It's pretty simple, really. All I've had to remember in the last five, almost six years since my gastric bypass surgery is go easy on the ranch dressing, no more than a taste of ice cream, and don't schnobble when you bake. Do. Not. Schnobble. When. You. Bake. Or you will regret it. Eating the wrong thing is like depression on speed: you want to die RIGHT NOW instead of sometime, eventually … you lie on the couch praying for death until the dry heaves commence. 'Nuf said. I made peanut butter bars for Nora last night. I had to follow up Saturday night's debacle with a phone call on Sunday, and when that conversation was cut short by the vagaries of Wisconsin's cell phone service, followed up the follow up with a message … and then another yesterday. I suspect Steve is learning something I learned a long time ago: it's easier to be angry than hurt. At any rate … in the wake of yesterday's bullheadedness … every muscle between my lower back and my ribcage is screaming with outrage … and that other muscle in my chest is letting me know I abused it again, too. I'll make sure to hum a few bars of "My Way" while I'm hobbling around today …
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