I'll Wear Your Grandad's Clothes. I Look Incredible.

        I may or may not have had a solitary dance party in front of my Mac Book Pro to the following lyrics from "Thrift Shop" by Macklemore:
     
        I'm gonna pop some tags 
        I only got twenty dollars in my pocket
        I, I'm huntin'- lookin' for a come-up
        This is f*&$ing awesome...

        ...Ima take it grandpa style
        Ima take it grandpa style
        No for real- ask your grandpa
        Can I have his hand me downs?

        I'm not saying this happened...  because if it did, Eric would never admit I am that insane, and Kittles doesn't speak English, so there are no credible witnesses.

*warning- this is an explicit version of "Thrift Shop"*

        If it had happened, it would have included some serious hip hop mom-dancing.  It would have been incredible, and not awkward or embarrassing for anyone at all.

This painting at McMenamins' Hotel Oregon is awkward and embarrassing for all of us.

        Imagine this: (Don't worry, I am not going to subject you to picturing me hip hop mom dancing in my UGGs with a Hurley sweatshirt and skinny jeans on- at least no more than I already have.)  Seriously, envision a small microbrewery.  The beer is well above average, and the staff is the perfect mix of awkward, embarrassing, and completely endearing.  

Said endearing staff may have accidentally stabbed this  vat of beer with a butter knife and then told Eric and I, "Thanks for rocking out with us tonight."

        Hey, any time I am not sitting on the couch in my sweats,  it's a win.  Going to Schooner Exact Brewery is as "rock out" as I get these days.  I'm 31 years old here, people.  What do you want from me?  (I probably over-shared some or all of the above with Mark, our delightfully geeky server and beer expert. )

        Okay, now envision my most hated microbrewery, Elysian Brewing Company- or as I like to call them, The Evil Empire.  Picture rude servers that think they are too cool for school, and frozen crab cakes that are poorly heated, then slopped on a pretentious square plate in front of you while the same horrendously foolish server scowls on as you try to order a second beer.  Schooner Exact is the exact opposite of this.  Schooner is amaze-balls to the max.

This is how you do Orecciette, Evil Empire- take notes.

        I would never admit to being a romantic person.  However, if a person was inclined to be romantic, he or she would love Schooner exact, not only for the friendly service, delicious food, and excellent beer, but also for the atmosphere.  There is an unfinished cement floor, beer aging in bourbon barrels, an unidentifiable, yet undeniable indie song playing in the background; it feels like true love.

If bourbon aged holiday beer isn't true love, I don't know what is.

        Speaking of true love, and Macklemore...

        And I can't change

        Even if I tried

        Even if I wanted to 

        I can't change...

        Here's the thing.  I hate Elysian because they make me feel like an idiot for existing.  I love Schooner because I can walk in basically having a seizure from excitement that their kitchen is open, and not only do they not make me feel like an idiot- they make me feel like who I am is...okay.  Mark even seemed mildly amused at my complete insanity over their kitchen opening.

        Obviously, there is no comparison between food, and the right to marry whomever you want.  Obviously.

        All I'm saying is, think about who you are.  Think about what makes you you. Think about what it feels like to fall in love.  Whoever you are, be you; it's beautiful*.   

*Unless you are some kind of killer- in which case, you should probably seek therapy and serious anti-psychotic medications.  If that is the case, maybe don't be you.

        

I'll Give You Something to Cry About

        Actually, I'm not sorry I haven't written for a month.  I was too busy being awesome and running the Seattle Half Marathon.

Eric saved the day by bringing my Uggs and snowboarding coat to the finish line.

        Oh, and I was super awesome while running the Mustache Dache last weekend.  Eric actually ran that one with me.  We happened upon some friends who were there [with beer] to show support for relatives of theirs who were also stache daching.  Is there a better way to finish a 5k? Rhetorical question/ of course not.

Stay Classy Seattle.

Eric looks like he's running from filming a porn.
I am obviously disgusted by this.

