matthearn.com

Is it just me, or is the presidential campaign, and the coverage thereof, somewhat weakened by the fact that nobody knows how to properly refer to the candidates and affiliated politicians?

Every time I read a headline saying “BUSH BLAH BLAH BLAH” or “PALIN BLAH BLAH BLAH,” I think to myself, you know, these people hold important offices. They may be douchebags, but the office itself merits our respect. Why are they not referred to as President Bush and Governor Palin whenever they’re mentioned? It may just be me, but I have a really hard time taking any pundit seriously when he refers to a United States Senator as simply “Biden.”

I’m guessing it’s just me.

Despite my success in the bike ride a few weeks ago, I’m still having difficulty with my staggering bulk; I hit 250 pounds again, and decided it was time to Rectify That Problem. So I’ve been eating nothing but meat and cheese (and the occasional glass of vodka while we were at the beach), and as a result have lost 6 pounds in about 4 weeks. I’m hoping to shed a good bit more by Thanksgiving, at which time I intend to gain it all back over a period of 8 days.

To that end, I’ve been making beer like Sam Adams’s fat drunk brother-in-law. I have a Guinness-like “Irish Stout” already in the keg and bottles, and am fermenting a batch of English Pale Ale. I have two more kits ready for b’ilin’, including a “Robust Porter” and an English Brown Ale. All in all, I’ll be appearing at our Thanksgiving vacation house with 4 cases + 4 kegs of homemade beer totalling approximately 18 gallons. My uncles are excited.

You may have noticed I put a twitter feed in the top left. Don’t be sadden’d; instead, embrace the technology. I actually plan to make some small effort to keep it updated. At least as well as I do this blog, since my updates this year have averaged a wavelength of what, three weeks? Holy crap, I’m lazy.

Here’s the secret to surviving a 45-mile charity bicycle ride: get a flat tire 3 miles from the start. I got one, and was in the process of repairing it myself, when a “SAG” (“Support And Gear” or “Support Aid Group,” depending upon whom you ask) van rolled up with a professional who did it for me while I watched and enjoyed the cool morning air.

I should backtrack.

If you’ve been paying attention, you know I was participating in the Livestrong Challenge, a charity bike ride to support cancer research. There are a number of distances: a 10 mile, 45, 70, and 100. My boy Zak rode the 100, but because I value my life/knees/testicles, I was not planning to go that far. My homeskillet Sarah B, who happens to be Zak’s girlfriend, and her brother Kyle agreed to ride the 45. The original plan was that we’d stick together, but that proved very optimistic.

The Livestrong folks emailed out updates to the schedule, which revealed that we had to pick up a “race packet” with our bib number and some other things, and the only times that this could be done were on Saturday the 23rd, or Sunday the 24th between 6am and 7am, at Montgomery County Community College, which is 1) where the ride kicks off and 2) over an hour from my house.

In short, I had to be up at 4:30am Sunday in order to get up there, get my packet, meet with my peeps, and be ready and warm for the ride.

The drive up was pretty tame, since nobody was on the road, but was complicated by the fact that I had replaced all four of my car’s brakes the previous day and had not had time to drive the car the 100-200 miles needed to properly break them in. So if anyone had cut me off, there was a good chance everyone was going to die a fiery, screaming death, because I probably would not be able to stop in time. Nevertheless, I made it without incident, arriving around 5:35. I had time to kill, so I started scarfing down egg salad, and wandered over to the information tent to get in line for my packet. Bonus: nobody was there except for the people handing out packets, so I got mine right away. Bogus: now I had roughly 105 minutes to kill before the race kicked off, and I had no idea where my homies were.

Luckily, I had made plenty of beef jerky, so I was all set if I had to wait a long time.

A few text messages later it was determined the aforementioned homies were still at the hotel, so I read a cycling magazine I’d been given and tried to fill up on eggs (probably not the best move), eventually getting my bike loaded up and finally meeting Zak and Sarah and Kyle over by Sarah’s dad’s car. We made our way over to the starting point, making sure to be there by 7:30.

