After a meeting today, I grabbed an early dinner with a friend. In an old box car style diner, this advertisement on the placemats beckoned:

Please note, discounts are available for bearers of the ad.

Years of training: Twenty.
Nights spent dreaming about turning pro: Half a lifetime.
Delight when eleven-year-old kids wear your jersey to school: Priceless.

Shattering a proud tradition as a couple, the Wife and I hit the Shore for the first time ever, and my feet resemble twice baked Lobsters. Due to a rather unfortunate mishap with sunscreen and limited experience with tropical blasts, I applied lotion to some body parts more thoroughly than others. Mostly my face is intact. It’s my own fault really. I have a negative tan base. Like if tan was a credit line, I’d owe money on goods I can’t even afford to charge.

By nature I resist direct sunlight. Resistance is an understatement, it’s more like categorically avoid intentional or indirect exposure. As a rough guide, the thermometer must breach ninety-five degrees before shorts replace jeans, and t-shirts sub for long sleeves jerseys. At that point I hover around the A/C until nightfall. However, during this brief fit of enlightenment, or misplaced reason, even the – gasp – swim trunks saw daylight.

The white orb that blinded several children at the ocean’s end was light reflecting off my pasty frame.

Perhaps I’ll try this beach thing again soon. Right after the welts heal.

NOTE: There are no actual welts, only random patches of redness. This is what some call a comic device. You can laugh at me now.

In the course of the Atkins diet, I craft a number of food substitutions, replacing high carb foods with low carbohydrate equivalents. One of my favorites substitutes for mashed potatoes, a little dish named mashed cauliflower. The recipe is as the title sounds. Blend two cups of cooked cauliflower and two tablespoons of heavy cream, and onward to low carb goodness.

Only on my first attempt, there was a slight mishap. I hit the button and…nothing happened.

Now imagine the horror when the cauliflower holds it’s given form, despite the razor blades grinding. And then imagine when the chef loses his patience and uses a plastic spoon to push the cauliflower closer to the blades.

After the cauliflower spackled the ceiling, walls, and my face, the Wife appeared. “Next time try the food processor attachment.”

“Oh.” At last the root of my failure became clear. “So the food processor button on the blender won’t work.”