        Okay, so here are the good things about the Seattle half:

        1.) I can run! (remember when all I used to blog about was how much I hated not running?)

        2.) It was not pouring down rain.  In fact, it was eerily foggy, which made me feel like I was about     

            to get murdered.  I mean seriously.  The hills on this course were killing me.

        3.) Running Buddies!

        4.) New, amazeballs running tights from the hundred dollar store

        5.) It only took about 5 minutes to get to the start line- as opposed to the hour it takes for some 

            *ahem- Seattle Rock n Roll.

        6.) Negative split (ignore this if you're not into running.)

        7.) Random people cheering for runners makes me like people.  (No small feat since I normally 

        have very little faith in humanity.)

Classic running buddy shot from the Mustache Dache- 'cause I don't have any from today

        Not the best things about the Seattle half:

        1.)  hills

        2.)  hills 

        3.)  I sort of hate my time a little bit

Kittles hates my time too.

        I know! I ran 13.1 miles before 10am. I should be happy I can run, and I am.  I was feeling mildly sorry for myself because it is actually the slowest half marathon I have ever run.  Then I remembered, I might have had a bunch of Japanese beer last night.  Might have celebrated two Thanksgivings this week.  Might have skipped a lot of Monday night training runs.  Might have had a giant Cherry Coke and popcorn at the movie theater last night...

The cake I partook in during "Fakesgiving" AKA: the second Thanksgiving meal I had this week.)

        It's kind of like that saying, "You get what you pay for."  It's also kind of like when one of the surgeons I work with tells his patients, "Now if you don't go to physical therapy, and if you don't do the exercises, you can't come to me and say your back still hurts."  

       If you eat like crap, and don't do all your training runs, don't  complain to me about missing your PR.

There might have been some Ben and Jerry's involved as well...

        Truth be told, this is one of the most fun races I have ever run.  It was a gorgeous course, and I had good company.  I definitely enjoyed the last three miles at my own pace.  

        Life lesson #23:  Go at your own pace, and be happy when a hot guy shows up at the finish line with your Uggs.

       

       

       

Monster Bash- in More Ways Than One

        I was getting ready to volunteer at a local kids Halloween festival called Monster Bash when it happened.  I guess I shouldn't have been surprised; I brought the pain on myself, but I have to say, I didn't see it coming.  I definitely punched myself in the face.  Hard.  More specifically, I punched myself in the mouth, and it really hurt.  I mean, I cut my lip, you guys.  My first thought was, "Man, it must have really hurt when Brad Pitt punched Edward Norton in 'Fight Club.'"  Why would anyone ever want to start a fight club?  Just because you have a Fight Club with yourself, doesn't make it any less painful... on so many levels.

The first rule about Fight Club is: you do not talk about Fight Club.

        Yeah yeah, we know.  The second rule about Fight Club is: you DO NOT talk about Fight club.  *Spoiler Alert* I just realized how perfect it is that my first thought after punching myself in the face pertained to a movie about two guys who were actually the same dude that created Fight Club...and soap.  I guess the soap part doesn't really apply in my personal situation.

       I had just finished a harrowing 8 mile run in the rain.  I may have just as well taken a dip in the Sound, I was so soaked afterward.  

Dumb.

        Anyway, I was getting dressed to go to Monster Bash when I realized that I own a pair of Jack Skellington leg warmers.  Because why wouldn't a self-respecting 31 year old woman own leg warmers featuring an animated Disney skeleton?  Exactly.  Plus, remember how I like Jack Skellington?

Totally grown up

        See, I was trying to incorporate the leg warmers into my outfit.  The only problem- well maybe not the only problem depending on who you ask- was that I wore jeans, so the leg warmers didn't work for their intended use.  The next obvious step was to pull them over my arms- duh.  I thought I could make them look like long sleeves under my t-shirt.  As I was pulling a warmer over my right arm, I slipped and gave myself a wicked left upper cut.  (Do you see the irony? I bashed myself in the face while getting ready to go to Monster Bash!)

