Wicked Karma

This morning I decided that I wanted an iced coffee. I had one on Saturday, it was yummy. After I drank that bevarage I did two loads of laundry and scrubbed the tub! I figured - why not give it a shot during a work day - maybe I'd be super productive and my boss would be impressed!!

So. I went to the bank. The post office. The Dirt Cowboy. I ordered a large iced mocha latte and a ham and cheese croissant (the same magical order from Saturday). I came home and Wilson said, "I wish you wouldn't support the Dirt Cowboy. The manager doesn't let them have the tips in the tip jar."

My only response, as I was chugging my drink was "Well then it's a good thing I don't tip!"

Here's where the instant karma kicked my butt - the croissant was gross and after I finished the coffee, I got a stomach ache and took a nap.

I want my $7 back.

At Least They Kept it Out of the Showers

Daniel: Are you 4 rooming together?

Two freshmen, pointing at each other: No, we're together.

Freshman, standing behind them: We know you're together - you've been screaming it all year.

Overheard in the queue line at room draw.

The Incredible Puke-able Egg

So. Last time we were together I talked about losing weight. And how my quest to fit in my pants again had begun. The gauntlet had been thrown, as they say. I don't know who says things like that, or what a gauntlet even really looks like, but with these things we just roll.

So, I'm trying to lose weight. I've been eating in a more patterned matter (an actual breakfast meal, not the Michelle Andrews Diet Coke Breakfast of Champions) a solid lunch and a good dinner - with maybe a snack somewhere in between. I figure, you know, why not regulate the metabolism?

Well, while my mind thought that, my body, felt that it needed to take more drastic measures this morning: I woke up - jolly as could be, for it was 6:00 a.m. and the sun was shining. Okay, maybe not shining, but I could tell it was rising which is unusual as there are typically clouds blocking any sort of sunlight. I took my shower, got dressed and felt the need to eat a hard boiled egg. Mmm-mmm that sounded yummy to me. So I made two. And two slices of toast with grape jelly. I was set. I boiled the eggs. I toasted the toast. I peeled the eggs. I jellied the toast. I ate one egg. I ate one slice of toast. I started in on egg two. My stomach piped in and said "Maybe not ..." My brain shouted "Eat it!! It's yummy!!"

Stomach: I wouldn't go there if I were you.

Head: Shut it stomach, it's scrumptuous and healthy!

Stomach: All right bitch don't say I didn't warn you.

Head: Whatcha gonna do? Huh?! Huh?!

Daniel: Oh fuck, I'm gonna puke.

Yeah. So I puked it all up. It was beautiful. And by beautiful, I mean gross. And a little painful, I must say. I haven't puked sober in a long time. I haven't puked food in a long time. 1993 to be exact. I puked drunk last summer, but that's always pretty. And relieving. Now granted, once I got all the grossness out of my system, I felt a helluva lot better, but it was not a good thing in the process. Nothing had been digested further than me chewing, so it all came back up the way it went down. Which was a very interesting lesson in biology, but really not one I cared to A) learn in that way or B) at that time.

So - anyway, apparently my body had enough of the eggs. As a precaution, though, we threw all the eggs out and bought new ones. I feel better about that, but it'll be a while until I eat another egg. (I'm chosing to blame the eggs because there's no way in hell I'm giving up toast.) Or maybe this was a way of my body trying to figure out its own way to lose the weight - which, P.S. was totally off base because in the process of recovering, I ate 1/2 a box of saltines.

So suck on that!