It’s a sad day at Chez Susannah, watching Land O’Lakes pack her fat, yellow bags.
I had my cholesterol unexpectedly checked and it seems lucky, I’m not in the ER.
I know what happened, since I’ve become my own best diagnostician. My fat intake got a little outta’ hand after giving up all added sugar, including the silo I put in my coffee every day. It’s a common practice, like when you first go into the Beverage Program (AA) and are suddenly perking from 200 cups of coffee and enough Entemann’s to entitle you to stock. But then after you get yourself more or less balanced, you merrily tweak that cake and caffeine intake as if you were dating Dr. Oz. (Okay, maybe in the movies).
My old-fashioned doctor who’s 76 and wears sneakers and a bow tie, said I must lower my numbers…OR ELSE.
“Or else what, docta?” I asked, like Scarlett flirting with a no good Yankee.
“You could have a stroke.”
‘”Ah such a stroke of luck, you just SCARING THE LIVIN’ CRAP OUTTA ME.”
“Now now, said Dr. Bow Tie, “just curb your fat, you know, lay off the cookies and chips.”
What’s wrong with this picture?
I’m almost 5’8, after dropping a half inch for posterity’s sake, weighing in at 110. Without my head, my back would look like my front, at times compared to an ironing board, Olive Oyl and a Number 2 pencil.
You would think fat would have turned on its heel and gone elsewhere.
“Any suggestions, Docta?”
“Butter. Anything with butter, cut out.”
“Would that include the Shea Butta’ ah’ use on ma ska’ in’?”
“Call me if you have any chest pain.”
No sense of humor these heart specialists who think of themselves as quite special, along with such heart.
See, I’d let a plumber examine me if he told a good joke, but back to butter.
Yes, guilty as charged, living on scrambled eggs and butter-flavored popcorn. Toss in that Stella D’oro Anisette Toast I love so much and well, I should just be sleeping on a stretcher, to save time.
So, after a final farewell party with 3 eggs swooning in a full stick of Land O’Lakes, and 3 matching bowls of CVS’s famed popcorn that’s made in the Ozarks which is why it’s so cheap, I’m turning green.
Just call me your little Brussels sprout.
As for Stella D’oro, I’m not terribly sure I’m kicking her out. I mean, what kind of an Italian would I be after all? If this were Italy, it would be considered a capital crime…of passion.
She was also my grandfather’s favorite so, take that Docta’ Bow Tie, and let the cookies fall where they may.