Also easy to punch yourself playing Wii...just sayin'.

        I didn't end up wearing the leg/arm warmers at all.  Yeah, I punched myself in the face for no good reason.  Although, I can't say I can think of a great reason to ever punch oneself in the face.  Nevertheless, Monster Bash was fun, even without Jack Skellington.  Just in case you're wondering,  I ran the pumpkin painting station, which is a super important, premium job- obvi.  In retrospect, it was probably better to leave ol' Jack at home because pumpkin painting is a messy station.  It gave me a tic- that's how messy those little painters were.  Paint everywhere.  Hate it.

I didn't create this pumpkin, but some genius with an awesome name did.

        Whenever kids would sit down to paint pumpkins, they got adorable little orange aprons to cover their costumes, and then all hell would break loose on those poor gourds.  I would give each patron the following speech, "Listen kid, the first rule about pumpkin painting is: you do not talk about pumpkin painting.  The second rule about pumpkin painting is: you DO NOT talk about pumpkin painting."  Maybe we should have talked about it, though.  Those fools were horrible artists.  

        I'll try not to beat myself up about it.

What to do in Case of a Total Suck Fest

        Warning: use of the word "fool" is excessive in this post- even for me.  If this does not bother you, proceed.  If it does bother you, you're probably no fun...and a fool.     

        I hate running on the treadmill, but I hate getting murdered more.  So, since it's been getting dark earlier and earlier, I have been running on the freaking treadmill on Monday evenings.  It. Is. Torturous.    Then again, last week I ran hills in Sammamish.  Which is to say, I pretty much ran pure hills.  I literally ran uphill both ways on that run.  Also. Torturous.

        It's at times like that when I have to ask myself why I would continue to subject myself to something that is such a suckfest.  Literally.  (I don't know if you know this, but I actually hate the word "literally" because it is so often misused.  For example, have you ever heard someone say, 'I am literally sweating my balls off!'?  Unless there are testicles on the floor in front of you, someone is absolutely not literally sweating his balls off.  It seems like simple diction, but you'd be surprised.  Or maybe you wouldn't?  I think we'd all be the most surprised if some dude literally sweat his balls off.)

I would tell myself this when I run up hills, but I am  always eating such a huge suck sandwich that I can't get the words out. 

        Besides, what's so great about "lapping everybody on the couch"?  At least the fools sitting on the couch can drink a box of wine if they want.  I daresay it's nearly impossible to drink box o' wine while running hills.  At the very least, it's probably not worth the effort. Who's the fool now?  The fool running hills with no wine.  

        Please don't tell me you're against wine in a box.  It is awesome.

This equals two bottles of wine, and you can keep it in the fridge for up to four weeks.  As if two bottles of wine last that long.

        I am running on the blasted treadmill, and Sammamish hills because of the Seattle [Half] Marathon.  We discussed this already- I am the dumb ass that is running 13.1 miles with a gut full of cranberries and tryptophan the Sunday after Thanksgiving.   Make no mistake, this is all my own doing.

Just like this is all Jay Cutler's own doing.

        However, it is all semi - tolerable because of my running buddies.  If you should ever happen to find yourself eating a suck sandwich in the middle of a suckfest that is uphill both ways, make sure you recruit your favorite fool to be your partner in crime.  (Or at the very least, find someone to be your running buddy so you don't become a victim of crime.)  Also, make sure your favorite fool knows where to procure only the finest boxed wine.

One of these fools gets wine at the gas station, so yeah... we're pretty good friends.

Whoever Said Money Can't Buy Happiness Must Have Been Super Poor

        It happened.  I had a birthday, and now I'm old again. I'm really hoping I don't end up looking like the Britney Spears that has been appearing on X Factor, lately.  (I think we're the same age. Our similarities end there, of course. She has the millions of dollars that can't buy enough cover up to hide the alcoholic-esque splotchy face, and me with my thousands of dollars that can't buy enough over-priced work out gear at Lululemon...)  Poor Britney.

