I actually walked all the way there, through the snow, got to the door, and discovered that Mary had stolen my keys and I couldn’t get in. So I trudged back home, retrieved my keys, and then was so worn out (I’ve been laid up for a few months now) and so cold (yes, it’s a major snow day) that I gave up and put on my warm slippers and told myself I’d try again tomorrow.
No hurry. We’re supposed to get around 10cm of snow today, better to spend the time indoors.
It’s another day on this Zoe nutrition plan. This was my breakfast.
This is the last, fortunately. Now we get to scan and log everything we eat for a while. Yay.
After a day on a strictly defined and timed diet, we got to stick our fingers and bleed on a piece of test paper, which we’ll now send away for our prize, which I think is 6 more months on a diet where everything I eat has to be scanned and weighed. Do you like my band-aid?
I fast all morning, and this is the reward I get?
Two muffins this time, less rubbery, more crumbly, but still not very good. Now I wait around until 3, and then I get to poke myself for a blood test.
Hey, while I was trapped in forced, hungry indolence, at least I got the syllabus done for my second spring semester course!
If you’re just sitting around, digesting rubbery muffins like I am, may I recommend the Namib Desert cam? Right now there’s a herd of oryx hanging around the waterhole.
My wife has us on this Zoe nutrition test, as I mentioned yesterday. Today we’re on a tightly constrained dietary test: we have a supply of muffins we have to eat on a fixed schedule, with intermittent fasting, while the glucose meter installed in my flesh records my responses, and then later today I have to do a blood test. Funzies!
I had to eat three of these within 15 minutes.
They have the texture and taste of foam rubber. It’s not a flavor I associate with Christmas — maybe I should have sprinkled them with nutmeg and cinnamon? Nah, that would violate the experimental protocol.
Now I’m instructed to fast for four hours, and then I get more muffins!
I hate this. Where’s my lefse and krumkake?
Even lutefisk would be better than this!
What a nicely decorated Christmas tree!
As a final touch, it really needs a dessicated corpse dressed in a red suit somewhere beneath the tree.
Since I’m not celebrating anything, and am lacking in family obligations, and don’t have to cook dinner, I was at a loss for things to do…so I got my genetics syllabus done, put together a quiz, reviewed the material for the first lab, and prepped my first lecture. I am such a good boy! It’s going to be especially galling now when Santa leaves me nothing at all this year.
This is a bizarre (but very short) video talking about a letter written by Eric Hovind, about his father, Kent Hovind. It’s a bit inside baseball — Kent Hovind divorced his wife, Jo Hovind, the woman who got dragged into prison as a consequence of her participation in his scam to defraud the government of taxes. He then married a woman named Mary Tocco, who later left him because she suspected he was up to no good again. Hovind told everyone that his divorce and remarriage was fully endorsed by his family and all the good Christians he knew, but apparently not. This letter lists all the people who told him this was a bad idea.
Kent Hovind lied, no surprises there.
The video was posted by his current “wife”, Cindi Lincoln (he seems not to have divorced Tocco before the wedding), who is also the woman he was convicted of abusing, and at this point I am overwhelmed by the soap opera and give up. Lincoln tries to explain.
Eric’s email lists 17 professional counselors, attorneys, Board Members, family members and friends who advised Kent NOT to marry Mary, but Kent refuses to heed. Kent also lied to the public about “everyone telling him to marry Mary, and that only 1 or 2 people told him not to.”
Just like with me, Kent and I had several friends, DAL leaders, family, legal, and counselors give advise for Kent to pay me what he signed for, and to put his wife over Steve, and to NOT torment me with Steve, Ernie, and Brady’s abuse. Kent refused to heed their advise.
Here’s a PSA: don’t ever get romantically involved with Kent Hovind. He’s a psychopath, and it will always end badly.
Matt Powell, I hope you’ve got everything in writing.
I hope you’re all a lot less depressed than I am. This is not a good time of year for me, but maybe you’re still doing fine. Good! Celebrate!
Here’s my Christmas misery.
My father died quietly, in his sleep, on Christmas 28 years ago. You’d think it would stop hurting after 28 years, and no, it doesn’t, and it’s what I think of when I hear the word “Christmas”.
That is not to say that there aren’t good associations, too — I had many years with kids getting deliriously happy at Christmas. Unfortunately, we’re not going to see any of them this year. We’ll all hunkering down in our houses and refusing to see anyone, or to have parties, or to even go outside. The family aspect, the best part of the season, is gone.
Then, I got my Christmas present from my wife. Christmas presents are good, right? Nope, not this one. She signed me up for this thing called Zoe Personal Nutrition, which is all about microbiome analysis and monitoring the effects of your diet on your physiology. The science is appealing. I like contributing to a scientific project as a subject. The reality is a little less thrilling.
Yesterday, I stabbed myself with this continuous glucose monitor that I’ll be wearing for two weeks. That’s not so bad.
Christmas Eve is poop sampling day. I got some gloves and a disposable sheet to spread across the toilet and a scoop and a sealable test tube and a mailer. Oh boy.
Tomorrow I get to stick myself to take blood samples, and all I get to eat is some special muffins for breakfast and lunch. That’s my Christmas feast: prepackaged frozen muffins.
After that, I’ll be scanning and weighing every single thing I eat for the next six months, and Mary is going to be monitoring my diet closely. Doesn’t that sound fun? I tried to tell her she could have saved a lot of money and labor if we just got a pizza for Christmas dinner, but apparently I don’t eat pizzas anymore.
The end result, though, will be Science, I guess. A research team will know all about my microbiome composition, and how my body responds to various factors in my diet, and they’ll tell me all about it, and get a publication or two out of it. I have no idea what I’ll do with the information — giving me a catalog of what species reside in my colon is about as useful as telling me that I’m a Pisces.
Oh, well. Christmas sucks anyway. I’ll probably spend the day hanging out in the lab alone with my spiders.
