My husband is a large, tough man. He once was bitten by a brown recluse, and the brown recluse was sorry. He sawed his finger lengthwise in a table saw and drove himself to the hospital in a truck with no power steering.
But, a small kidney stone knocked him on his butt. He has been in pain since July, but this week things got wack. He couldn't sleep, and he writhed in pain constantly. Then he had a very important meeting with some very important people. During the meeting he squirmed in his chair like a small child. A small child howling in pain. That is how we knew something must be done.
Yesterday we spent the entire day at the hospital preparing for surgery, having surgery, recovering from surgery. Preparing for surgery must be very important because that was the longest part of the day. They stuck the two of us in a room and told Mike to put on a pretty gown. Apparently they thought that would take about five hours because that is how long we sat in that room. When the nurse had to ask us to keep our laughter quiet, she decided that we really have fun together. Actually, we were just on the brink of insanity. We don't like small rooms.
The surgery went fine and we were instructed to let Mike sleep off the anesthesia as long as he wanted. He slept as if dead for 45 minutes and then stood suddenly shouting, "Let's go home!"
"Ok," I told him. "Let me go find the nurse so she can remove your IV."
"I will just pull it out myself."
"NO!" I said in a panic. "That is a VERY bad idea! I will get the nurse."
I walked away to get the nurse, but when I glanced back I saw Mike tugging at his IV.
"STOP!" I shouted as I ran back to him. "I will find the nurse."
"I just want to go home."
"I know. Just wait two minutes, and I will get the nurse."
Again I walked away to get the nurse. Again I glanced back to see Mike tugging at his IV.
"STOP STOP STOP!"
Apparently he must have thought I meant the complete opposite of stop, because what he did was to continue. I knew I was fighting a losing battle because my husband was a deadly mixture of very tough and drugged up. A bad combination. For a second I thought to myself that it would probably be fine if he just ripped it out himself because I had watched TV and the tough guys on there always rip their IV out and it all turns out just fine.
TV is a lying beast. As soon as he pulled the needle out of his skin, blood sprayed EVERYWHERE! Blood poured from the back of his hand down his arm and dripped from his elbow. The chair he was supposed to be sitting in was covered with blood. The floor was covered with blood. The table and the Kleenex box was covered with blood. It looked as if we had sacrificed a chicken.
Blood makes me all fainty.
The nurse didn't like us.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Bathroom Nonsense
All I am saying is that using the bathroom in the wee hours of the night is complicated. It is not to be attempted by the faint of heart.
I couldn't help it though. I woke up and knew I would need to make the trek through the bedroom to the bathroom. A treacherous walk. There are numerous obstacles placed in the pitch dark just waiting to take me down. So I was already mad. Angrily, I kicked the unknown objects out of my way, only stubbing my toe once.
Then things just got bizarre. I sat in the logical place, on the toilet. But things just felt wrong. Very wrong. Unfortunately, the message telling me STOP! SOMETHING IS WRONG!! took about thirty-nine seconds to reach my mind. Thirty-nine seconds is too long. The deed was done.
I had peed my pants on the toilet.
Apparently, middle-of-the-night logic told me to just sit down and get to business and neglected the part about first removing the pajama pants.
I was stuck. I considered my options carefully. There weren't many.
"Mike! Help!"
"What do you need?" his sleepy voice called from the paradise of his pillow.
"Help me!"
"What happened?" I heard him making the stumbly voyage across the dark obstacle course of the bedroom floor.
"I peed."
"Well, that seems logical," he said rubbing his eyes.
"Yeah, but I forgot to pull down my pants first, so I peed my pants on the toilet."
I cannot explain in words the look upon his face at that moment. It was kind of a mix between WHAT HAVE I DONE TO DESERVE THIS and YOU HAVE GOT TO BE JOKING.
"What would you have me do about this situation," he asked.
"Fix it." DUH.
I couldn't help it though. I woke up and knew I would need to make the trek through the bedroom to the bathroom. A treacherous walk. There are numerous obstacles placed in the pitch dark just waiting to take me down. So I was already mad. Angrily, I kicked the unknown objects out of my way, only stubbing my toe once.
Then things just got bizarre. I sat in the logical place, on the toilet. But things just felt wrong. Very wrong. Unfortunately, the message telling me STOP! SOMETHING IS WRONG!! took about thirty-nine seconds to reach my mind. Thirty-nine seconds is too long. The deed was done.
