Mount the Donkey (or The Ghandi of Maneaters, part 2)

As it turns out, the bluebird has a tiny ass, which is difficult to kick what with all the flitting.  We could either tie the little bastard down, or try to fix the problem he represents in my casserole of analogies.

And speaking of casseroles, I need to address some things that I threw into the pot before the oven door creaked open…

a. The pre-diet man snacking:  I wouldn’t say that I started out embodying the traditional definition (or even the urban definition) of a maneater.  I never set out on a hunt for some gullible guy to flay and/or consume.  I don’t have a carcass cave like those scary lions in that one movie where people walk around in tall grass in the middle of the night with their pheromones whispering waftily, “Here kitty, kitty!”  BUT, (and step away from your high horse if you don’t mind) in HINDsight… while in the pursuit of taking full responsibility for my life as is and for every decision I make, I have discovered that though they were willing and warned (I always warned them about “how I am”), for my part, I was most definitely using them.  Much like one uses a handy Snickers bar to stave off hunger.

Oh nutty goodness!

It’s so hard to say “No” to a big ol’ hunk of candy that’s following you around telling you how pretty you are and how good you smell and when that mouth watering snack is a very attractive, oh and by the way professional, athlete and there is over six feet of hot young muscle breathing fire down your neck, well… it’s just so hard.

b.  Which brings me to the part where I cheated on the Diet.  But only thrice (say it quick and it sounds like twice) in a year.   The first one was the aforementioned naughty nut bar, then some guy singing Run DMC at a karaoke bar.  And the last one was my childhood sweetheart (which is a blog post for another time).  And to be clear and yet super fuzzy, the definition of “cheat” ranges from meaningful glances all the way to the now-nuked nooky, and everything in between to include contemplating a walk in the woods and crumbled life parts, etc.  You know, just to be clear, but still fuzzy enough to keep you from mounting up on that high horse.  Mount a donkey, it’s a shorter fall.

c.  And speaking of donkeys, and the mounting thereupon, I’m reminded of yet another fairy tale.  Each time the lightening struck, all the shortcomings I had been making Brementown Musiciansexceptions for began to stack up right in front of me, like the Bremen Town Musicians.  You plant a crowing cock on a mewling puss on a howling bitch on a braying ass and you’ve got a tall order of Nevermind with a little What the Hell Was I Thinking on the side.  Yet, despite what had become their unavoidable menagerie of flaws, I never blamed the men or their flaws for the “failed” relationships.

I always knew, in the moments of clarity after the lightening strike, that I wasn’t dragged down that path.  I had walked right along with them, and all the way I was throwing away what I could never ultimately live without and blindly accepting what I could never ultimately live with.  I could see it all perfectly, in hindsight.  This Man Diet is a way for me to take the time I need, to step back and really assess, so I can stop repeating history and learn from it instead.

Well, apparently we still have a Bluebird’s ass to kick.  It’s difficult to do in 500 words or less, especially when you get stuck in the dreaded Casserole of Analogies.  So me, Yoda, and the Cheshire Cat (and to some extent Ghandi and Captain Jack Sparrow) have our work cut out for us.  Onward!  To the kicking of the fowl ars!

But for now…

That’ll do, donkey.

Tune in for Part 3 here…  where Frodo wants to know why Yoda gets to be in my blog and accuses me of being a “hobbiphobe”. 


Disgruntled Hobbit