Friday, March 16, 2007
This past Sunday I discovered something wonderful and I can’t wait to try it on a full-scale level, baby. It involves hot dogs and flour tortillas.
Before the NASCAR race on Sunday, I was getting a little hungry and decided it was time for lunch. I had just stepped through the door as the green flag flew for the first time. I wanted something to eat faster than Jeff Gordon wanted to find out who fathered his wife‘s child. I opened up the fridge and immediately settled on a hot dog.
I didn’t have any hot dog buns and I didn’t feel like wrapping a dog up in a slice of wheat bread. But in my condiments drawer, I knew there was a package of flour tortillas. I decided to coat my dog with ketchup and roll that baby up in a tortilla.
Surprisingly, it was delicious!
Now I have a burning blue fever to make hot dog tortillas complete with cheese, chili, and whatever else I can think of. You know, the “normal” stuffs that go on hotdogs.
If you’re a regular reader of this blog, then you know that I’ve limited my intake of fried food items. The side benefit has been weight loss without really trying.
I’ve been trying to work out on a regular basis, but my job isn’t good for any form of regularity. I still drink the same amount of beer, but I’ve been eating better. A little better.
My clothes have been hanging off of me and I had to put another notch in one of my belts. And when I went over to Christine’s house to watch the last new episode of Veronica Mars that I missed, she noticed that I had lost more weight since the last time we were face to face.
But all of it didn’t really make sense to me. I know from my clothes and from the observations of others I had indeed lost weight. The scale in my bathroom told me otherwise. It would see-saw back and forth, so I stopped paying attention to it. I hadn’t set foot on it since last November.
The other day after Christine’s comment, I decided to get a reading on the scale. And according to that scale, I had only dropped two pounds. Even with knowing that my clothes fit differently, my heart dropped faster than Paris Hilton’s panties. It wasn’t like I was actively pursuing weight loss, it was just a byproduct of semi-clean living.
I explained all this to my father and he suggested that the scale was malfunctioning. I tried his and the reading blew my mind! Since November, I had dropped 30 pounds! And all without really trying! Just a change of diet and trying to work out on a regular basis.
So I tried experimenting with my scale by weighing a 5 lb. bag of sugar. It came up as 12 pounds. I put my nephew Preston on the scale and he came up 73 lbs. when I know he only weighs 49. I then weighed the bag of sugar again and it came up as 17 pounds. There wasn’t even a constant figure the scale was off by.
I feel like I should really start taking the weight loss thing seriously and keep going.
I’m 40 years old and I still do dumb things from time to time. As most women have noticed, I’m in the male half of the population and according to them, men never grow up.
Please keep that in mind.
I wanted a Coke pretty bad yesterday. I only had a $20 on me with absolutely no change. I didn’t want to go “bumming” through the station in order to satisfy my carbonated desire.
Then, as if sent by God, 1075KZL’s Mike Klein walked through the break room door. In his hands he held up a package of Pop Rocks. I told him that if he bought me a Coke that I would be willing to work out the urban legend of Pop Rocks, the soft drink, and certain death. You can read about it right here.
So I emptied the contents of Pop Rocks into my mouth and poured in a swig of Coca-Cola Classic. There was an immediate release of carbon dioxide in my mouth. I felt like Superman containing a mushroom cloud of an atomic explosion in his mouth. I fought the gaseous monster that bubbled at the top of my throat and managed to swallow it. I followed that up with another large swig of Coke.
It felt like something just under my sternum was growing inside of me. It was like I took a sponge pill the size of a Tylenol tablet and once inside me, it grew to the size of a grapefruit. Klein was laughing his ass off as pressure grew a little uncomfortable in my gizzard.
I burped excessively for about ten minutes and I lived to tell the tale.