I had peed my pants on the toilet.
Apparently, middle-of-the-night logic told me to just sit down and get to business and neglected the part about first removing the pajama pants.
I was stuck. I considered my options carefully. There weren't many.
"Mike! Help!"
"What do you need?" his sleepy voice called from the paradise of his pillow.
"Help me!"
"What happened?" I heard him making the stumbly voyage across the dark obstacle course of the bedroom floor.
"I peed."
"Well, that seems logical," he said rubbing his eyes.
"Yeah, but I forgot to pull down my pants first, so I peed my pants on the toilet."
I cannot explain in words the look upon his face at that moment. It was kind of a mix between WHAT HAVE I DONE TO DESERVE THIS and YOU HAVE GOT TO BE JOKING.
"What would you have me do about this situation," he asked.
"Fix it." DUH.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Ironic
Have I mentioned that I am really bad at math? For this simple reason, I have never been the one in our family to handle the finances. When I say never, I mean only once.
Mike has a very complex system he uses to organize the flow of monies in and out of our account. One time when he was starting a new job and was very busy, I suggested that I take over the accounting since I was staying home with small children. We sat down at the table and he explained his system to me. He got out paper and drew numbers, dates, charts, graphs, hieroglyphs. He wrote out complicated formulas and theorems. He color coded, tabbed, and labeled. I nodded and mm hmmed.
When I sat down and opened the statement with the checkbook, I tried to recall the formula. I thought and concentrated, but all that happened was a picture of a monkey popped into my mind. One of those toy monkeys that claps his hands. It was funny.
I wrote checks and mailed them away. But the formula DID NOT work. One month later we owed the bank more than $500 in fees. Mike grabbed his charts and graphs and put them somewhere special. Someplace that I will never be able to find them.
So it is with great trepidation and out of sheer desperation that he has enlisted my help again. I am to manage the account out of which we buy family stuff, like groceries and school supplies. It makes sense because I am really the only one using that account. He manages the big expenses, like the mortgage and insurance, out of another account.
For a month he checked the account every night to make sure I had a handle on it. We decided to use a checkbook program and downloaded the free trial to make sure I could work with it. Things went great. I worked it and nothing bad happened. This week I officially took over management. I wore my best sweat pants and called a board meeting with myself. My first act as manager was to buy the checkbook program I had been using. My free trial was over, and I had successfully navigated it for a month. I called the IT guy (me) and had the program downloaded to my computer.
One problem. Buying the checkbook program overdrew my account. Ironic, no?
I haven't told Mike yet.
That monkey sure is funny.
Mike has a very complex system he uses to organize the flow of monies in and out of our account. One time when he was starting a new job and was very busy, I suggested that I take over the accounting since I was staying home with small children. We sat down at the table and he explained his system to me. He got out paper and drew numbers, dates, charts, graphs, hieroglyphs. He wrote out complicated formulas and theorems. He color coded, tabbed, and labeled. I nodded and mm hmmed.
When I sat down and opened the statement with the checkbook, I tried to recall the formula. I thought and concentrated, but all that happened was a picture of a monkey popped into my mind. One of those toy monkeys that claps his hands. It was funny.
I wrote checks and mailed them away. But the formula DID NOT work. One month later we owed the bank more than $500 in fees. Mike grabbed his charts and graphs and put them somewhere special. Someplace that I will never be able to find them.
So it is with great trepidation and out of sheer desperation that he has enlisted my help again. I am to manage the account out of which we buy family stuff, like groceries and school supplies. It makes sense because I am really the only one using that account. He manages the big expenses, like the mortgage and insurance, out of another account.
For a month he checked the account every night to make sure I had a handle on it. We decided to use a checkbook program and downloaded the free trial to make sure I could work with it. Things went great. I worked it and nothing bad happened. This week I officially took over management. I wore my best sweat pants and called a board meeting with myself. My first act as manager was to buy the checkbook program I had been using. My free trial was over, and I had successfully navigated it for a month. I called the IT guy (me) and had the program downloaded to my computer.
One problem. Buying the checkbook program overdrew my account. Ironic, no?
I haven't told Mike yet.
That monkey sure is funny.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Missing Motorcycle
It is a weird feeling when you walk out your front door to where your vehicle used to be. The place where it should still be. The place that is now empty.
