Diet Shasta is not nearly as good as Diet Pepsi or Diet Coke... or even Diet Dr. Pepper or Diet 7Up, but it was the ONLY soda I found without aspartame. The dietician says that the problem with aspartame (and saccharin) is that the molecules break down at 95 degrees, and nobody knows where they go and what happens to them. Truvia is derived from plants and considered safe and sucralose (Splenda) is chlorine attached to a sugar molecule. That doesn't sound awesome, but they break down at something like 700 degrees, so they stay attached while in your body, so you just expel it in the same manner it came in- your body does not absorb the chlorine or the sugar.
That sounded reasonable to me, and I was sure I had seen sodas sweetened with Splenda, but after prowling through the soda aisle, I only came up with Diet Shasta. When I say that, all I hear is George Carlin complaining that all that's left in the motel vending machine is Diet Shasta Orange. Mom says that when all you're left with is Diet Shasta, it's probably time to stop drinking soda. Maybe. I can handle the taste... if I drink it fast. Sigh.
Yesterday I was wearing the leash and poop bags all day. Today I remembered to take off the leash, but walked into work with a big, poufy produce bag hanging out of my back pocket. I did not understand the stares.
I made a banana bread last night for the pot luck today, but my oven has no timer, so I set the one on the microwave. Unfortunately, I was downstairs trying to check on the availability of the one washer and dryer in my building when the timer went off. The one at the house had a very obnoxious, high-pitched long beeeeeep that would continue every other minute until you turned it off, but this one just beeps and is done; if you miss it, eh, oh well. So I came back upstairs and wandered around, cleaning things up, putting things away until I noticed that the clock was no longer counting down. I thought I could get away with it- put up a sign that says: JUST EAT THE MIDDLE, but when I went into the break room to make my donation, I saw that somebody else had made a bread- looked like it had cranberries in it. Their bread was perfectly baked, sliced into totally defendable small halves, arranged nicely on a plate, and covered with plastic wrap. All I had was a burned banana bread wrapped in foil, and no plastic knife was going to break through that crust. I turned around and brought my sad banana bread back to my desk where it will sit like the rejected lump that it is until I can bring it home and cut off the ends. Then I'll eat it all in my sad little apartment with some expired milk and cry loudly in front of Bridget Jones' Diary.
My cubicle neighbors must think I'm insane. Earlier I was sobbing as silently as possible, but a few crying mews and gasps escaped and then I was honking like an elephant when blowing my nose, trying to pull it together. Maybe they thought I was crying over my burned bread. Now I'm snorting with laughter from the end of that last paragraph. Ah, good stuff, good stuff.
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