No thanks.

        Speaking of Lululemon, Rico got me a gift card to the Hundred Dollar Store for my birthday.  Smart man.  In addition, we went to Tulio, an Italian restaurant, with some friends (who also gave me a Lulu gift card!)  Prosecco, handmade pasta, and good company- nailed it.  What a way to ring in the ol' 31st year.  Oh, then we went to Molly Moon's and I had a salted caramel "Lil' Sundae" (which is not little at all, by the way, nor does it adhere to Skinny Rules.)  Amaze-balls.

The Antipasti Platter at Tulio.  Yep, it happened.

       As if that wasn't enough excitement, my good buddy got married on Saturday night.  It was a beautiful wedding, and there was plenty of wine  (qualifiers not necessarily listed in order of importance- obvi.)  

In my mind, we were both making fun, happy-wedding-type faces in this photo.  I now see the bride is afraid of me, while the groom looks on with pure disdain for the fool in the gold shrug.

        I was all set to do some serious mom-dancing, but the dance didn't start until about 10pm.  What am I- on spring break?  I had already partaken in too many mini-sliders, too much wine, and a giant piece of chocolate pie.  By the time dancing started, I was in a self-induced food/wine coma and all the mom dance I had in me was stuck between my ribs.  Eric saw disaster about to strike and got us a cab home.  I am pretty sure I was in bed by 11pm, but not before I chugged some Alka-Seltzer, and washed my face.  What? Good skincare is important to a youthful appearance.  Maybe dinner and Molly Moon's Friday night was all the excitement a 31 year old Nicole could handle?  

There was a photo booth at the wedding.  This is the best picture I could find...yeah.

        Will somebody please warn me if I start to look like Britney Spears? That's all I ask.  Although, I think we all need to be really worried if Eric starts to resemble K Fed...

With and without Britney- it's all bad.

     

Don't Judge Me...Unless You're a Killer.

        When you justify wearing a sweatshirt to work because it's one of your "fancy sweatshirts," it is a sign of several possible issues- the least of which is a mountain of dirty laundry that may or may not be piled on your bathroom floor.   Life lesson #65: Sweatshirts are never fancy unless you are in Canada.

This is one of my "fancy" sweatshirts.  Yes, I'm in Canada, and, yes, I have my eyes closed in this picture.

        I have been running again, and therefore, feel much less stabby overall.   A couple of my nurse friends and I are doing the Seattle 1/2 Marathon in November.   The good news is that so far, the weather this fall in Seattle has been phenomenal.  This makes training [mostly] enjoyable- especially as opposed to running in January.  The bad news is that the race is the Sunday after Thanksgiving.  BLERG.   What kind of a fool signs up to, nay, pays to run 13.1 miles (yes, the .1 is important) after eating nothing but mashed potatoes, cranberries, turkey and gravy?  Probably a genius.

Probably this guy.

        A few of us were doing a training run this Saturday down by the waterfront, and it was beautiful - blah blah.  The important part was that 7 miles went by incredibly fast with three of us jabbering the whole time.  We discussed many an important topic including, but not limited to the following: "Who likes Angelina Jolie, anyway?" and "How to avoid getting murdered while running."  

        And then I almost did get murdered at Target.

        Let me clarify, we're talking City Target here, people, so there is a far higher percentage of patrons on crack than, say, Northgate Target.  (As you can see by virtue of the fact that I am still blogging, I have lived to tell the tale, so don't get too worried.  But still!)  I was followed by a lunatic into City Target...   Okay, it might have just been a schizophrenic homeless person with a Mariners hat on...  It's plausible that it might have simply been a guy who was trying to remember what kind of boxed wine his wife wanted him to bring home for breakfast... I'm pret-ty sure he was a straight up killer, though.

