DAY 102: Monday, January 18, 2010:  You tried a liquid diet once, and caused a drought.

Continued from Day 101 . . .

They all met later at the house, congregating in the kitchen as Rhiannon continued her Wizard quest for tunics and potion on a laptop in the living room, Hannah Montana trading barbs with friends and family on the television.

“The only glitch was assault and battery,” Fiona said, working another herbal tea.  “And since the victim’s last name was Kane, and the location was a titty bar in L.A., I’m dying to hear this one.”

Candy didn’t hesitate, both her and Ferg nursing a can of Coors light at the kitchen table, saying,  “I’m up there on stage trying to prove my point after having a few pops and framing my college diploma . . .”

“Nice by the way,” Fiona said, interrupting.  “Very impressive.”

Candy was frozen with her mouth open, then nodding to continue as Ferg watched with raised eyebrows.

“. . . ah thanks.  I think.  So I’m up there grinding and dancing and pulling all the nasty moves I saw a hundred times sneaking around my parent’s business ventures, slumming behind their backs with friends and wouldn’t you know!  Here comes daddy right on cue with steam coming out of his ears, yelling like crazy as I spin on the pole and lean back like a seasoned gymnast, but he’s grabbing at my hanging hair to cause a very nasty fall . . .”

“Jesus.”

“. . . and man was I ripping about all the bullshit by then, with his failed marriages and Hollywood wannabe lifestyle, catering and sucking-up to the Charley Sheens and Billy Idols, nothing but a glorified pimp trying to be a rock star, and giving me the shake every chance he could, leaving me on my own to figure things out.”

Fiona smirled.  “Don’t hold back or anything.”

 “So I drop-kicked that motherfucker clear into Bakersfield.”

“Yes!”

“I got up off that sticky stage floor and drove a “fuck-me-pump” so hard into his chin, two inches of daddy tongue flew clear across the stage.”

Fiona threw a power salute.  “God damn!”

Candy nodded and swigged her beer, feeling a bond with Fiona grow tighter, Ferg tapping her bottle to repeat his sister’s response, giggling like a child.

“And now,” Candy said, clunking the beer down.  “We love each other.”

“Why not.”

“That’s so L.A.”

“Does he talk funny?” Ferg asked, readjusting his seat.  “Like a mmmmmpha urrrrrr?”

“He’s getting better.”

“She used to wear a Trojan,” Fioana added.

Ferg stared at his sister.

“Master’s degree in business, from the University of Southern Cal.”

“Oh . . . that Trojan.”

“Full ride, full honors, fully-loaded for bear.”

“You didn’t need my assistance at all,” Ferg said, coming back into focus.  “You let me handle that security dweeb just to see what would happen.”

“I traded a lawsuit for an outlaw.”

“No such thing,” he said, sipping beer.  “I’m just a tree hugging environmentalist.”

“So now it begs the question,” Fiona said.  “You let Ferg step into that mess because . . ?”

“He stepped in himself.”

Ferg raised his hand.  “Concur.”

“Ahh.”

“Ahh.”

“But . . .”

“Yes?”

“Ahh . . .”

Candy smiled.  “We’ve already been there, and . . . you’re here on business.”

“My own terms.  Dad can cut this club loose with a loss, but if I get it back . . .”

“You show him up again, and have your own business venture.”

“Tanning salon and gym.  You guys need some color out here.”

“Business.”  Fiona put her tea down and started jabbing a finger at Ferg, pretending to block the gesture with her palm.  “Hellooooo . . . unemployed?”  

Candy bopped to music in her head and sang, “I may use a little muscle to get what I need . . !”

“Uh-huh.”

The women stared at each other.

Fiona retrieved her tea.  “Here’s my feelings.”

“Can I predict?”

“Please do.”

“Leave it out in the street, don’t bring it near the house, and get yourself another place to stay until time proves different.”

“You really are a business major.”

“I’m all business.” 

Ferg?” Fioana asked, looking at her brother.

“She’s booked at the Comfort in Sturbridge right now.  Avis dropped a new car earlier.”

“And you kids are going out tonight?”

“We’re incognito.”

Candy beamed.  “It’s a recognizance mission!”

“Well then, I won’t be hearing the house shake at say . . . 3 am.”

Ferg beamed.  “We’ll be taking the Hyundai tonight.”

“And you have a room in Sturbridge.”