At 8am, they finally started making some stupid speeches that we couldn’t hear because the stage was a 1/4 mile distant. Lance Armstrong appeared, said something unintelligible, and then wandered off. Eventually they announced something that sounded like “Evrrlo hnret…GO!” and we deduced they were sending off the 100-milers, which took a while because there were something like 800 riders, Lance among them, and then the 70-milers, and finally we poor 45-mile participants were let loose around 8:15.

Sarah and Kyle and I had made absolutely sure to place ourselves at the back of the field; Kyle would probably be able to take off, ’cause he weighs approximately 75 pounds and appeared to be made entirely of protein, but Sarah and I knew we needed to start slow, and then continue slow, and finally finish slow. So we pedaled along carefully, trying to avoid running anyone over (it was a big crowd), and finally things started to thin out. Kyle said, “Man, I really want to attack this hill, but I don’t wanna leave you guys,” but I urged him on, and he disappeared into the crowd.

Sarah and I puttered along, but she was riding a mountain bike that couldn’t really hustle on the downhills, so she fell further behind, and I would wait, but finally she told me to just go, and I did. Got about two miles before I heard the tell-tale “fwap fwap fwap fwap” that indicated I was losing a tire. I looked back, and sure enough my rear was deflating with great gusto.

(My rear tire, I mean. Not my rear end. I’d like to see that deflate, but it doesn’t appear to be filled with air. Mostly shoo-fly pie and prime rib.)

I had a spare tube, so I stopped, got out my kit, and set about replacing it, which is when the SAG car rolled up, and a nice gentleman got out and did the job for me. It was a good thing he did, since he found the pin in the tire that I had missed, and got me going much faster than I would have by myself. Plus, I got to stand and enjoy my beef jerky and icy water.

Once that was done, I got back on and went on my merry way. Now there was no one in front of me that I could see, so I didn’t have to worry about bicicular (not a real word) traffic, so I could ride at my own slow pace, which I did until I reached the first rest station, which my odometer said was at mile 11. (Note: this later proved…inaccurate.) I ran across Sarah again, who had somehow passed me on the side of the road without seeing one another, and we loaded up on snacks and water and made off again. Sarah kept with me for a little ways, but after a while my powerful thigh muscles led me away. Just kidding; we found a long downhill and my sheer mass powered me down the slope.

Speaking of slopes: I topped out at somewhere around 38mph on this ride, going down an enormous hill. It doesn’t seem like that’s all that fast, but you have to realize that in a car, the tires have a contact patch (where the rubber meets the road) of 30-40 square inches per tire. Each of my bike’s tires met the asphalt in an area smaller than my wang. It’s…scary. Making it worse are the many people who don’t seem to realize that for every big hill we have to go down, we have to climb back up an equally large one, and it behooves one to build up as much momentum as one can; I’m flying down the hill at 35+, blowing by people taking up valuable road space who are holding on to their brakes and cruising at 20mph or less.

(Bike people, sadly, are no better at traffic maintenance than the average American driver; the concept of keeping to the right to stay out of the way of faster bikes is well-known but largely ignored. Unbelievable, and very frustrating.)

Going up hills was a big problem because I am not built for it. Good climbers are always skinny little guys who may not be long on leg muscle but are so light that they just scoot right on up. I weigh just shy of 250 pounds; going up hills just flat out sucks. A lot of people were having similar problems and remedied it by getting off and walking. I couldn’t do that, though; I didn’t mind stopping for little breaks, but I didn’t sign up for a 45 mile ride just to say I walked up all the hills. So I would go as hard up the hill as I could for as long as I could, and then would stop, put my feet down, eat some jerky, drink some water, and wait for the intense burning in my thighs to ease. Then I’d hop back on and get moving. Some climbs were so steep and long that I would do this two or three times. I passed the time while resting by cracking jokes with the walkers, like “Next year: Nebraska!” or “Who put this hill here? I’m going to have a word with Mr. Armstrong about this.” They’re not exactly knee-slappers right now, but let me tell you, they KILLED among the “exhausted and in staggering pain” demographic.

Cruising along, I was surprised to see how many people were just standing outside their homes to wave and clap as cyclists went by. Some people had set up their own small water stands, in addition to the sanctioned rest stops, just because they or someone they knew had cancer, and they wanted to help in some small way. It was rather moving to accept a free cup of ice-cold water from someone and have her thanking me.