        I had to walk super fast and escape down the laundry aisle to lose this evil mastermind.  (I think we all know that while a psycho may follow an unsuspecting victim into City Target in order to surprise stab her amongst the paper towels and mops,  he wouldn't dare cut a bitch in front of the Up and Up lavender scented fabric softener.)  Obvi.

This was my face before I found the safe aisle...I really don't know why Jack Skelington got involved.

        Just to recap...  I wore a "fancy sweatshirt" to work on Friday.  Saturday I ran to train for a 1/2 marathon that takes place with a belly full of Thanksgiving food.  Sunday I ran up the escalator at Target to hide in scented laundry supplies.  

       Monday I contemplated a sad thought with a fair amount of certainty.   The murderous vagrant  I had so narrowly escaped probably noticed a blonde freak with a penchant for athletic clothes,  speed walking into the automatic door at City Target just before tripping up the escalator.  "Good thing I got fabric softener yesterday," he must have considered, "Looks like the chick in mom shoes forgot to take her meds again."

     

I almost hulked out of my shirt*

        Just when I thought I couldn't get any more awesome, it happened.  A bunch of my fool friends drove to Vancouver, B.C. on Friday evening for a bachelorette weekend.   I needed a night to decompress because my parents and brother stayed with me last weekend,  and then I flew to the Tri-Cities for work on Thursday.  I was busy okay?  You don't know me.

My Bro and the late great Dave Niehaus (obvi.)

        One of the girls took the Bolt Bus up to Vancouver on Saturday morning, but as one of the surgeons I work with said when I mentioned I was considering joining her, "You don't take the bus."  Duh.  What was I thinking?  We all know the bus is for poor people and hippies.  You should never take the bus unless you are on tour, and your face is on the side of it.

This is an F650 (which I didn't even know existed.)  It is roughly the size of a bus, but is not for poor people or hippies.

        I considered the train.  I do enjoy a good train ride (as long as it's in business class-obvi.)  Then the train got sold out!  BLERG.  Wait for it...this is the part where I get even more awesome.  I frickin' booked a flight on Alaska Air and flew to Canada!  Boom.  It was pretty fancy- and you guys know how I like to be fancy.  The best part is, I also got to take a train.  It went straight from the airport to our hotel.  Nailed it.  

YVR to Vancouver City Center

        I got to our hotel, and changed into my running clothes.  My running buddy and bride to be, Katie, and I took a great spin around Stanley Park- one of my all time favorite runs! It was so beautiful outside, and I was really thankful that I was able to enjoy such fabulous scenery with a good friend.  

Try and tell me this doesn't make you want to lace up your running shoes!

And then we took the next logical step...

Pick your own mustache wine charm- perfect.

        There were mimosas.  There was shopping.  There was food.  It was amaze-balls.

Remember Roots?  It is heaven for people who love sweatshirts and the maple leaf.

        Oh, and there were lumberjacks, but this shouldn't surprise you.  It's Canada.  That's where lumberjacks come from.

Do you see the flannel in the background here? It happened.

       Back to the food.  We ate at a delish Lebanese restaurant called Nuba.  I was a little nervous because there were things on the menu like taboulleh salad and vegan stew.  However the prosecco was flowing,  and the hummus was smooth.  Yum.

Did I mention the prosecco was flowing?

        As per usual, the things I love about Canada stand.  My top two would be that I never worry about getting murdered while I am there, and it doesn't smell like pee.

Two things I don't love:

 1.) Roaming cell phone service makes it hard to keep a group of ten together.

 2.) Middle aged soccer moms who cut you off with no signal and then flip you off (with their kids in   the back seat) when you honk. 

        Rude.  Someone may or may not have shouted, "F@#$ you! We're from America!" in response, but said soccer mom couldn't hear the retort.  Even if she could have heard it, she was too busy trying to kill us with her mind as she zoomed past us at the stop light for these words of wisdom to have made any impact.  Really, it was probably too sophisticated of a statement for her to handle, so it's better she concentrated on giving us the super evil eye as opposed to, you know, concentrating on the ROAD.  Fools exist in every country.  Let that be a lesson to you.  If you have to be outside your motherland, make sure to travel with the fools you love. 