They beamed together.

Fiona beamed back.  “Groovy.  Can I rain on your parade?”

Ferg leaned over to Candy.  “This is always the good part.”

Fiona held him with death eyes for a beat, then continued.  “Business major out to show daddy . . .”

Candy was still smiling.

. . . lots of emotion here, and a big college degree . . . very big . . .”

She was still smiling.

. . . real life experience consists of . .?”

The smile faded a little.  “I helped run a summer camp for kids in Northern California, and also a sunglass hut near the beach.”

“And now you’re out here to prove something by ousting a bunch of Ukranians that took daddy’s club in Connecticut.”

The smile was almost gone.  “Tall order for a kid outa school?  Is that what you’re saying?”

“Well let’s see.”

“Bring it.”

“Just how many clubs does your daddy own, exactly?”

“Sixteen.  His sweet sixteen.”

Fiona hesitated .  “Right.  Wow.  And where would they be located, exactly?”

Candy’s face was starting to frown.  “Uhhh . . . California, Arizona, Nevada . . . that’s the western branches.  The east has New Jersey, Rhode Island, and Massachusetts.  And Oh! Connecticut!”

“Just the one?”

“Two!”

“Good . . . you won’t have to drive so far.”

Now Candy was definitely frowning.  “But we only care about the one.”

“The term ‘we’ scares me, and no, you don’t want to focus on just the one.”

Fiona crossed from the counter and joined them at the table, putting her tea down gently, staring silently at Candy.

Candy was no longer smiling or frowning, just waiting; gears in her head turning madly.

“I’m going to really reach on this next one.”

“Shoot.”

“Your last name.”

Candy swallowed.

“There was an asterisk in the files, indicating a name change.  There was also a link I didn’t pursue, because two detectives were hovering around, and it’s none of their damn business.”

“Thanks.”

“Yet.”

“I told you my dad was a Hollywood wannabe . . . so he found an easy, recognizable name.”

“Dropping . .?  Fiona was showing impatience.

“Dropping Casseolla.”

Fiona looked at Ferg, who looked at Candy.

“Mafia princess?”

Fiona smirked. “Lookit the black roots in her fucking hair.”

Candy was frowning in a major way; Fiona trying not to laugh.  “Take your time,” she said.  “You have five minutes to answer the exam questions.”

Candy stared from brother to sister and back, fighting a very strong urge to walk out and take what little pride she had left, but a familiar voice broke through the anger, and she had been hearing that voice a lot in the last couple of years, slowly becoming a much louder voice, getting her through the toughest times any broken home kid could have.

This bitch here is a very effective gate keeper, screening people for good reasons, and one of them is sitting in the other room.  Every little thing she’s said so far is absolutely true to a fault, and she will never back down from her mission in life, to protect this household and family.  If I can just step around pride for a minute and hold down my Sicilian urge to slit her cute little throat  . . .

“I’ll take your advice to heart and look at my observations closely,” Candy said, fighting her temper.  “You did a real Crackerjack job of looking me up and putting pieces together, but personal attacks are another matter, and if you don’t like my hair job, then maybe you should take a good look in the mirror, you fucking dwarf.”

A pin would be very loud as everyone squared-off, but Candy wasn’t through, turning to Ferg.  “I’m not dating your sister, but she’s starting to drive me away, if any of that matters.”

“A dwarf?” Fiona asked.  “A fucking dwarf?”

“You’re very short.  You have to admit.”

Fiona was nodding, shaking her head with a scary intensity as Ferg held a hand up.  “Candy . . . we need to go for a drive,” he said.  “Right now.”

Fiona was looking at the kitchen wall as if it were alive, pointing to herself and whispering, “A dwarf . . . did she not call me a fucking dwarf?”

Ferg was urgently rushing Candy out the door, nervously looking at his sister, when Candy threw one last dig.

“You can kick my ass, girl, but you’ll never get any taller.”

“Run,” Ferg said.  “She has throwing stars.”

To be continued . . .

DAY 71: Friday, December 18, 2009: You tried archery once, and the arrow still hasn’t cleared your toes.

I had to visit Walmart today for a specific Christmas gift, and couldn’t help but notice a few things.

Their motto is:  Save money.  Live better.

You may save a few bucks, but apparently living better consists of the following:

The average shopper is grossly overweight, and this is duly reflected in the overwhelming number of XXL, 2XL, 3XL, infinity and beyond sizes of clothing. 

