detox

Yesterday (Friday, July 7) the Physical Therapist, at the PT-gym where I work out, was telling one of her patients, a rather porcine false-blonde REPUBLICAN woman recently declared winner by a few votes in the hotly-contested Victor Town Supervisor race, she needs to detoxify.
“The fact you’re telling me you have pain all over tells me your body is full of toxins,” the therapist said.
Supposedly there’s more to “detox” than Linda and I have always considered. We always talk about getting off toxins after vacations or a trip to the mighty Curve.
This is because on the road it’s nearly impossible to eat what we normally eat at home.
Breakfast is impossible. Cereal is always the boxed kind made by Kellogg or General Mills, not the bulk-oats I pick up at Weggers, or Arrowhead Mills puffed rice or corn from the funky food market.
Kellogg’s Corn-Flakes, a restaurant staple, is unbearably salty, and General Mills Total like plastic or wood-pulp. Cheerios and Rice Krispies aren’t too bad, but where does one find skim milk?
Even 1% is too creamy, and the bananas are too small, too ripe, and/or once used as baseball-bats (“Hey John — toss that there pomegranate”).
For lunch we eat sandwiches, like tuna-fish salad on homemade whole-wheat bread.
Try to get that at a restaurant, and you get dried-out slabs of bakery-bread that have sat for days; and runny tuna-salad made with mayonnaise, not Miracle-Whip.
We put lettuce and tomato in the sandwich, but it’s not iceberg which is barely green. Restaurant tomato-slices are always unripe plastic, totally unlike what we grow or buy at Weggers.
It’s like they’re punishing us: “you should be pigging out on cheeseburgers, and feeding the excess to the ducks on the Pentecostal.”
Some days I eat an orange (like after exercise). Try to get an orange on the road.
Supper is nearly impossible too. We’ve deferred to seniors’ or children’s portions because adult-portions will feed a family of four plus the dog.
And every entré seems to include French-fries (“Don’t you mean Freedom-fries?”), deep-fried in hydrogenated oil (memories of the Hindenburg disaster — “Oh, the humanity!”). And the ketchup is always too salty.
So what we do is spaghetti the first night out, although this has only worked at the spaghetti-joint (Lena’s) in Altoony, since every place else the spaghetti-sauce is mud.
Breakfast, the next morning, is pancakes (a “short-stack:” three), sometimes with sausage, and then no breakfast from then on.
Tunnel-Inn supplies muffins, and they often suffice as breakfast; the pigeons get the crumbs. I have never been able to equal my morning citrus-juice intake. A large orange-juice costs 89 bazilyun dollars, and is half what I normally drink.
Plus everyone plies you with caffeine (coffee), or sugar and caffeine (Coke or Pepsi). Milk is almost impossible; skim-milk impossible.
No doubt the almighty Bluster-King will tell me I need a Snickers, a 55-gallon drum of ‘Dew to suck on, and a 36-ounce bag of salted Cheetos to glom.
I gave up TastyKake because, compared to Linda’s homemade chocolate-chip muffins, they’re like lead. We also gave up dessert at restaurants because it was too much.
It wasn’t trying to avoid toxins, or a weight-reducing diet. The stuff was just unbearable.
Linda always comes back from trips with inflamed joints. The inflammation goes away when we get back to eating what we normally eat.
So the Physical Therapist gave the REPUBLICAN a diet free of toxins, and suggested some milkshake brew that would flush toxins out of her system.
The REPUBLICAN then noted she’d burn out every day about 2. “I feel like I have to pull over and take a nap.” It’s called “aging,” honey! My 93-year-old nosy neighbor spends half his time asleep in his chair.