Sugar Ho: Week One

I've been sugar free for one week now and I'm happy to say that it's been easy. Not just easy, but a blessing of sorts. By cutting out refined sugar, I've cut out 99% of the garbage foods that I might normally consume and replaced them with healthy, fibrous fruits. My goal is to go sugar free for one month but I've already convinced myself that it's going to last much longer than one month.

The secret to cutting out sugar, for me, is two-fold:

1) take control of buying and making your own food.
2) make a public announcement of your intentions to go sugar free.

Point number one gets you involved in becoming a control freak, if you're not already one. You must manage and micro-manage every aspect of your eating. Going to restaurants and/or friends' houses is best outlawed. God only knows what sugary atrocities lurk in their cooking.

Point number two is helpful to me because once I announce something it's 'game on'. I'm too stubborn to let a proclamation die prematurely. If I say one month, I don't mean one day shy of one month. When I say 'avoid something', I mean fatwa. This is a fatwa on sugar, make no mistake. It's a wholly war....I'm wholly committed. It's a war I'm not fighting alone.

A year and a half ago I was wandering aimlessly around the Queen Street West district of Toronto. I happened to notice a sign in the window of an apartment building on a nameless side street. The sign said something like '200 days without sugar'. It made me wonder who was behind the sign and, more importantly, why. I happened to stumble past this apartment building again this winter and noticed that the days without sugar was up in the 500 range. This made me even more curious. I wanted to know why this person was 'off the sugar' and why he or she needed to announce it to the world. This morning I found out the answer....

http://www.torontosun.com/2013/08/05/parkdale-mans-efforts-to-be-sugar-free-are-sweet

Though I refer to myself as a sugar ho, I'm small potatoes compared to this guy. Nevertheless, I find that eating one cookie makes me feel like eating another...and another. I never personally added sugar to my Raisin Bran in the morning the way this guy did to his Frosted Flakes, but I do have a problem with the way that sugar is added to my cereal by the manufacturer. I deem it unnecessary, and thus the fatwa was born.

I'm not yet ready to proclaim anything beyond this month's goal yet, but I'm liking the way I feel and I think that the writing is on the wall.

Signed,

Ian 'not in the running to be Canada's sweetheart' Varty

Insomnia. Finally, A Solution!

Exhibit A: Once a week we receive a flyer in our mail called the Sussex Herald. It's a smallish newspaper filled with ads, public service announcements, and topics of general interest to the people of Sussex and surrounding areas.

Exhibit B: On the cover of this week's issue was the headline 'How to help cure your insomnia on Page 29'. Although the cure to insomnia was offered on page 29, the authors of this publication also offered many other cures for insomnia long before the reader ever made it to the article on insomnia. Let's take a look.

Exhibit C: on page 3 you can read about three piece cookie tins. Yawn. Hmmm...why would a cookie tin need three pieces? Wouldn't you just need a barrel and a lid? Maybe the third piece is a cookie shovel (this is rural New Brunswick after all...we like our cookies). Not sure about the shovel though. Again, yawn.

Exhibit D: Page 9 gives us the low-down on a soapbox derby in Petitcodiac (about 20 minutes from Sussex). Like most of my readership, I'm a rabid soapbox derby enthusiast but because of my height I have a hard time Dove-tailing my ass into a soapbox. For this reason and this reason alone, this article is making me sleepy.

Exhibit E: The Restoration Fund Quilt Draw Winner article on page 16. Getting sleepy yet? I am, but since it's a short article I haven't yet nodded off. I need something just a tad less interesting. What could that be?

Exhibit F: Crokinole Club update on page 25........eyes..........getting.........slitty.......... I'm now laying on the floor in the fetal position with a pillow under my head. My insomnia is almost cured but I need one more knock on the head.

Exhibit G: Marigold Planting Invitation on page 26. It's an article about a good cause, nevertheless......Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Twitch. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

We finally lost Ian. He's asleep on the floor. Totally zonked. He never did make it to the insomnia article on page 29. Looks like he found another cure!

Divine Intervention?

There's no way that I can prove the existence of a God, or disprove the existence of a God in this blog. I'd need a bus full of religious pilgrims and a cliff to prove that! I can, however, prove that if there is a God, then that God is not perfect. Let's use Hymn Sing as an example.