Eventually I made it to the second rest stop, which appeared to be at the 22 mile mark, so I confidently sent a text message to HW to say I was halfway through. By this point it was about 10:30am, so my original plan to finish by noon was tossed by the wayside. I got moving again, and then climbed several of the largest hills I’ve ever seen. Seriously, it was like I was in Switzerland, and I made a pact with Jesus that if he let me finish I would totally stop taking His name in vain in front of elementary schoolchildren. (I’m trying, dangit.)

Then Jesus messed with me by making my rear tire pop again, this time with a loud BANG. I stopped just shy of an intersection where a nice policeman was directing traffic, and he came over to see if I could use some help. I told him I just needed to wait for a SAG van to replace my tube, and he said he could call for one, but the next rest stop was just about a half-mile away, and it was downhill. If I could carefully coast to it I wouldn’t have to wait.

So I did. Think it’s dangerous going downhill at 35mph? Try doing it at 7.5 on a flat rear tire. But I made it, and in fact they replaced the tube and the tread, which was described by the tech as “suspicious.” Going to refill my water bottles, I checked my odometer and was chagrined to discover that because of the hills I’d only really gone about 6 miles since the last stop. The good news: by my calculations I’d gone 28 miles in total, so I only had 17 to go! I was, like, 60% done! I checked my phone to see if HW had written back, and had a few congratulatory messages from her, but was saddened to see that Sarah B had had to bail out after a truck pulled out in front of her and she twisted her knee screeching to a halt. I felt pretty guilty, since I had told her, her brother, and her dad that I wouldn’t leave her behind, and…um…did. Twice, in fact. I hoped she wasn’t too badly injured, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it now.

So I got moving. I knew the next rest stop had been 11 miles from the beginning (about which, you may recall, I was incorrect). I believed myself to be 17 miles from the end, and since it was just a big out-and-back trip, I only had to go 6 more miles to the last rest station. I figured I’d stop, take a long rest, load up on jerky and water for the last (mercifully flat) stretch of the ride.

Imagine my surprise when I got to mile 34 and there was no sign of the rest station. Nor at mile 35, or 36. I was starting to worry I’d gotten off the course, but was still seeing signs directing bicyclists, as well as other riders. I worried most that I’d somehow gotten redirected onto the 70- or 100-mile courses, where I would die a painful and tragic death, I was sure.

Then, at mile 38, I came upon the station. As I loaded up on water, I overheard someone saying that there were only 9 miles left (not the 11 I thought), and I remembered: I had reset my odometer after unloading the bike from the car, but NOT after riding about two miles to warm up and look for Sarah B and her boys. So all my distance calculations were about 2 miles optimistic. I hadn’t gone 38 miles; only 36. And the first stop hadn’t been at 11 miles, it had been at 9. Oh well.

The last stretch was indeed largely climb-free, but at that stage of my exhaustion even the smallest hills required the slowest gear and a great deal of agony. Finally I started crossing roads that I remembered being close to the end, and by my corrected odometer I realized I was only two miles away, then one, and then I saw Montgomery County Community College. I had never been so eager to see an accredited institution of secondary education in my entire life. I ended up rolling into the finish at approximately 1:15, 5 hours after I started.

The end was a little emotional; they radio ahead your number so the announcer can look up your name and shout it over the PA system as you ride in, and there were literally hundreds of people clapping, waving, screaming, and having a high old time. There are actually two lanes for finishers: regular participants like me, and cancer survivors, who are greeted with flowers and extra adulation. Coupled with the fact that I was completely exhausted and excited to have finished, and I almost got a little choked up by it all.

I tried to track down Sarah B and her peeps, but never managed to; I went to the post-race party, where I kept getting dust in my eye as they introduced cancer survivors and entire teams of people who were riding for their grandfather or aunt or just a good friend. I got a beer, some pasta (eff low-carbing it, I was hungry), looked around for my friends (no dice), and headed home.

I did later find out that Sarah B didn’t hurt her knee too badly, and now she had something fun to brag about (apparently her parents already turned the story from “A pickup pulled out and I had to stop short” to “A mack truck cut me off and flung me into a ditch”), so all’s well that ends well, although frankly I still kinda feel like a dick. As usual.