These extra large sizes get much wider before they get longer.  

There are several areas in the store where you can never find decent signage, which leads you through endless rows of products to search for desired items.  Thus . . . you are tempted to buy more.

Lines can get crazy long before they open another register.  They never over-staff.

I phoned ahead to inquire about a very specific cast iron wok, and they said there were three.  There were actually none, since those three were stainless steel, not cast iron.  It didn’t help that the person on the phone spoke broken English.  Or just broken.  It’s a client-based business, for Godsake.  Employees should speak the native language.

Every tee shirt is now covered with gaudy graphics, not unlike gang tags I used to see in the projects, when I was a land surveyor.  There’s a lot of skulls, fire, and crazy red eyes.  It’s like walking through rows of vendors in a Death Metal convention.

Thanks to aggressive Hollywood liberals and a tragic shooting at another Walmart, they stopped stocking rifles and shotguns.  Every other weapon imaginable — including high velocity crossbows and 50. caliber black powder rifles — are available.  They cut back on workout equipment, but the junk food section embraces several aisles.

So now you can wonder around aimlessly, stuff your face with junk food, buy huge clothes to handle it, listen to employees babble in a foreign language, wait at the register forever, get pissed-off, and pin some small animal with your crossbow.  Later, you can cook the poor critter in a cheap wok.

Woo woo!  Live better!

DAY 54: Tuesday, December 1, 2009: You called pest control, and they told you to just belch once.

Spring, 2009: The past can send me sideways, and flashbacks are much more vivid these days.

The only thing I’m not confused about anymore is that I live in a constant state of confusion, which is very confusing, but gimme a sec and let me explain about someone bruised, battered and naturally blonde beyond belief yet still able to make decent toast if conditions are right, which they never are, because they had to go put a little pressure button on the damn thing, instead of just making us hold the springy handle down and peer into the slot, to see what color our bread has become.  They’re probably going to install a tiny video camera soon, to watch and even record the browning process, but you could simply go and use one of my favorite cooking tools of all time, the propane torch.  It’s like painting bread with an airbrush, only much hotter. 

Lately my wife Janelle says the kitchen is completely off limits, because I get “creative and overzealous,” or my favorite description of all time; “lethal.”  I mean, what a wicked witch, you know?  A hot, sultry, spike-heeled, strutting, take the tall hat off now and God Almighty she’s throwing the hair around and I’m taking a break and WHOA MAMMA!   HIT ME WITH THE BROOM!  HIT ME WITH THE BROOM!  [Long cigarette break].

Somehow the marriage works and where was I — Rhode Island! 

I need to take a mental road trip back to a more innocent time during the pursuit of intelligentsia, attending a quaint little college, down there in quaint little Rhode Island, once voted “Most Quaint” by The New England Literary Journal of Historical Introverts.

I need to go back, so close your eyes for a moment and try to envision the inner workings of a toaster, then a crazy poet with funny hair, then pretend you’re driving with my wife, then get your damn hand off her knee unless you’re a lesbian, which has me all distracted and confused now, but then kind of steer toward two artists conversing in a university office, then open your eyes to read, then close them to envision yourself in a small convenient store, and get me tons of money from the ATM.

Okay!  Here we go! 

I knew a great writer named Saul Borden[1] who lived in a garage, and often called himself Saul Paradise, but only when he was writing prose or poetry.  The Great Swamp Gazette published him down there at the University of Rhode Island, and he was also a great jazz drummer who got a full ride to Berkeley in Boston, before some kind of short circuit (controlled substance) melted crucial brain cells till it was over just like THAT, and yet . . . a great fire burned deep within his soul, you know, and he wrote truly spectacular stuff.

“He did not!” my lovely Janelle said, driving into Manchester last night.  “Maybe at first, but wasn’t he that really weird guy with the crazy eyes, bushy sideburns, and long hair?”

I looked in the rearview mirror, mumbling, “Turn to your left hon, and describe what you see to the folks listening at home.”

She confirmed my likeness to Saul, mumbling “Oh . . . there’s that.” 