       Also, for the record, only a really good friend would acquiesce to a bride's request for "mug shots" to be taken the morning after a late night on the town.  Come to think of it, I am friends with some serious weirdos.  Yeah, yeah, takes one to know one. You don't have to remind me.

 Hate it.

* The title of this blog is related to a conversation regarding what my super power would be if I could have any super power.  I would have a button that I could push and instantly be 2,000 pounds.  I would stay exactly  the same size, but just be incredibly dense.  I was  trying to explain this highly desirable super power to my dining companions, and demonstrated the face I would make once I pushed my instant 2,000 pounds on.  I was all, "Raaaawr."  Someone who missed my demonstration asked what the other girls were laughing at, so I explained, "I almost hulked out of my shirt just now." I am a supreme weirdo; I know this.

     

     

     

       

     

     

I'll Never Grow Up!

        If there's one thing I've learned about drinking vodka sodas on a Saturday from approximately 1pm - 10pm, it's this:  it will ruin your diet and your Sunday.  I don't think there is any need to elaborate.


        Just kidding! Why would I have a blog if I didn't want to elaborate on completely useless, self-deprecating topics?

It started with class- business class.

        Let me tell you, my friends.  If you take a train from Seattle to Portland- which you should- you must take business class. (Confession: as I was editing this post, I realized I had written 'you must take the business class' which is not classy at all.  It's akin to announcing you're going to the Wal-Mart.) The obvious reasons being that you don't have to mingle with the commoners prior to boarding (or at all,) and they give you a voucher for the dining car.  I guess all the reasons to take business class are obvious, unless you don't mind being surrounded by people who fail to see the necessity of extending a pinky while drinking beverages.  Then we probably shouldn't be friends anymore, and you can go ahead and get yourself a coach ticket.  *gasp*

What did I tell you?  If it's printed on a clock tower, it can't be wrong.

        I feel as though taking a train is much safer than flying or driving.  I have absolutely no scientific evidence to support this speculation, of course.  But as we all know, science is for losers.  First of all, you're not, you know, flying, so if you fall out of a train, it's less distance before you splat than if you fall out of the SKY.  Eek. Imagine falling out of the sky- wait...don't.  I just did it, and it's absolutely terrifying.  Then, if you figure there are fewer trains on a track than there are cars on the road, you've just eliminated a whole class of fools who might murder you with their vehicles.  How's that for evidence? Boom.

       Needless to say, I made it to Oregon totally alive.  It was a beautiful weekend to be in Portland...

Oh mini palm trees randomly found in the PNW- so embarrassing.

        And then we had some lunch with our Prosecco...

If only I had known then...

        It's like this was a fortune cookie, except that it was printed at the bottom of a drink menu at some hip Portland eatery rather than pulled from a crispy delicious chinese dessert.  Maybe my problem was that I was drinking Prosecco - which is Italian champagne, for those of you unrefined non-pinky out drinkers.  It did make me feel like it was Sunday and better days were just around the corner.  But better days were not around the corner.  Worse days were around the corner.  

        And that's what you get for not reading the fine print- damn Italian bubbles will lull you into a false sense of security every time.  Now, had I started with French bubbles, like a good Christian girl should, Sunday would have been filled with cotton candy and elephant rides.  Alas.  Italian bubbles! Curses!

        You may be asking yourself, "Did Nicole just join a sorority?  Isn't she too old for this?"  No, and yes.  But guess what?  You cannot be too old to get together with one of your oldest friends, channel your inner (if not slightly intoxicated) Peter Pan, and act like you'll never grow up.  It's really fun. You should try it some time.

Thanks for the bubbles and the laughs, my friends.  

