"Are you really going to eat that?" asked my husband.
The "that" he was referring to was a spaghetti squash casserole I made for dinner last night. He watched in horror as I warmed it up for breakfast.
"Of course," I said. "It's absolutely delish."
I worked nights as a reporter for years, so I can eat anything anytime of the day.
My colleagues often congregated at my house for beer, pancakes and Canada AM at the crack o' dawn once a week or so. We scared the neighborhood children.
Sometimes we went to Gord Lovelace's tony house in New Edinburgh and sat on the front porch smoking doobies, drinking beer and watching the public servants shuffling off to work in their Harry Rosen suits. One day, a guy named Louis Bertrand decided to trim Lovelace's lilac bushes with a bullwhip. Where did we get the bullwhip? I cannot recall.
When I'm very, very bad I eat pizza for breakfast, but now that I'm very, very good and eating healthy, I will eat all manner of disgusting things for breakfast. Scott's usually a good sport about the food choices -- even a green meanie juice made of kale, Swiss chard and oranges.
But not today.
Today, he looked at me as if I were eating a pug burrito.
He sat silently scarfing down a peanut butter and banana sandwich while I tucked into this incredible, fantastic, amazing (clearly I am watching too much Gordon Ramsay) spaghetti squash casserole, garnished with an egg and one piece of whole wheat toast, all washed down with chai tea and mineral water.
I felt absolutely virtuous.
Dr. Oz approved!
By the time I got to the gymnasty this morning, I was regretting my food choices.
My stomach felt as if I had thrown a boot into it.
Five minutes on the elliptical, I was sweating like Sumo wrestler.
And then it hit me.
I was not used to eating this much fibre in the morning, particularly since I had the same amount of fibre the night before. It was not a pleasant feeling and required urgent action.
It reminded me of one time at Canada's Wonderland when I had to help all three of my kids salvage their soft ice cream by giving each cone a few good licks.
Did I tell you I am lactose intolerant?
I had to leave my kids, who were all under nine, at the door while I charged the public restroom praying for a stall at the very back. Got there just in time and relief was mine.
Just as I finished the twentieth flush, I heard a little voice echoing through the cavernous washroom.
"Mum? Mum?"
It was Stef.
"Mum, are you in there?"
I was horrified and stayed silent.
Then.
"Rose Simpson? Rose Simpson!!"
Thanks Stef.
Anyway, the good news is my gym has these wonderful private change rooms in the family pool area where no one can hear the fibre working itself out. It's the kind of john that flushes itself several times after the person leaves.
I then walked out of the pool area with no one knowing what I had had for breakfast.
It was an amazing feeling.
Plus, I lost five pounds.
Winning!
The "that" he was referring to was a spaghetti squash casserole I made for dinner last night. He watched in horror as I warmed it up for breakfast.
"Of course," I said. "It's absolutely delish."
I worked nights as a reporter for years, so I can eat anything anytime of the day.
My colleagues often congregated at my house for beer, pancakes and Canada AM at the crack o' dawn once a week or so. We scared the neighborhood children.
Sometimes we went to Gord Lovelace's tony house in New Edinburgh and sat on the front porch smoking doobies, drinking beer and watching the public servants shuffling off to work in their Harry Rosen suits. One day, a guy named Louis Bertrand decided to trim Lovelace's lilac bushes with a bullwhip. Where did we get the bullwhip? I cannot recall.
When I'm very, very bad I eat pizza for breakfast, but now that I'm very, very good and eating healthy, I will eat all manner of disgusting things for breakfast. Scott's usually a good sport about the food choices -- even a green meanie juice made of kale, Swiss chard and oranges.
But not today.
Today, he looked at me as if I were eating a pug burrito.
He sat silently scarfing down a peanut butter and banana sandwich while I tucked into this incredible, fantastic, amazing (clearly I am watching too much Gordon Ramsay) spaghetti squash casserole, garnished with an egg and one piece of whole wheat toast, all washed down with chai tea and mineral water.
I felt absolutely virtuous.
Dr. Oz approved!
By the time I got to the gymnasty this morning, I was regretting my food choices.
My stomach felt as if I had thrown a boot into it.
Five minutes on the elliptical, I was sweating like Sumo wrestler.
And then it hit me.
I was not used to eating this much fibre in the morning, particularly since I had the same amount of fibre the night before. It was not a pleasant feeling and required urgent action.
It reminded me of one time at Canada's Wonderland when I had to help all three of my kids salvage their soft ice cream by giving each cone a few good licks.
Did I tell you I am lactose intolerant?
I had to leave my kids, who were all under nine, at the door while I charged the public restroom praying for a stall at the very back. Got there just in time and relief was mine.
Just as I finished the twentieth flush, I heard a little voice echoing through the cavernous washroom.
"Mum? Mum?"
It was Stef.
"Mum, are you in there?"
I was horrified and stayed silent.
Then.
"Rose Simpson? Rose Simpson!!"
Thanks Stef.
Anyway, the good news is my gym has these wonderful private change rooms in the family pool area where no one can hear the fibre working itself out. It's the kind of john that flushes itself several times after the person leaves.
I then walked out of the pool area with no one knowing what I had had for breakfast.
It was an amazing feeling.
Plus, I lost five pounds.
Winning!
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