Anyway, the Great Swamp Gazette would light up like Cape Canaveral during launch when his work came in, and they published an illustrated book of his poetry, which became a very big runaway smash hit in a local way, like maybe some stoned kids at the library.  Their tuition money paid for it, so what the hell; we thought it was pretty good prose, and we were not a bunch of drug-sucking freaks sitting around naked, reading Saul’s stuff to each other with incense and chopstick food and Stevie Nicks singing softly in the background, and those cool lava lamps glowing and black light showing and hold all calls we’ve got a vibration going.  Dig?   Nothing even CLOSE to that my very skeptical friend, because we were VERY serious literary types of writer kinds of types, and I think the music was more like Tom Waits or Bob Dylan.  For some reason the famous crooner Tom Jones comes to mind, after tons of potato chips.

Where was I?  Oh yeah . . . confuuuuuuusion.

So one day Saul Borden slash Paradise is in the office chilling-out, and I’m telling him some very serious literary ideas for a great story or some other useless shit, and he suddenly says, “Hey man, you’ve got a very funny head.”

I’m thinking whoa there Saul, I may have a head the size of Saturn and eyebrows the color of glowing plutonium kryptonite, but calling my goofy skull funny is not going to get you any more press in this low life bohemian rag.  When all is said and done, I’m the big cheese who ran frightened students out of here and blackmailed administration.  I’m the guy who sweeps up every night and discovered your sorry ass when I passed out in your landlord’s driveway, thinking it was my house . . . several . . . miles away . . . but then discovered you living in that garage.  And yes!  It was me feeding the editors your feeble efforts to fill empty space at deadline.  So I’m no different than a lot of high-paid agents, except I’m not paid and I’m not an agent.  That leaves only HIGH, or like, whatever.

This had to be addressed in no uncertain terms, so I sat up straight and burned my lap without feeling anything, saying, “Yeah, Saul, my head’s an omnipresent anomaly.  So like, what’s your point?”

Whereas he said, “No, no,” backtracking to clarify.  “I mean you think in really strange ways, like you get all these crazy thoughts and it’s really funny.  You have this strange way of looking at things, so I think you’ve got a really funny head, like on the inside, and you’re going to write for television.” 

He suddenly got very, very serious; leaning forward to share a great secret, saying, “I think you’re going to end up as a truly great television writer.”

I was confused as always, but curious and deeply flattered, asking, “Really?”

He was nodding, saying, “Yes . . . yes . . . some kind of sitcom or something.  It’s going to be funny as hell!”

I was pretty happy about that, since I was actually watching some television back then, like Seinfeld, and a lot of commercials between Seinfeld, so it was a very touching compliment, and later that night, I passed out in another strange driveway, realizing my true destiny:

I didn’t have a chance in hell of ever becoming a television writer.

I could impregnate Tina Fey right now (dressed as Sandra Palin, don’t ask), black mail the living hell out of Charlie Sheen (dressed as Sandra Palin, don’t ask), and hold Jason Lee hostage (dressed as Charlie Sheen, don’t ask); I still couldn’t get a gig writing comedy for television, for one simple reason:

I can’t make toast.

So now I’m sitting here in my early fifties and an office chair, with a highly advanced six-year-old daughter sleeping peacefully, guarded by a very bossy little Jack Russell cuddled under the covers (they’re a burrowing breed), and two spidery greyhounds slinking around like shadows, my wife curled up with a laptop and a cooking show, thinking how grand life can be with a very funny head.  Me, not my wife.

I lost my job like a lot of good folks out there, cut down and keelhauled by a large corporation without any warning whatsoever, given my walking papers by one of the most apologetic managers ever created by long-term demonic possession and lots of tobacco, but one thing is still certain:

I really can’t make toast.

Also, I fell into a very serious trap writing this saga, and had to immediately scrap almost fifty pages right off the bat, but it was all great therapy, slamming the Survey Department for using me up like some kind of cheap little whore, dressed as a dirty smutty Sandra Palin in that little dress she wore on SNL with Tina Fey, and hey ho . . . sorry about that, breathe deep breathe deep break the capsule grab the filter mask and hey now mama, we’re right back into it.

So anyway, where was I?  Confuuuuuuuuuusion.  Excuse me while I go torch myself a grilled cheese sandwich. 

 -   -   -

Flashbacks are much more vivid these days . . . wait.  This all sounds familiar, so let me try again, and change the channel:

I do live in a constant state of confusion, where thoughts seem to fly around without much control, yet I often do things that many simply cannot, because they’re smarter and know better. 