When something is stolen from you, it makes you feel as if the earth has tilted just a bit. Just enough to make you wonder if the problem is actually in your mind. You start to wonder if you just misplaced your motorcycle. You start to think things like, Maybe I parked it in the street or Maybe it fell between the cushions on the couch.
The motorcycle is the third vehicle to be stolen from right out of our driveway. The first two were trucks. When the first truck was not in the driveway where we had clearly left it, we stood there scratching our heads and looking up and down the block, like we might have accidentally left it in a neighbor's yard with our newspaper. We finally gathered our wits and called the police who found it about five blocks away. What happened next is unexplainable.
Whoever stole the truck left it in a parking lot but took the key. We only had one key, because we are brilliant like that. My husband opened the driver's side door, sat in the driver's seat, and attempted to turn the wheel. Since he didn't have a key and could not start the truck, the wheel would not turn. He gave it a bit more force. AND RIPPED THE STEERING WHEEL CLEAN OFF OF THE DASH! I am not kidding. It fell into his lap.
He walked across the parking lot with the steering wheel in his hands. When we looked at him with puzzled expressions he explained, "I nudged it."
I love him.
When something is stolen from you, it makes you feel as if the earth has tilted just a bit. Just enough to make you wonder if the problem is actually in your mind. You start to wonder if you just misplaced your motorcycle. You start to think things like, Maybe I parked it in the street or Maybe it fell between the cushions on the couch.
The motorcycle is the third vehicle to be stolen from right out of our driveway. The first two were trucks. When the first truck was not in the driveway where we had clearly left it, we stood there scratching our heads and looking up and down the block, like we might have accidentally left it in a neighbor's yard with our newspaper. We finally gathered our wits and called the police who found it about five blocks away. What happened next is unexplainable.
Whoever stole the truck left it in a parking lot but took the key. We only had one key, because we are brilliant like that. My husband opened the driver's side door, sat in the driver's seat, and attempted to turn the wheel. Since he didn't have a key and could not start the truck, the wheel would not turn. He gave it a bit more force. AND RIPPED THE STEERING WHEEL CLEAN OFF OF THE DASH! I am not kidding. It fell into his lap.
He walked across the parking lot with the steering wheel in his hands. When we looked at him with puzzled expressions he explained, "I nudged it."
I love him.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Middle-Of-The-Night Logic
I know some families probably tuck their children in to sleep, turn off the lights, and enjoy a nice quiet sleep until the light of a new day wakes them from their blissful slumber. Not here. Ever since four babies popped into our life in a very short period of time, sleeping through an entire night has been more of a theory than a reality. A wonderful, appealing theory. Like the theory that if you save your money you will someday not live paycheck to paycheck. Or the theory that if everybody just puts their own stuff away, your house will always be clean.
For us the middle of the night is full of chaos and slow-motion, confusing, melodrama. Like when Emery woke me up to tell me she had had a bad dream, and, my middle-of-the-night logic made me tell her that everything would be okay if she would just walk back to her bedroom backwards, and her middle-of-the-night logic made her do as I had said.
Sometimes, though, your quiet, peaceful body can be seized and possessed by the middle-of-the-night terror.
My husband must have had a nightmare. I say must have because of how he handled it. In the dead of night, he bolted upright in the middle of the bed, stared straight ahead, and screamed at top level. I had several options available to me at that point. I could have gone all wild ninja on him like I so would have done had I been using middle-of-the-day logic. I could have been concerned about him and tried to comfort and reassure him. I say that is an option mainly to make myself feel better because there is NO WAY middle-of-the-night Sharla would ever have such a sane reaction. What I chose to do was to copy him. Exactly. So there were two of us sitting in the middle of the bed, staring straight ahead, screaming. Joining my scream to his terrified him further, so he doubled his screaming volume. His increase in volume convinced me that screaming into the dead of night was the most important thing I had ever done.
Our scream party caused all kinds of excitement for the children who swarmed into our room and surrounded our bed. Their sweet, terrified faces splashed me with a dose of reality, and I soon saw the absurdity of side by side screaming into the night. I began to laugh. Then Mike laughed, and, because we have successfully warped our children, they joined in the laughter.
I don't know if it is a sad reflection of our acceptance of the bizarre or proof of our strength of mind, but ten minutes later we were all sound asleep again. That's how we do things around here.
For us the middle of the night is full of chaos and slow-motion, confusing, melodrama. Like when Emery woke me up to tell me she had had a bad dream, and, my middle-of-the-night logic made me tell her that everything would be okay if she would just walk back to her bedroom backwards, and her middle-of-the-night logic made her do as I had said.
