The Price of Gas

This is getting exciting.  I just looked at my Super Man blog that I posted yesterday and I see that I've had 996 visitors.  Gosh, I wish, I wish, I wish (insert red ruby slippers, heels madly clicking), I wish I had something great that I could give away to the one-thousandth person, like a brand new car that has a giant pink ribbon on the top of the hood.  Or an all-expense paid trip to Hawaii.  Plus have a whole bunch of confetti fall down from the sky.  I like confetti.  But alas, if you are the lucky one who looks at this blog as counter trips over into Four Digit Land, you'll have to find your rewards from deep within yourself.  I suppose if I could find out who you were, I could send you a five dollar gift certificate to McDonald's and you could buy a Happy Meal. Maybe the toy in the meal box would be a really, really good one.   

Speaking of McDonald's, I've been trying to lose weight, lots of it.  And last week, I hit the sixty pound loss column.  I was ecstatic!!!!  So imagine my dismay when I stood on the scale this morning and saw that the number that popped up on the screen was THREE pounds higher than last week's scale reading.  Uh-ohhhhhhhh.

Let's discuss a calorie, shall we?   A calorie is the amount of heat that it takes to raise the temperature of one gram of water one degree Celsius.  I gotta say, for the average Joe America, this is a pretty worthless piece of information.  Gram?  Celsius?  I stunk in science when I was a kid, and besides, I didn't gain a kilogram; I gained a pound.  So it takes roughly 3,500 calories to make one pound.  That, I can understand.  And that means that somehow or another, I consumed an extra 10,500 calories this week, and THAT, my friends,  means that during the past six days, I somehow or another ate an extra SEVENTY-FIVE pieces of bread.

Maybe what I need to do is go to the bathroom.

Right now, my friend Ginnie is howling, "TMI! TMI! TMI!"  If you listen closely, you can hear her.  She lives on top of a hill and her voice is echoing through the entire countryside.  The last time I got constipated and wrote about it, she emailed me back these three little alphabet letters (complete with smiley face), and I had to look it up on Google.  I didn't know what it stood for.  Out here on the prairie, it's easy to get out of the loop.  But I found out that it stands for Too Much Information.  I don't want to upset Ginnie, so I won't type the word 'poop' today.

I don't have a stinking clue how I get this constipated.  Since dieting, I eat a barrel full of fiber each and every day- oatmeal, fruit, high fiber breads, salads.  Plus, I drink buckets of coffee, and not that foo-foo stuff, either. Black coffee.  But it seems as if, once again, I shall have to depend upon my trusty Fiber One Bars that I keep stashed in the back of my pantry.  Or, as one of my facebook friends calls them, Fart Bars.  I wonder if Ginnie gets upset if I say the word 'fart'?  

All I know is that by the time I officially weigh in tomorrow at Fat Ass Club, I need to dump ten thousand five hundred calories and then let the Tidy Bowl Man deal with the consequences of my actions.

So today, Chocolate Mocha gets the nod.  Stand back.