For example, I’m writing all this down as I’m driving home, with a notebook nestled in my lap, and the right upper corner brushing the steering wheel, dealing with lights and turns and the whole bloody gig, and yet other skills elude me, like simple mathematics.  Geometry is brutal for me, and working with numbers in general is like a half-opened can of sardines; they can’t be counted or ignored, and they all stink to high heaven. 

This is very bad news for a land surveyor, or anyone who likes tiny fish, and it’s really not a good career move when the “math side” of your brain is like the Badlands east of Rapid City, where you wake-up in a prairie dog town with an empty gas tank and no idea how you got there, and your license plate says Massachusetts and you’re so lost and confused, even that squashed sidewinder looks like a long lost friend.  You see, that would be the “math side” of my brain, or just another flashback, it’s hard to tell these days.

Anyway, back to toast and Tina Fey, or land survey.

For the last decade (rounding up a few months, just to use the word “decade”), I was a land surveyor, environmental scientist, and balloon trainer, which pretty much makes me crazy as hell, finishing off any sanity left after getting shot, stabbed, pummeled, threatened, nearly drowned (four times; once in a toxic river), and worst of all, scolded by a six-year old girl when I chew with my mouth open, during supper.  We’ll leave the gassy greyhound for another day, because she really sports an active colon.  These things are all entirely true, and good for a lot of laughs.  That’s where the “crazy as hell” part comes in.“You have a very funny head,” Borden slash Paradise told me, back at the Gazette.  More recently, a very attractive project manager in the Environmental Department said, “You’ve got a million funny stories.”  My favorite comment comes from Cedar Rapids, Iowa . . . oh, that was a television news flash flashback.  Say it quick three times!  Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!

Where was I?  Iowa!  No, my favorite comment comes from a close friend in HR, at my last lost career, who said, “You’re a high-powered magnet for really weird shit.”

That is the most beautifully truthful thing anyone has ever said about me; direct and to the point, with just a touch of gutter profanity.  I mean, if I leave the house even for a few minutes — and sometimes if I don’t — it’s going to come after me.  IT’S GOING TO FIND ME.

Tomorrow night: Part II

[1] Not his real name or choice of panty hose.

MY OLD CALLING CARD

DAY 53: Monday, November 30, 2009: Hungry animals follow your crumb trail.

When I think of “animals” and “crumbs”, I think of the mice that move into this old house every winter, and weeks of trapping.

My 7-yr. old daughter loves cute little mice, which means a live trapping system, using a plastic container with a seesaw tipping bait platform that drops the vermin safely into a ventilated apartment, and tips back up again, blocking the exit.

On the way to her school, we pull over by a small waterfall and watch the little mouse smash on jagged rocks below, laughing our asses off before a good, long hit of Thunderbird wine.  It’s so much better than fishing.

Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!  Kidding, of course.  We drop them into the forest beside the falls and Gwenny says good-bye — “Watch those owls and whatnots” — and it’s on to school.

Some day I’ll finally realize that the same damn mouse keeps coming back . . . the hunters around here would mock me if they knew, but that’s cool.  Some day I’ll explain climate-controlled supermarkets with brightly-dyed and drugged meats wrapped in clear packages, available at very reasonable prices.  No hunting required!  No weapons!  Check out hot babes to the sounds of generic Muzak!

Ahhhhh, the country life.  Now a squirrel has moved into a space above the porch ceiling, and I’m so tempted to pull out the Moisin Nagant sniper rifle and blow it’s furry little head . . . sorry.  Gotta repair the entry point and maybe put a squirrel house up in the tree.

CALL OF DUTY - SQUIRREL PATROL

 Tree; I hardly hugged thee.

DAY 51: Saturday, November 28, 2009: You don’t bring coolers to the beach, you pack food in caravans.

True Confession:  I love greasy greasy diners, and the greasier the better; I wanna see a river of grease coming from the dumpster, with floating slabs of white fat.  You go in there and everyone is named after a food item; Cookie or Grits or Tootsie, and Cookie is cleaning the glasses and snapping flies.  Cleaning and snapping . . . squeak squeak squeak, snap!!!  And it’s just like Amsterdam, where laws like “no smoking” don’t exist.   They’re still in the fifties, and it’s open 24-7, making those magical hours from Friday night into Saturday morning, or Saturday into Sunday, almost like a surreal freaky circus hour, with drunks and truckers and hookers and more drunks and college kids and strippers and strange old guys and casanovas who struck out and dealers and buyers and rarely any couples ever . . . and . . . and . . . waitresses named Tootsie who are more hardened than Spartans, with shredded obliques.  Good times, good grease, good traffic jam in the arteries. 