Sometimes, though, your quiet, peaceful body can be seized and possessed by the middle-of-the-night terror.
My husband must have had a nightmare. I say must have because of how he handled it. In the dead of night, he bolted upright in the middle of the bed, stared straight ahead, and screamed at top level. I had several options available to me at that point. I could have gone all wild ninja on him like I so would have done had I been using middle-of-the-day logic. I could have been concerned about him and tried to comfort and reassure him. I say that is an option mainly to make myself feel better because there is NO WAY middle-of-the-night Sharla would ever have such a sane reaction. What I chose to do was to copy him. Exactly. So there were two of us sitting in the middle of the bed, staring straight ahead, screaming. Joining my scream to his terrified him further, so he doubled his screaming volume. His increase in volume convinced me that screaming into the dead of night was the most important thing I had ever done.
Our scream party caused all kinds of excitement for the children who swarmed into our room and surrounded our bed. Their sweet, terrified faces splashed me with a dose of reality, and I soon saw the absurdity of side by side screaming into the night. I began to laugh. Then Mike laughed, and, because we have successfully warped our children, they joined in the laughter.
I don't know if it is a sad reflection of our acceptance of the bizarre or proof of our strength of mind, but ten minutes later we were all sound asleep again. That's how we do things around here.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
I'm Crazy
My kids constantly astound me. When I say astound, what I mean is terrify. I don't understand why they do the things they do. They are full of ridiculous and unpredictable behavior. What would cause them to want to climb up a tall building and get stuck up there? What makes them shake their bellies at wedding guests? Why do they put containers full of bugs in the refrigerator?
These are the questions that plague me.
Then I remembered that Drake explained this erratic behavior to me when he was three years old.
"Mom! Dad!" Josiah yelled as he ran into the kitchen pointing to a red splotch on his arm. "Look what Drake did!"
"How did he do that?" Mike asked rubbing the red spot. I don't know why, but parents tend to rub whatever owie they are shown. It is like we have all, universally, decided that the fastest way to eliminate pain is to rub the effected area. It never works, and it sometimes makes the problem worse. Yet we persist in our rubbing.
"He pinched me!"
"Drake," Mike turned and looked into Drake's soul with his I am your father and you are in trouble eyes, "why did you pinch your brother?"
"Because I am crazy," he explained.
That about sums it up.
These are the questions that plague me.
Then I remembered that Drake explained this erratic behavior to me when he was three years old.
"Mom! Dad!" Josiah yelled as he ran into the kitchen pointing to a red splotch on his arm. "Look what Drake did!"
"How did he do that?" Mike asked rubbing the red spot. I don't know why, but parents tend to rub whatever owie they are shown. It is like we have all, universally, decided that the fastest way to eliminate pain is to rub the effected area. It never works, and it sometimes makes the problem worse. Yet we persist in our rubbing.
"He pinched me!"
"Drake," Mike turned and looked into Drake's soul with his I am your father and you are in trouble eyes, "why did you pinch your brother?"
"Because I am crazy," he explained.
That about sums it up.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
And Furthermore...
Speaking of reacting violently when scared...
Usually, right before falling asleep, Mike and I discuss the crazy driving chaos of delivering four kids to four different schools. We divvy up the routes and plan our schedule of attack.
One night I was lying on my back with my hands folded behind my head, and Mike was lying on his side facing me while we discussed these morning issues. Unbeknownst to either of us, Emery, who was supposed to be sound asleep in her bed, entered the room and silently approached us. Since we didn't hear or see her or have the faintest idea she was there, she decided to alert us to her presence by tapping me on the shoulder. I have already admitted that when scared I become a wild ninja.
Thankfully, the voice of reason told me that the terrifying creature who had assaulted my shoulder was my small, innocent daughter. So, instead of pummeling her, I just screamed like a maniac, and reached the arm closest to her around her waist and held her tight. However, white-hot fury was racing through my body and needed an escape. Luckily, Mike was available for that.
Using the arm closest to Mike, I reached around his head, grabbed onto his ear, and yanked it violently back and forth, still screaming. Why did I grab his ear? It is just so grabbable. Since he still didn't know Emery was present and had no idea why his wife was suddenly screaming and attempting to rip his ear from his head, he yelled. Yelling scares me. So, I redoubled my efforts and screamed and yanked with renewed strength. Until the panic died down, and I realized the hilariousness of the situation. Then I began to laugh. Emery looked at me, quite confused. Mike, the whole right side of his head bright red and throbbing, looked at me like I had tripped over the edge of sanity.