There's a weekly performance of something called Hymn Sing at my Mom's nursing home, basically an hour of gospel hymns punctuated by some loving words about hell-fire and brimstone. I don't actually know the hell-fire part, but that's my guess. I can't stand hymns, so I've never actually endured the eight hours of fun that is packed into an hour-long session.

Let's assume that you take the existence of Hymn Sing as proof of a God because, let's face it, there wouldn't be Hymn Sing without a God or, at the very least, the concept of a God. Sooooooo.....when Hymn Sing is cancelled, what does that tell us?

It tells us that if there is a God, then that God is not perfect. It tells us that God is capable of creating Hymn Sing (vengeful) but then realizing that a terrible mistake has been made (fallible). In conclusion, still no proof for the existence of God, but we have proof positive that if God does exists, then God is not perfect. Merciful? Clearly, from time to time.

Eagle-Eye Nielsen Spots Two Black Scoters

I really should tell this story on recycling day because it's a story that I keep telling over and over. It's my favourite bird watching story and it involves my favourite bird watcher...Wendy.

Many years ago Wendy and I were driving along the road in south central New Brunswick admiring the flora and the fauna. Getting swept up into the moment, Wendy decided to delve a little deeper in the fauna and try to ascertain the exact species of the bird that was flitting before her eyes. The conversation, though brief, was most entertaining. Here's how it went:

Wendy: what's that black bird with the red wings?

Ian: It's a red-winged blackbird.

The conversation ended abruptly with an outburst of laughter. I can't remember if we were both laughing, or just me. In any event, we both laugh about the story now. Since that time, Wendy has become a legend in our family, at least in terms of her ornithological pursuits.

Yesterday, Wendy was sitting in the sun-room looking out the window at the lake. "What's that dark thing in the water?", she exclaimed before answering her own question. "Oh, it's just a dead-head", she replied. I sat mute on the couch, but not for long. It would be unusual for a dead-head to be in the water at this time, so I craned my neck around to see what the fuss was all about. Using all the technology available to me without actually getting off the couch, I eyeballed two ducks floating on the far side of the lake. To Wendy's credit, they did look like a stick floating in the water.

To Wendy's credit, the binoculars confirmed that she spotted not two black ducks, but two black scoters....a somewhat unusual sighting for our inland waterway. I have seen black scoters on our lake before, but only twice in 22 years. Wendy's keen feather-finding eyes spotted two male black scoters. As they were on the other side of the lake, I magnified today's image 500% in order to see some detail, albeit pixelated. The black scoters are rather nondescript except for their comical orange beaks. They look like the creation of a practical joker, a malevolent god, or a small child with scissors, a glue stick and a bird book. To my eyes they look like a cross between a black duck and a puffin.

If I was given the task of naming them for all eternity, I would not have named them black scoters because no one, not even Audubon, knows what it means to scote. It's not even a real word. I would have named them tangerine-billed black quackers. Far more apt, don't you think?

Next Stop: Cirque Du Soleil?

All of my blogs feature a photograph, usually one that I have taken or one that involves me. I'm sort of like Oprah...you know, always on the cover of her own magazine. Though Oprah and I have much in common (hairy, black, female), that's not what I want to talk about today.

Today, I don't want to talk. I want to let this picture stand alone, on its own two feet (so to speak). I'm not going to tell you what was happening. This image is for you to figure out.

Sugar-free Turtles

The only turtles I'll be enjoying in June will be looking like this fella that was trying to cross the road in Lower Jemseg. Turtles, when crossing the highway, are extremely confusing to motorists. We're so accustomed to seeing holes in the road that we're rather perplexed to see something on top of the road that isn't a hub cap, a Tim Horton's coffee cup or a bag full of McDonald's afterthoughts.

I had to lay down on the road to get this picture. Turtles are only about three inches tall, so photographing them can be a challenge. I was worried that he might charge (attack) me, as I've been watching a lot of African wildlife videos lately. I was looking for tell-tale signs of an attack: stomping of feet, rearing up on hind legs, jumping on my back and biting my windpipe, etc. Thankfully I walked away from the encounter, but only through my expert ability to size up danger.

Ian, if you're 'playing' in the middle of the highway, then turtles likely aren't your biggest worry. 