Whew!  Glad I got that out of my system. 

DAY 41: Wednesday, November 18, 2009: When it rains, your feet stay dry.

Another oldie but goodie.  Check the archives for early posts if you’re catching-up, they describe the workout plan, which can easily be modified by adding more distance to the runs, reps or weight to the upper body exercises, etc.

Or just dig the insults every day and wave hello from the dark side of the moon.  Perhaps I’ll offer some short whips to punish ourselves with, and some salt.

Oh yeeeeeah . . . be cool.  Thanks for stopping by!

DAY 36: Friday, November 13, 2009: You buy clothes from the tent maker.

Ouch . . . I had to use that old joke.  Omar was the tent maker, a stereotypical name years before his ethnic background was a major problem for a lot of people these days.  It’s a good wrestler’s name: Omar the Terrible!  It’s also what people call their moms in some southern areas of the U.S., as in “Oh mar, let me drive ya to the Suds n’ Soak.”

Speaking of the South, I was watching Survivor tonight, and that hot blonde Belle Natalie caught a rat for everyone to share.  She caught it in a skimpy bikini.  Natalie . . . not the rat.

Makes the Insult Diet seem pretty mild, eh?  As the Southern French say, “Bone appa tit!” 

DAY 30: Saturday, November 7, 2009: When people say you need a diet, you ask them to define “fat.”

I just watched part of that diet contest reality show “The Biggest Loser,” and man do they go for it.

If money is a motivator, try saving a few bucks for every pound you lose.  Once the diet is over, treat yourself to something special, and pretend you’ve won an actual diet contest.

It’s a huge lie of course, because you didn’t compete against anyone, and you shouldn’t be that fat in the first place. 

So now instead of fat and dishonest, you’re only dishonest.

I’ll have to work on some new insults for dishonesty.

Day 27: Wednesday, November 4, 2009: You grew a beard once, on several chins.

I have succumbed to temptation, and am now officially involved in my own diet plan.

Call me a crash test dummy for my own brutal sports car, but I’ve been inspired by the thousands of cards and letters you’ve all sent, or is it the few scattered comments — most of which are spam? — I forget . . . it really doesn’t matter.

The thing is, I’m there for you in heart and soul, suffering the first few days of the insult diet, and feeling damn good about it.

Stay the course, and listen to that drill sarge in your head.

DAY 4:  Monday, October 12^th, 2009:  People refer to your belt as “the equator.”

According to 60 Minutes, 55-year-old General Stanley A. McChrystal runs an hour every morning before sunrise, and eats only one meal a day.  The greyhound-lean McChrystal says he doesn’t want to “feel full,” and be “slowed down.”

This is a high benchmark, but you won’t even come close . . . which is actually a great thing.

A training regiment that severe would just make you cranky and irritable, ready to wage war at the drop of a hat, which is perfect for the Commander of Afghanistan Forces.  You don’t want to be quite that hungry and angry.  Plus; it’s too early in this diet to run for a full hour, so let’s cut the run down to fifteen minutes, and consume the same amount as two well-rounded meals, broken up into little portions every two or three hours, just to keep your stomach busy.  Pack it up into baggies, and drink water or healthy juice.

Three meals a day is a ludicrous cultural routine that can weigh you down, fill you up, and allow hungry, bitter old military officers to take your land.

Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!  Just kidding, General McChrystal!  Glad you’re across the ocean!  Hope that sense of humor is still intact!   

But seriously, you need to think foraging while following the mastodon herd, and eat just like a tribe on the move, packing for the migration.  According to crude ink sketches in outdated textbooks, those dudes were never fat, and very muscular (ignore their huge foreheads and blank stares). 

Uh-oh, the mastodon herd has gas!

It was part of my strategy when I lost twenty-eight pounds in six weeks, and really works.  I mean it really works.  The running or other exercise adds major bonus points, but make sure to do it just before your next small meal.

I’m sorry, General, but my overweight self actually beat an active drill sergeant in that diet competition, so there you go (I’m sure it was a fluke . . . please don’t attack my yard).

Good-luck and be the foraging hunter!  Be the hunter . . .