried nut cheese…I’m sorry. I typed that in complete seriousness and then the 15-year old boy in me collapsed into giggles. Nut cheese. Oh god. Seriously though, I hope you feel better.
      I don’t have a front load Whirlpool. My washer is broken down just like I am.

      • Nut cheese. Erm…no, I can’t go there. Oh, what the hell. I was going to say that I can ask my hubby if he’s got any…

      • I’ve had most of the fake cheeses and they tend to sweat instead of melt. I get my cheese fix from goat’s milk feta in small doses, but I realize that it isn’t vegan, unless it’s from soy goats.

      • And soy goats are sooooooo expensive. I thought about buying one and feeding it aluminum cans and old Saran Wrap – they’ll eat anything, right? – but we were worried that the goat would go after one of the cats. And if the goat succeeded, then our soy goat would no longer be vegetarian and that would render its milk inedible for us as vegans. Of course, the other obvious benefit of owning a soy goat is that they shit edamame.

      • I love edamame skat! And you could feed the soy goat your recyclables, which would resolve two problems.
        The cat thing is worrisome but I think if you stop wrapping the cats in saran wrap, which would understandably confuse the soy goat, I think you’ll be okay.

      • And expose myself to dander? Non-vegan dander? You obviously don’t get what I’m trying to do here.

      • Veganism is so complicated.

  2. Kathy V. says:

    Jeez, you two. Fine. If it will make you all feel better, I will eat an entire cheesecake and get raging drunk on cheap whiskey. For you. So that you don’t have to. Don’t say I never take one for the team.

  3. Yet another reason to move to Colorado. You have to be a card-carrying MMA fighter just to cross the state line. And you have do cross fit. And Astanga yoga. And own a bike that’s more expensive than your car. And compost all of your leftovers.

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