Emery will probably never do that again.
Usually, right before falling asleep, Mike and I discuss the crazy driving chaos of delivering four kids to four different schools. We divvy up the routes and plan our schedule of attack.
One night I was lying on my back with my hands folded behind my head, and Mike was lying on his side facing me while we discussed these morning issues. Unbeknownst to either of us, Emery, who was supposed to be sound asleep in her bed, entered the room and silently approached us. Since we didn't hear or see her or have the faintest idea she was there, she decided to alert us to her presence by tapping me on the shoulder. I have already admitted that when scared I become a wild ninja.
Thankfully, the voice of reason told me that the terrifying creature who had assaulted my shoulder was my small, innocent daughter. So, instead of pummeling her, I just screamed like a maniac, and reached the arm closest to her around her waist and held her tight. However, white-hot fury was racing through my body and needed an escape. Luckily, Mike was available for that.
Using the arm closest to Mike, I reached around his head, grabbed onto his ear, and yanked it violently back and forth, still screaming. Why did I grab his ear? It is just so grabbable. Since he still didn't know Emery was present and had no idea why his wife was suddenly screaming and attempting to rip his ear from his head, he yelled. Yelling scares me. So, I redoubled my efforts and screamed and yanked with renewed strength. Until the panic died down, and I realized the hilariousness of the situation. Then I began to laugh. Emery looked at me, quite confused. Mike, the whole right side of his head bright red and throbbing, looked at me like I had tripped over the edge of sanity.
Emery will probably never do that again.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Wild Ninja
When people get scared, they express their terror in many different ways. My mom sucks in as much air as possible and then holds her breath. Yep, she is strange. When my husband is scared he flails his arms and screams. He doesn't realize at that moment that he is a large, strong man; he just believes he is about to be squished by a monster. But, when I am scared the only emotion I feel is intense and violent rage. Apparently I hate being scared above all other situations on earth.
I have been known to react in many different ways, but they are all mean.
I am not normally a person who over-reacts. I don't experience road rage. I don't yell. I don't hit walls or throw things. But, when fear is coursing through my body, I turn into a ninja. Not an artful, graceful ninja. A wild ninja.
In college my friend, Lori, snuck into my dorm room and scared me from behind. I palm struck her in her face. She fell to the ground with a bloody nose.
My kids find this reaction fascinating and are forever putting me to the test. I have tried my hardest to tame my violent streak, and I have done a moderate job. I no longer aim for the face. When the white-hot fury tells me KILL THE SCARY, I launch into ninja attack, but, the voice of reason tells me THE SCARY IS JUST A SMALL CHILD, so, at the last second, I adjust my aim for chest level. This backfired on Josiah one day. He jumped at me from behind a corner, and thinking to avoid a pummeling, he ducked. He got hit in the face that time, but by then he outweighed me and could take it.
When Makenna scared me recently, I just grabbed her face with both of my hands and screamed at her from a quarter inch away. It terrified her, so she screamed back at me. Her scream made me scream even louder and longer, so we just stood there, nose to nose, screaming at each other. It scared her worse than it scared me, so she may have learned her lesson.
Emery has it figured out the best, I think. She and Drake hid behind a wall, and when I walked around the corner she screamed like a deadly swamp monster and then immediately fell to the floor. Drake, who did not realize that the plan he was a part of included scaring his Ninja Mom, received the jab, cross, jab intended for the swamp monster while Emery rolled around, laughing, on the floor.
Maybe I need relaxation exercises. Or maybe everyone should STOP SCARING ME!!
I have been known to react in many different ways, but they are all mean.
I am not normally a person who over-reacts. I don't experience road rage. I don't yell. I don't hit walls or throw things. But, when fear is coursing through my body, I turn into a ninja. Not an artful, graceful ninja. A wild ninja.
In college my friend, Lori, snuck into my dorm room and scared me from behind. I palm struck her in her face. She fell to the ground with a bloody nose.
