The One Where I Talk About Poop. A Lot. No, Seriously.

Oh. My. God. My name is Struggling Buddha and yesterday I took an epic poo, the likes of which has never been seen before in all of eternity in all of nature since the dawn of time. I don’t think I’m overstating this. It was the greatest poo that ever had the pleasure of landing in a bowl. I can’t even…y’all…it was like the perfect poo. First of all, it was approximately the size of a pole vaulter’s pole. I have never, in my time on earth, taken a crap that long. It could have been used as a javelin or perhaps a harpoon. Other things my poo could have been used for: 

A nuclear warhead.
A replacement arm for Shaquille O’Neal should he ever lose one of his.
A log in a real-life game of Frogger.
Paul Bunyan’s axe.
Another Washington Monument, in case we decide we want to do another one in brown.
A grain silo.
A small-arms weapon to aim at North Korea.
A burrito for the Jolly Green Giant.
A blind man’s cane.

I haven’t told you the worst part. 

I took a picture of it! Never in my life have I ever done such a thing! In fact, I rarely even look at my poops, which I understand is something that most people do, but since I knew this one was special, I had to look. And then I had to document it. 

Wait, it gets even worse.

I showed it to my wife. I KNOW! I’m repulsive and disgusting and should be publicly shamed in the Middle Ages manner of chaining me to a porta-potty and allowing people to throw cat poop at me. I have friends who have told me that sometimes they show their poops to their spouse, and I have always asserted to The Wife “We will never be those people!!!”

And yet, here we are. A line has been crossed. I now have to live in fear for the rest of my days of a poop picture retaliation. One day I will be lying bed, and I will open my eyes, and there she’ll be, holding her iPhone two inches from my sleep-crusted eyes, saying “Holy shit honey, will you look at this shit?!?!” And it will actually be shit. And I will have brought it upon myself. 

John Irving once wrote that we need to have attention paid to us during our moments of extravagance. I needed to show that poop to someone. I now I have to live with the consequences. And the knowledge that I am someone who has showed my turd to another human. The horror, the shame. 

We ate some stuff yesterday. Lunch was my favorite fucking meal so far. It was amazeballs! Using the chicken from the night before, we tossed it with a half of a head of napa cabbage (yup, cabbage…yeesh), tangerines, silvered almonds, green onions, and the miso dressing from Day 1. I was dreading eating straight-up cabbage, but this salad was fucking phenomenal. That miso dressing recipe is a keeper for sure. Prep is so manageable now. The first day, I thought “If it’s gonna be like this for 14 days, I will commit hari kari with my chef knife.” But is gotten remarkably easier. Anyway, I forgot to take a picture of our salads so just go to the link and imagine ours looked way better than Bon Apetit’s picture, those hacks. 

Oh yeah, the other thing is that we haven’t been making the snacks or the desserts because lunch and dinner is so goddamned much food that we’re not hungry between or after meals. It’s a lot of food y’all, no word of a lie. But yesterday The Wife decided to make the chocolate bark thingie, and holy hell, I just fell upon it and feasted my face off. 


One of our besties came over with her kid while we were cooking dinner, and chaos ensued so I forgot to take pix of dinner too, but here is a picture of her child wearing one of the fake merkins I got for my last birthday:

And yes, I have friends who give me fake pubic hair for my birthday. Your jealousy is palpable. 

Dinner was really, really good! We loved the sweet potatoes, only we used yams because apparently I am the Barefoot Contessa and I sent my wife to the grocery store, and she pulled a Jeffery and got the wrong thing. “I sent Jeffery to the store to pick up some smoked salmon, god only knows what he’ll come home with!” (The “that moron” is always implied at the end of her statement.) I have always hoped that Jeffery has a chippie in the city since he has to put up with so much of the Vadge’s bullshit, but that’s a rant for another time. 

But because The Wife is a total badass at grilling meat, the hanger steak was cooked perfectly. It was tender, and the chimichurri sauce was excellent with it. We skipped the warm escarole salad because there was a small child running around, other shit to do, and too much food as it was. We didn’t miss it. And we didn’t do dessert because a bunch fruit piled atop other fruit is a bullshit dessert. Cake is a fucking dessert. Pies. Tarts. But oranges on top of mangoes? That shit doesn’t pass with us. 

So: good food day, great evening with our good friend and her charming-as-fuck kid. She was explaining how she makes up songs for his everyday activities, like she has a song that she sings when he gets diaper rash and has to put cream on his butthole. She calls it naturally “the cream on the butthole song” and sang it for us. At which point, her son looked up at her and said “No butthole cream, Mommy!” 

Dude, try this diet. You won’t even need toilet paper. This shit be TIDY. C’mere kid, lemme show you a picture…