Refinance, part one

Attention customers:

The Park Ave. Pub is now under sole ownership. All ex-fianc├ęs and emotional baggage are no longer being served. 

Thank you,
The Management


Sometimes, quesadillas aren't worth it.

That's right, I said it. 

For the last two weeks, I've been on a diet.  Well, a doctor might get technical and call Week #1 "influenza" or whatever, but did I eat?  No.  Did I lose weight?  Yes.  Was I miserable?  Fuck yes.  Sounds like a diet to me, Mister Medical Degree (pfft).

As part of my diet, I've simply just cut out a lot of sugars and carbs.  I'll still eat fruit occasionally, mostly berries or an apple when I'm at work, but for the most part, I try to stick to fewer than 30 grams of carbohydrates a day.  I'm not following Atkin's, keto, paleo, or any other "program" -- I just weaned myself off carbs.  It's easy to do when your throat hurts like hell and you can't stomach much more than water.  Also, I think my stomach shrank or something, because I still can't finish most of my meals.

(Related note:  I think the best way to start a diet or detox regimen is when you're already sick.  You don't want anything anyway, so you pass that first week with pretty much no craving for bad food, cigarettes, alcohol, prostitutes, etc.  Win win win.)

I snack on cheese, peanuts, beef jerky.  I eat omelettes for breakfast, fish and veggies for lunch, and some kind of meat with veggies for dinner.  I'll still make roasted potatoes for David, though, because he starts to lose his superpowers if he goes too long without a starch.

This was all well and good.  I'd lost 12 pounds in two weeks with no back-and-forth.  And then last night happened.

I'll preface this story by saying... I occasionally do dangerous things.  I've gone skydiving.  I put needles near my eyes to combat clumpy mascara.  I've been pulled over for traffic violations no fewer than 15 times (yeah, I've totally lost count).  I may have even gotten drunk once during a restaurant shift.*

Last night, I lived dangerously by eating a quesadilla. 

That fucking quesadilla.

All I remember is that we were supposed to get crazy, wicked storms, which were supposed to huff and puff and blow the Park Ave. Pub down, and then we'll all be dead, etc.  I was skeptical.  I told David, "I'll believe it when I see it," because storms never hit my town directly.  Yes, we'll get some rain, maybe some thunder here and there, but we have never had a storm actually make my city its bitch.

The same was true last night, and I knew not to get my hopes up, but it was impossible, considering David was breaking out the NOAA weather radio, looking at weather maps, turning on the news, jumping up and down with excitement... so I ended up on the front porch all night.  I missed dinner.  Forgot I was even hungry.  I just sat on the porch, watched the skies, waited for the storm to roll in.

Suddenly, it was midnight, and I was still waiting for Indiana to be wiped off the map when I realized two things:

(1)  That storm was the most heavily predicted drizzle I've ever seen.
(2)  I need food.  Fucking now.

I was too weak to cook anything, my carb-less snacks weren't going to cut it, David sees our kitchen as "the room before the room with Mr. Flatscreen in it," but I was ready to faint.  David put me in the car and drove to the closest place:  Taco Bell.

That fucking Taco Bell.

By the time we got there, my stomach was hurting from hunger so bad that I felt sick.  I studied the menu, trying to look for low carb options, but I didn't see any.  Not saying that they aren't there, but I was in such a woozy panic at the time that I didn't look for long.  And I said, "Just order me a steak quesadilla, please.  Tytyty."  (When I'm not feeling well, I tend to get super polite.  Unless you're my mom, and then I snap at you like a ginormous bitchface, because I'm a terrible person.) 

I had intended to just pick out the steak and cheese, maybe eat that with some hot sauce.  But by the time we got home, I was so sick that I knew that wouldn't satisfy me. 

I ate the tortilla.  That fucking tortilla.

I then went to bed in a carb-coma, woke up at 3 a.m. with severe stomach cramps, and missed a couple hours of work the next morning.

Now, a survey:  Were the stomach cramps due to...

(1)  Eating carbs?
(2)  Anxiety about a severe thunderstorm?
(3)  The fact that I ate at Taco Bell?

Hmm.  Maybe I just live dangerously.

* I will not recall saying "drunk" if asked about this in the future.