I had three New Year resolutions. Three easy resolutions.
There was no way I could fail...
The first was to take vitamin D for my possible self-diagnosed osteoporosis, the second was to start pulling coconut oil and the third was to eat three dates a day.
“Why don’t they make transparent bottles for tablets?” I whinged to Scotto when I was buying the vitamins from the chemist. “I can’t tell how fudging big the mongrels are.” I shook the bottle. “They sound small, let’s take the risk.”
“How can they sound small?” Scotto asked.
“I don’t know… they just sound small enough to swallow. More room in the bottle or something,” I replied sagely.
Sure enough, when I opened the bottle after I’d paid for the fudgers, they were the size of Brazil nuts. I managed to swig them down for three days in a row (bloody huge mofos as they were) but five minutes after I’d gag them down, I’d feel extremely nauseated, so that was the end of that, #1 resolution… gawn. How can vitamins make you feel sick?
The funny thing is, I fell down the stairs (looking at my phone instead of where I was going) yesterday and didn’t break a single bone so I don’t think I do have osteoporosis anyway. It hurt a lot but strangely I didn’t even bruise. Maybe I’m a super human and the superhero gods haven't told me yet.
The coconut oil pulling is very interesting. It requires you to swish a tablespoon of the oil in your mouth for twenty minutes straight (no swallowing). The oil draws all the toxic bacteria out of your gums so you DEFINITELY can’t swallow it or you'll ingest your own filth.
The first was to take vitamin D for my possible self-diagnosed osteoporosis, the second was to start pulling coconut oil and the third was to eat three dates a day.
“Why don’t they make transparent bottles for tablets?” I whinged to Scotto when I was buying the vitamins from the chemist. “I can’t tell how fudging big the mongrels are.” I shook the bottle. “They sound small, let’s take the risk.”
“How can they sound small?” Scotto asked.
“I don’t know… they just sound small enough to swallow. More room in the bottle or something,” I replied sagely.
Sure enough, when I opened the bottle after I’d paid for the fudgers, they were the size of Brazil nuts. I managed to swig them down for three days in a row (bloody huge mofos as they were) but five minutes after I’d gag them down, I’d feel extremely nauseated, so that was the end of that, #1 resolution… gawn. How can vitamins make you feel sick?
The funny thing is, I fell down the stairs (looking at my phone instead of where I was going) yesterday and didn’t break a single bone so I don’t think I do have osteoporosis anyway. It hurt a lot but strangely I didn’t even bruise. Maybe I’m a super human and the superhero gods haven't told me yet.
The coconut oil pulling is very interesting. It requires you to swish a tablespoon of the oil in your mouth for twenty minutes straight (no swallowing). The oil draws all the toxic bacteria out of your gums so you DEFINITELY can’t swallow it or you'll ingest your own filth.
Even though it sounds easy, believe me it’s not. The saliva builds up in your mouth so rapidly, before you know it your mouth is inflated like a puffer fish and all you want to do is spit it out all over the cat, but my gums are in a sad state of affairs and I’m determined to self-heal them.
I was five minutes into a session of pulling this morning when the mailman arrived with a beep-beep in the driveway and a parcel for Scotto.
“Fmmmmck!” I uttered in exasperation.
I didn’t want to spit it out and have to start all over again so I answered the door and hoped like hell I could bluff my way through.
“Is this Mr. Scotto Poinker’s house?” the jolly man asked, holding out a pen and little screen he was about to give me to sign.
“Mmm mmm,” I replied, nodding my head in a relatively normal manner.
“And what’s your name, luv?”
“Mmm hahn awk,” I replied with my chin up in the air so the toxic oil didn’t slobber out and with my eyes bulging out their sockets.
“Of course,” he stammered, handing me the pen and screen thing, then nervously taking a step back and wiping his hands on his pants. “Sorry, my hands are dirty. I just had to change a tyre.”
“Mmm mmmm glmm mmm,” I replied sympathetically, knowing in my heart he just didn't want to catch what ever I was afflicted with.
“Is anyone looking after you, love?” he asked.
I nodded emphatically, oily drool dribbling from the corners of my mouth. "Mmmmmmm!"
I wonder what he thought was wrong with me? Mentally impaired? Psychotic? Mute? I guess I’ll never know but I waved to him in a cordial, almost royal fashion as he screeched back down our driveway.
The three dates a day thing is going pretty well, even though they look like plump cockroaches, they’re quite tasty. I’m taking them for the iron and potassium not for their laxative effect. I have no worries in that department you’ll be happy to know. My toileting expeditions last about twenty seconds and Scotto gets very jealous of me, especially when I emerge almost as soon as I’ve entered and boast about how I just lost two kilos.
“But how?” he’ll stare at me in bewilderment and envy. “How is that even possible?”
“I know!” I skite unashamedly. “I’m pretty good at it aren’t I?” Then I do a little triumphant dance in the ensuite.
I put it down to the fact that we weren’t given any rubbish when we were kids. If we wanted something sweet we were directed to the packet of prunes/dates/dried apricots in the fridge.
Not that it’s something one should necessarily be proud of but sometimes you have to recognise your talents wherever they lie.
There you have it. I’ve stuck to two out of three of my resolutions and I’m very proud of myself. What about you?
I was five minutes into a session of pulling this morning when the mailman arrived with a beep-beep in the driveway and a parcel for Scotto.
“Fmmmmck!” I uttered in exasperation.
I didn’t want to spit it out and have to start all over again so I answered the door and hoped like hell I could bluff my way through.
“Is this Mr. Scotto Poinker’s house?” the jolly man asked, holding out a pen and little screen he was about to give me to sign.
“Mmm mmm,” I replied, nodding my head in a relatively normal manner.
“And what’s your name, luv?”
“Mmm hahn awk,” I replied with my chin up in the air so the toxic oil didn’t slobber out and with my eyes bulging out their sockets.
“Of course,” he stammered, handing me the pen and screen thing, then nervously taking a step back and wiping his hands on his pants. “Sorry, my hands are dirty. I just had to change a tyre.”
“Mmm mmmm glmm mmm,” I replied sympathetically, knowing in my heart he just didn't want to catch what ever I was afflicted with.
“Is anyone looking after you, love?” he asked.
I nodded emphatically, oily drool dribbling from the corners of my mouth. "Mmmmmmm!"
I wonder what he thought was wrong with me? Mentally impaired? Psychotic? Mute? I guess I’ll never know but I waved to him in a cordial, almost royal fashion as he screeched back down our driveway.
The three dates a day thing is going pretty well, even though they look like plump cockroaches, they’re quite tasty. I’m taking them for the iron and potassium not for their laxative effect. I have no worries in that department you’ll be happy to know. My toileting expeditions last about twenty seconds and Scotto gets very jealous of me, especially when I emerge almost as soon as I’ve entered and boast about how I just lost two kilos.
“But how?” he’ll stare at me in bewilderment and envy. “How is that even possible?”
“I know!” I skite unashamedly. “I’m pretty good at it aren’t I?” Then I do a little triumphant dance in the ensuite.
I put it down to the fact that we weren’t given any rubbish when we were kids. If we wanted something sweet we were directed to the packet of prunes/dates/dried apricots in the fridge.
Not that it’s something one should necessarily be proud of but sometimes you have to recognise your talents wherever they lie.
There you have it. I’ve stuck to two out of three of my resolutions and I’m very proud of myself. What about you?