On the other hand, I did successfully cycle 45 miles in 5 hours. So go me.

A big hearty thanks to everyone who donated; I’ll be sending out personal thanks over the next few weeks but would feel bad if you felt unappreciated in the meantime. So…THANKS!

Here’s the thing: I’m pretty fat. I mean, if you haven’t seen me lately, and all you know of me is my Brigadoon pictures from a ways back, then you might be surprised at the chub that has made itself welcome on my front. I just don’t do, you know, activities. So you know that, if I were to do a major athletic event, there’d better be a dang good reason.

Which brings me to the Livestrong Challenge, a day of events in Philadelphia that include a 5K (not doing that), a 10 mile bike ride, and a 45 mile bike ride. I have volunteered (and even paid for the privilege) to ride in that. There is a problem, however, in that I need to raise $250 to qualify. The race is 8/24, so it’s gotta happen by then. The good news is this: according to Facebook, I have approximately 375 friends. If they all chip in a dollar, I’m gravy like Thanksgiving giblets!

I’ve set what I believe to be a rather conservative goal of $500. I figure a few people (my parents, maybe) will be willing to chip in a lil bit wuxtree, plus people that I stop on the street and say crazy things to will probably give me quarters to make me go away. Either way, you need to give the Livestrong Foundation some cash via my webpage: http://philly08.livestrong.org/matthearn. Go do it, man, it actually does benefit cancerous individuals and their families. And if you don’t, and I don’t raise a lot of money, then when I have a coronary at mile 28 my obituary will be insufficiently glowing. Unacceptable. I’ll put a link over in my list of, um, links, so you’ll be reminded every time you come to matthearn.com, something you should be doing hourly, because even though my track record is usually twice-weekly posts with occasional month-long disappearances, I might start posting hourly! Anything’s possible! I might even blog the race!

I’ll probably be too busy passing out. Oh well.

The human body sucks. Well, mine does. Yours is awesome. All svelte and muscular, lithe and tanned. I hate you. Get out of my sight.

Let me start over: my body is weird. If I’m not dieting, my usual daily caloric intake rivals that of a Kodiak Bear. Seriously, it’s like 4000 calories a day. My body has settled into a nice rhythm in which I hover just shy of 250 pounds on that diet, at least for a while, and then it seems to realize “Hey, the good times are here, might as well store some of this!” and then I start to develop freakish hairy jowls. Then I go on a diet, like the crazy strict one I’m on right now (it’s 12:30; I’ve been up for nearly 6 hours, and so far I have eaten one (1) 6 oz. container of strawberry yogurt and one (1) 6 oz. piece of braised salmon and shortly I’m planning on having a salad perhaps with a poached egg), take in like 1500 calories a day, and barely lose any weight at all.

I’m told this is because my body thinks I’m starving (which I am; I’m so hungry right now I’m eyeing up one of my more succulent cats) and so it stops burning calories. I’m going to figure out a way to make it burn them if it kills me. Except that I won’t exercise, because I hate it. It’s not just that I hate the actual physical exertion (though I do), but if I go jogging for a half-hour I have to allocate 10 minutes to change clothes and walk out to the track, 30 minutes to actually run, and then another 30 minutes to shower and change back into my fat boy pants. It’s worse if I go to the gym because there’s a 25 minute commute involved, and when I go to the gym I try and spend 90 minutes lifting and running to make the drive worth it, which means I’m using roughly 3 hours.

Do I have 3 hours to spare in any given day? In a related question, do I have a 20-month-old son? I think you have your answers.

Perhaps I should take Peyton Manning’s advice and just buy some bigger shirts.

Like many Americans, I am on a diet. And also like many Americans, I hate it and it’s not working. Well…it sort of is. I can’t tell.

The problem is that I weigh exactly the same as when I started, roughly 240 pounds. (What can I say? I got a BIG ASS.) But my pants fit better, my belt is on a thinner notch, and people have been asking me if I’ve lost weight. I’m all, whaaaaaa? I have lost no weight! I weigh the same! And yet am thinner!

Perhaps my guns are getting bigger. Yeah, that’s the ticket. And my MASSIVE PECTORALS! Or, and this is far more likely, my neck.