Oh, you mean that I might get hit by a car or truck?

Gawd no, you fool. I mean you might fall into a pothole, hit your head on the lip and not be able to crawl out. Or you could drown! 

Surely if I fell into a New Brunswick pothole full of water, someone would come along in a boat and save me?

Maybe, but there are so many pothole lakes in New Brunswick that there's always the danger that you might fall into one that was less populated with boaters and cottagers. There's also the chance that the pothole lake might be filled with turtles that might snap you to pieces with their powerful jaws. Ah...wishful thinking. What a blog that would make!

Oh Gawd...It's June

There are three people who live in our house. Two of them are constantly talking about their 'guts', the other person is Wendy. Wendy doesn't talk about her gut because she hasn't got one. She does, however, talk about how much Julian and I talk about our guts. Her commentary is usually accompanied by a head shake or an incredulous look. She does this because Julian, though he doesn't have a gut, talks as they he's built like a long haul trucker. You know the build: stunty legs, massive overhanging gut, double chin.

I'm entertained by Julian's talk of his gut. Wendy is not so amused because she thinks Julian actually believes he has a gut. I'm amused because I think Julian knows he hasn't got a gut, but he talks like he's got the biggest muffin top this side of Tim Horton's. I'm amused because I do the same thing.

I do have a gut, you know. Sure, because I'm tall and thin I'm able to hide it, but when my accordion-like frame compresses, I turn into a kettle drum.

Of course I'm exaggerating. I DO NOT look like a kettle drum. I look more like a woman who's about four months pregnant. You know....I've got the bump! The challenge, for me, is not to go 'full term', that's why I've decided to abstain from eating refined sugar for the month of June. Sugar is everywhere. It's in places where it shouldn't be. It's not killing me, but it's sustaining 'the gut'.

Often, in my house, we talk about the size of the gut. There's no point in Wendy trying to convince us that we don't have guts, so the conversation devolves into the magnitude of our guts.At least that's the conversation that Julian and I have. I believe, we all have an intrinsic sense of our bodies, that others can't truly appreciate. We know when we're on the fatty side of normal, and we know when we're on the lean side (not that that happens very often). I feel semi-bloated at the moment, and that's why I've taken the drastic measure of getting off the sugar.  It's going to be an interesting month.

I hope that I feel better by the end of June, although I think the negative effects of sugar may work more insidiously over longer periods of time. What I really need is not one month of sugar-free living, but a life of healthy eating. It's tough though. Who wouldn't want to eat a cinnamon roll instead of a prune? And cinnamon rolls are everywhere: in the mall and restaurants and grocery stores and gas stations. A day doesn't go by without a cinnamon roll approaching you. Ditto for cookies.

For those of us who are weak, it's a death sentence. It's not a physical death sentence, unless 'the oh-bee-dees' takes you, as it's more of a psychological death sentence. When you feel bad about yourself, you eat more cinnamon rolls. The next thing you know you're huge and feeling even worse (and panting when you walk to the bakery). I'm lucky in that I have a body type and metabolism that makes it difficult for me to put on weight (except between my teats and my doodle-doodles).

So....how do we measure the effect of a weight management plan (I refuse to call it a diet) on our bodies? Today's image shows Wendy taking a very unscientific measurement of my back fat using barbeque tongs. Like I said, very unscientific. I suspect after one month only I will notice how I feel. If I still feel like a bloated whale after one month of being refined sugar free, then I may have to descend to the gates of hell. Yes, I'm threatening to do the hundred mile diet in July, but we'll see how my sugar-free life pans out. Sugar free should be easy. Eating food grown within a hundred miles of my house is difficult, unless you like turnip greens and oats (which I don't).

I had steel cut oats and blueberries for breakfast this morning. Healthy and tasteless. Gawd how I miss those sugary little bastard raisins that come in a box of raisin bran. Two scoops of gastro-intestinal misery in ever box. I'll never go back to raisin bran because as much as I enjoy the fibre and the fruit, I can't stand the thought that I'm being poisoned by big sugar. I'll never sell out to 'the man'. The man has a ship full of refined sugar. I have a mask and snorkel, a waterproof hand drill and a will to live life on my terms, not theirs.

Stay tuned, my readership of three and a half sweetie pies.