        (P.S. I figure we can behave like ladies when we're grandmas, but for now, it's too much fun to be rowdy, and chug stranger's beers after accidentally drinking a bowl of spicy clam juice to drown out the horrible taste of a leaf wrap that was most likely filled with poison.  I mean, I've heard that's fun.  I wouldn't know from my own personal experience.)

And on the Seventh Day- I Cheated on the Skinny Rules

        I wish I had a good reason for not writing knee slapping blog posts, but the truth is... I've been cooking.  The worst part is, it's all freaking healthy food.  I mean, who's even heard of farro besides blasted Julius Caesar and other old Roman dudes.  FYI peeps, farro is an ancient grain.  I probably shouldn't be eating it.  I bought some super duper ancient kind by accident, I think, and you have to soak for eight hours before cooking. BLERG.

This is some kind of Giada De Laurentiis farro recipe- and she is a skinny freak!

        Don't get me wrong, I don't want to be as skinny as a freak, but I felt like a bit of a blob after not being able to run for about six weeks.  Combine that with buying a condo, moving, and eating a lot [more] Chinese food than usual, and a person starts to feel kind of blobby.  Right?  If this, or something similar, has never happened to you, or if you are Giada De Laurentiis- we're fighting.

The phrase, "Never trust a skinny cook" comes to mind

        I'm going to level with you.  I'm following this book like it's the Bible...

I'm ignoring the awkward comb over here

        Actually, I follow it much better than I follow the Bible.  The Bible is super long and boring- have you ever read it?  I have.  Seriously, I read the whole Bible in nine months once.  That's a topic for a different, blog, though.  Let's be honest, that entry probably won't get written, since a blog about an incredibly tedious book written a gazillion years ago can't be that funny.  I don't want to lose one of my- I mean, I don't want to lose my reader due to boredom.

This is Kittles after our evening reading of the Pentateuch- I almost bored her to death

        Here's why I love it:  you get to eat a lot of food, and you get SNACKS twice a day.  You guys know how much I love snacks.  Also- and you're going to think I'm a crazy hippy naturopath for this one, but it's true- I am sleeping like a rock every single night.  I haven't even needed my fake root sleeping pill!

       Here's why I hate it a little: lots of the food is non-fat, unsweetened Greek Yogurt.  In case you haven't tried it, non-fat, unsweetened Greek Yogurt is SICK.  One person I know said, "It tastes like gastric juices."  I can not deny that it might, although,  I don't consider myself to be a connesiour of gastric juices.

Feed this to your nemesis.

        Just put some agave in it, you say?  Gladly, except for that Bob Harper is masterfully helping me reset my palate, and he doesn't want me to have any extra sugar- even agave.  No artificial sweeteners either (Rule 10.)  Worse than gastric juice flavored yogurt?  Consider this: No. Diet. Coke. So, yeah... it's worse.

Ivy Jane knows exactly how I feel.

        I am eating ancient grains,  abstaining from sugar,  and I haven't had a cheeseburger in... at least three weeks.  Next thing you know, I'll be selling my birth right for a bowl of stew- as long as there are potatoes in it, and I can have a beer to wash it down.  Which I can't because one of the skinny rules is, "Get Rid of Those White Potatoes," and another is, "Don't Drink Your Calories." Bob Harper is the worst (for those of you who don't know, and couldn't read the copy of his book cover, he is actually "a weight loss expert, and star of NBC's 'The Biggest Loser.'")  So, he's not really the worst.  Except for when you want a bowl of spaghetti and meatballs for dinner and you remember "Rule 7: No Carbs After Lunch."  That bastard.

        Now you know if I order "the farro" when we're out for lunch, I am not summoning an ancient Egyptian king.  If you should happen to order a cheeseburger and a beer at that same lunch outing, however, you might want to hold your butter knife in a defensive position.  There's no skinny rule that reads, "Thou shalt not get stabby when coveting thy neighbors' food."  

        

Again, I will cut you.