In other news, I have gotten addicted to MS Flight Simulator 2004. I don’t think I’ve played a flight sim since about MS FS 4.0, which wasn’t actually a half bad game, but 2004 is way bitchiner, with full training programs, a number of built-in airplanes (plus bajillions of downloadables), real-time weather, and the ability to connect to the VATSIM network and interact with amateur air traffic controllers.

It’s not a bad deal, really; FS X is now out, so 2004 is a steal, brand new, at Amazon for $19.99. I got a Logitech Extreme 3D controller at Target for $26.99, and it has more gizmos than my car: throttle, twistable stick (for rudder control), trigger (in case I get a combat sim some day; meanwhile it controls the brakes), and 11 other configurable buttons. I haven’t crashed yet. Even on purpose! Although I’ve flipped a few planes by taxiing too fast.

I’ve gone through enough training to get my Private Pilot’s Certificate, and it makes me wonder; how much harder could it be to do that in real life? I mean, aside from the written test, and the costs, of course.

So now of course I’m looking at how much it would cost to someday buy a used airplane, and wondering how easy it is to make a flight in a single-engine airplane from New Castle County Airport to Mason, Texas. As usual, I’m whole hog into something that will be forgotten in 3 weeks. YAY FICKLE BRAIN!

Here’s a holla at ye. Let’s start off with: new pictures (just the first 5 are technically “new,” as in posted today). Yay! Yay.

As you are undoubtedly aware, I am what might be most kindly described as “husky,” or, as one of my childhood teachers actually put it, “sturdy.” I wasn’t always this way; in fact, at the time that the childhood teacher knew me, my BMI was probably 2. I was skinny as a rail until college. That’s when I discovered that, without parents around and few athletic opportunities available, I could cut all my classes and sit in my dorm room eating corn pops and taking advantage of The Internet, which was in its infancy (well, toddlerdom) at the time. I gained something like 35 pounds in 8 months, a feat which is normally only duplicated by the best sumo wrestlers.

Ever since, I’ve been in a see-saw battle against my enormous waistline; at the moment I appear to have reached some kind of sad equilibrium in which I get just enough exercise to compensate for my staggering food intake, because I just don’t have it in me to diet anymore. (I can’t even face the low-carb diet now, because the thought of running a mile (which cold sucks) and not getting to eat a donut and/or entire honey ham makes me want to cry.)

Enter the modern technology of holistic wellness, or philosophical weight loss, or hippie diets, or some such type fad. All I know is this guy says he can hypnotize me, via CD, into not stuffing my face with candy I steal from children whom I beat up for their candy. His name is Steven Gurgevich, PhD, and he has a website, so he’s TOTALLY LEGITIMATE. Also he has a name that sounds like a dry heave, which has the obvious effect of throwing anybody off their feed.

It consists of three CDs. The first CD sort of explains everything about the process, which is complex and involves “spirit” and “emotions,” neither of which I’m entirely sure I have, and warns against “hidden saboteurs.” (I like to envision small Englishmen chopping up my fat-burning liver with axes.) The second CD has some tracks with pep talks about breaking down barriers and learning self-control, and the third CD, which apparently is the most important, has the parts I’m supposed to listen to when I wake up, or before meals, or if I accidentally find myself tearing away at the flesh of a squirrel I find on the road because I’ve hypnotized myself so well I didn’t eat for four days.

So far I’ve just listened to the first CD, and here’s what I can tell you: man, it was boring. That’s not to say it wasn’t interesting, but because Dr. Gurgevich is a professional hypnotist, he says everything in a very calm, even tone, and after a while you fall asleep. I can also report that so far it doesn’t seem to be working, because I had to take a break in the first CD to go get Pepper Steak on Rice With Vegetables from the cafeteria. Anyway, I’ll listen to some more of the CDs and let you know if I, for example, spontaneously lose 70 pounds.

If this doesn’t work, I’m going to go with South Bronx Paradise.

Welcome to Spring! It couldn’t have come soon enough, as far as I’m concerned. You may recall last week we had SNOW, and just 4 days ago the wind and rain and temperatures were that of a normal January day. And it sucked. Like whoa.

Now we’re going to get a week of warm temperatures, which is nice because most of next week I’ll be working nights, enabling me to rest and relax outside during the day. Which I will undoubtedly spend sleeping. Come on, summer!