My kids find this reaction fascinating and are forever putting me to the test. I have tried my hardest to tame my violent streak, and I have done a moderate job. I no longer aim for the face. When the white-hot fury tells me KILL THE SCARY, I launch into ninja attack, but, the voice of reason tells me THE SCARY IS JUST A SMALL CHILD, so, at the last second, I adjust my aim for chest level. This backfired on Josiah one day. He jumped at me from behind a corner, and thinking to avoid a pummeling, he ducked. He got hit in the face that time, but by then he outweighed me and could take it.
When Makenna scared me recently, I just grabbed her face with both of my hands and screamed at her from a quarter inch away. It terrified her, so she screamed back at me. Her scream made me scream even louder and longer, so we just stood there, nose to nose, screaming at each other. It scared her worse than it scared me, so she may have learned her lesson.
Emery has it figured out the best, I think. She and Drake hid behind a wall, and when I walked around the corner she screamed like a deadly swamp monster and then immediately fell to the floor. Drake, who did not realize that the plan he was a part of included scaring his Ninja Mom, received the jab, cross, jab intended for the swamp monster while Emery rolled around, laughing, on the floor.
Maybe I need relaxation exercises. Or maybe everyone should STOP SCARING ME!!
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Reboot Torture
My husband and I recently watched a movie on Netflix called Fat, Sick, and Nearly Dead. Optimistic, I know. The guy in the movie has a good point. He says a lot of our health problems are due to the foods we eat. I already knew that, but hearing him say it for an hour and a half made me a true believer. He put himself on a 60 day juice fast to reboot his system. After that time his body only really wanted nice healthy foods like salad and fish. I have never in my life eaten salad and fish because I PREFER it above all other foods.
"I want to do it," Mike said to me after the movie was over.
"Do what?"
"That sixty day juice fast."
"Whata heda huh??" I'm not eloquent under pressure.
"Will you do it with me?"
"NO!"
"Please?"
"NO!"
"It would be a lot easier if we did it together."
"NO!"
But, somehow I ended up saying I would do it for ten days to help get him off to a good start. I like to think I did so because I am a good wife, but in reality I know it was due to some kind of Jedi mind trick he put on me. So, I pulled my Jack LaLanne Power Juicer out from its spot in the laundry room where it benefits our family by remaining out of sight. I went to the store and obtained all the green vegetables the guy in the movie made into some sort of drinkable shake. And I spent the next ten days of my life experimenting with making juice from things I don't even enjoy eating.
I drank spinach, kale, carrot juice, which made me want to scrape my tongue with my fingernails to remove the horrid. I tried spinach, cucumber, tomato. Who knew you could take perfectly gentle vegetables and turn them into something from your nightmares? The fruit juices were better, so I tried hiding a bit of spinach in some of those concoctions. That was drinkable, but only if you were starving. Which I was. Then I had Dr. Pepper because I figured it is probably just juice of the pepper in that can. Then I had oatmeal juice. That one wasn't juice per se so much as it was a cookie. Then I had chicken, which was just outright cheating. And then I just danced along the cheating path. My husband, though, is still going strong.
Will power, obviously, is not an area in which I excel.
"I want to do it," Mike said to me after the movie was over.
"Do what?"
"That sixty day juice fast."
"Whata heda huh??" I'm not eloquent under pressure.
"Will you do it with me?"
"NO!"
"Please?"
"NO!"
"It would be a lot easier if we did it together."
"NO!"
But, somehow I ended up saying I would do it for ten days to help get him off to a good start. I like to think I did so because I am a good wife, but in reality I know it was due to some kind of Jedi mind trick he put on me. So, I pulled my Jack LaLanne Power Juicer out from its spot in the laundry room where it benefits our family by remaining out of sight. I went to the store and obtained all the green vegetables the guy in the movie made into some sort of drinkable shake. And I spent the next ten days of my life experimenting with making juice from things I don't even enjoy eating.
I drank spinach, kale, carrot juice, which made me want to scrape my tongue with my fingernails to remove the horrid. I tried spinach, cucumber, tomato. Who knew you could take perfectly gentle vegetables and turn them into something from your nightmares? The fruit juices were better, so I tried hiding a bit of spinach in some of those concoctions. That was drinkable, but only if you were starving. Which I was. Then I had Dr. Pepper because I figured it is probably just juice of the pepper in that can. Then I had oatmeal juice. That one wasn't juice per se so much as it was a cookie. Then I had chicken, which was just outright cheating. And then I just danced along the cheating path. My husband, though, is still going strong.
Will power, obviously, is not an area in which I excel.
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