Randy and I are taking Joey and two of his friends to Florida in November.
12 hours in a car with three 17 year old boys who are all arms and legs and who find it amusing to debate every goddamn word that comes out of any face.
I’m quite looking forward to it.
I also enjoy long walks in hot lava and sucking on razor blade lollipops.
I mentioned a few posts back that I’ve changed my diet and have been slowly dropping some weight. Well, Randy has been right along side me. As he always is.
Anyway, there are things we just don’t eat anymore. We don’t eat bread or potatoes or pasta. We don’t eat cookies or candy. And that is very nearly true!
We do sometimes eat a square of dark chocolate.
We’re both losing weight. We both feel better. All positive changes.
We are going to the panhandle, because dammit, that is where people from the Midwest vacation. We’ve been there many times. We know what beaches we prefer. We know what restaurants we can’t miss. We know we’ll stop at the Modica market in Seaside on our way in for perishables. They also have a dessert counter that will make your tongue hard.
I am going to cheat my ass off when we’re on vacation.
I have this fantasy. The awesome thing about this fantasy is that I can actually see it through.
We will take a brand new still in the box Fry-daddy. (I haven’t owned a Fry-daddy since the mid eighties). We will take a bucket of lard. Pure, disgusting animal fat. I am going to buy some cheap yellow baskets and line them with wax paper. Then I am going to fry crinkle cut fries, in my brand new Fry-daddy, and douse them in ketchup and salt. Then, I’ll eat those fries until the salt makes my little fingers swell up like summer sausages.
It’s possible, I will vomit.
I don’t think I will, but I can’t imagine I will react well to food like that after eating mostly lean meat, fruits and vegetables for 3 months. Well, and the occasional piece of chocolate and low carb ice cream bar. Fuck you. Bacon is too lean meat.
I don’t care if I vomit.
I am eating the motherfucking french fries. I am eating dessert and I’m not going to feel any remorse even if my stomach does hurt afterward.
We’ll spend hours walking on the beach and through little seaside villages. We’ll burn off at least some of the fries.
I’m also thinking about making biscuits and gravy, because, you know…once you go crazy with a Fry-daddy, biscuits and gravy are just punk.
The best thing about this story? Our trip is still a month away and I know that I’ll still be on the path I am now.
We’re kicking ass.
Sure, we’ve lost weight before and then slid all the way back, but that shit is meaningless now. All that matters now is that we’re kicking it in the ass.
Randy says he wants fresh cut fries. I guess I can do that. Leaves more crinkle cuts for me.
We will come back from vacation and settle back into our new and improved healthy eating routine. The routine will be briefly disrupted by Christmas, but it won’t be in any real danger. Probably.
If you see a barely used Fry-daddy on the side of the highway somewhere between Florida and Ohio at the end of November, then it’s probably mine.