The warmer weather does enable me to exercise more; I ran twice this week in the cold and was very unhappy about it, although I did set personal bests for 3.3 miles and 1.1 miles. Yesterday I ran a mile in 8 minutes 27 seconds, which is the fastest I’ve run a mile since 8th grade, when I managed a 7:45 once. At the time, I weighed maybe 130 pounds. I, uh, don’t weigh that little anymore.

Since I hate lifting weights, but want to exercise my arms and abs and back, I decided to supplement my running with some batting cage fun. I have the interesting problem of throwing left-handed but batting right; this is the result of teaching myself to hit when I was little by throwing the ball in the air with my left hand and swinging across my body at it. The end result of this is that I’ve always been next to useless from a baseball/softball perspective, since left-handers can’t play 2nd or 3rd base or shortstop (because a left hander throwing to first has to turn his body around before whipping the ball over, which takes extra time), and right-handed batters are as common as pigeons. (Not that this makes much difference in softball.)

Anyway, I thought it might be fun to actually learn to bat left-handed, thinking that as an actual lefty I would be a better hitter from that side, and also give myself the benefit of batting switch, so I can direct softballs to weaker fielders (who are invariably at first base and right field). So I’ve been swinging from the lefty side, and I can report the following: apparently there are muscles in my body, that you only use when batting left-handed, that have completely atrophied. Because I am in Pain.

I went to the cages on Monday and was completely crippled until Wednesday, including bizarre unexplained pain in my NECK muscles, which I had not believed were involved in the act of swinging a softball bat. I thought myself recovered today, so I went back, and within 20 swings I was reminded of why exercise makes Baby Jesus cry. Ow. I’d be in less pain if I had simply handed the bat to someone and told him to go to town on my arms and torso.

The lesson, as I believe I have mentioned: I’m a wuss.

In which I hate technology, and technology hates me right back.(All up in my grill, yo.)

It’s heck of warm out today (low 60s), so, being a forward-thinking individual, I thought to myself yesterday “I should TOTALLY go running at work and try to eliminate the enormous amount of fat located between my crotch and my boobs,” and brought in running clothes and a towel to store in my locker downstairs in the poop room that has showers. And lo, I took an early lunch, went out, and ran 2.75 miles before the agonizing chest pain and developing foot blister made me stop.

Have I reached my point yet? Not even remotely.

So I came back in, showered, and grabbed lunch, which consisted of a Salisbury “Steak” made of, as far as I can tell, pressed gerbil cremains, along with green beans and cheesy potatoes au gratin (a quality side, to be sure). A few hours later, I realized I was still pretty hungry, so I said to myself, oh man, the SNACK machine will hook me up with FLAVOR.

So I wandered into the snack room, bought a bottle of Diet Coke, and then studied the snack machine for delectables. Sure enough, they had some kind of Apple/Cinnamon-flava’d Danish, all over which I desired to jump. I attempted to stick my dollar into the machine, but was foiled! It would accept no bills. And I had just used the bulk of my change on my drink. Bemused, I pressed a few buttons on the front of the machine, which showed no sign of even being powered on. Argh!

I wandered aimlessly around the halls, looking for another snack machine, and finally found one. Sadly, it had no Apple/Cinnamon-flava’d Danish. It did, however, have a three pack of chocolate cupcakes of the type I subsisted on in high school, so I inserted my dollar and pressed the proper buttons. The machine whirred for a moment, then beeped, and a small light appeared next to some words reading “Please make another selection.”

“What?” I replied. “But the other selections are not what I desire. Don’t mess with me, machine, I COLD RAN 2.75 MILES EARLIER AND AM NOT ONE WITH WHICH YOU SHOULD TRIFLE.” And I pressed the buttons again.

“Please make another selection.”

I tried to outwit the machine by requesting my dollar back, which came back in quarters, and inserting exact change, but I came to the conclusion that whoever inserted the latest supply of foodstuffs had improperly loaded the chocolate cupcakes. In the end I realized that the machines were involved in some kind of conspiracy not to sell me anything that might increase the amount of lipids bonded semi-permanently to my stern. I relented, bought a small package of peanut butter crackers, and went back to my desk to weep silently.

Okay, so uh, what’s in the news? Apparently that girl Anna Nicole Smith died, but I joked about that yesterday. (Was it too soon? The response I got from the interwebs was cold, to say the least.) There’s some banshee crazy astronaut ho that drove from Texas to Florida in DIAPERS to kidnap and likely kill her romantic rival. Apparently she wore diapers so she wouldn’t have to make unnecessary stops, but here’s the thing:

Distance she drove: about 950 miles.

Distance most cars can go before they need to stop for refueling: 350 miles.

So she had to stop AT least twice to get gas; would it be that out of the question to maybe take 5 minutes to whiz while the gas is pumping? Here’s the lesson I have learned: women are crazy.

What else? The weather has been making up for lost time; it hasn’t been above freezing, as far as I can tell, in like 6 days. I can’t say I’m sad about it, since I enjoy me some cold weather, but I’d like to have a good dose of 8″ of snow to go along with it and make it impossible for me to drive to work. They say we’re supposed to get snow on Tuesday, we’ll see how it goes.

I’m low-carbing it again, but it doesn’t appear to be working as well this time, probably because I’m screwing it up. It’s not my fault! People keep making me pies! I need to get on my bike some more and see if that helps force the old belly into “ketosis,” which apparently is what they call it when your body starts burning your fat for energy. I fully support the burning of fat; I am, at last check, roughly 85% fat myself. Maybe self-immolation is the answer…I’ll look into it.

Speaking of death-wishes, Charles has been crawling for a few weeks now, and has developed quite an interest in flinging himself down the steps into the foyer. So far I’ve caught him before he does so, but we need gates; a friend of ours is going to lend us some, but I’ve yet to go pick them up, so I guess I’d better do that. You know, before my son lands nose-first on cold, unforgiving ceramic tile.

As you can probably tell, I really don’t have anything of any interest to share with you, so I’ll just point you to Vinegar Man-Douche and let you have your own fun.

OMG I have TOTALLY figured out how to be thin, and I am going to share it You, The Reader! It’s very simple, and will TOTALLY WORK FOR YOU.

First, you must figure out how much you want to weigh. I would like to see if I can weigh 200 pounds, although in reality if I were to be that slender you would probably call 911 because I would look I just walked out of the desert.

Second, you have to figure out how many calories you need in a day based on the weight you would like to be. (Just do some googling, you lazybones, there are calculators EVERYWHERE.) For example, apparently a 200 pound man of average daily activity burns roughly 2600 calories per day.

Lastly, you have to figure out exactly how much roasted skinless chicken breast, baked potato with salt, and butter fits into that calories, and divide it up to eat all day! Super simple. You can even just blend all the potatoes and chicken and butter together and drink it in shake form throughout the day!

Using my example, I need to take in 2600 calories. Diet Authorities^TM (yeah, I don’t really know who either) tell me that you want to divide those calories up thusly: 30% protein, 20% fat, 50% carbohydrates. So I need 780 calories of protein, 520 calories from fat, and 1300 calories from carbs.

I’ll get my carb calories totalled first, since neither chicken nor butter have any, and I’ll know how many potatoes I have to eat tomorrow. 1 ounce of baked potato with skin reportedly has 24 calories from carbs and 3 calories from protein, with negligible fat, so I will need 1300/24=54.16 ounces of potatoes, or roughly 3 1/3 pounds! That sounds like a lot, but don’t forget: potatoes taste awesome.

The potatoes also contribute 54.16*3=162.5 calories of protein, so I only need to get another ~620 calories from that, which I’ll get from my chicken. 1 ounce of skinless chicken breast contains 16 protein calories, so I’ll just go ahead and roast up 620/16=38.75 ounces, or about 2 1/3 pounds, of tasty chicken. This will also give me 38.75*9=349 calories of fat, so I only need to get 170 more calories of fat, which is handly contained in about 1.5 tablespoons of butter!

All I have to do is eat 2 1/3 pounds of chicken, 3 1/3 pounds of potatoes, and a spare hunk of butter every day for the rest of my life, and I will weigh 200 pounds!

I’m all over it.

UPDATE: It turns out I cannot have any peppermint patties on this diet, so SCREW THIS.