So we met with a nutritionist last night

It turns out that a sheet cake and a fork do NOT make a balanced breakfast.

With all the workouts we’re doing to get cruise-ready by March, we want to make sure we’re eating right so we’re not sabotaging all our sweaty, exhausting efforts. We’re pretty sure we have healthful diets and responsible eating habits, but three facts remain: 1) We’re ultimately just guessing what foods are helping and/or hurting us, 2) We still have a frustrating layer of poochiness around our middles and 3) Rick Warren is a total douchebag assclown.

SO! Now we’re writing down every damn thing we eat in little food diaries the nutritionist gave us. And by “food diary” I mean “sheet of paper with lines on it.” But “food diary” sounds way more legitimate. In any case, we’ll give them to the nutritionist early next week, and she’ll tell us what we’re doing right and what stupid misguided things we’re doing that are unwittingly condemning us to the body fascism G-list. Which is the gay D-list. But with a G. For “gay.” Get it? Why do I have to explain everything to you people?

In the mean time, we’re sticking to the delicious and delightfully varied chicken/turkey/cottage cheese/broccoli/spinach/egg white/protein shake meal plan we devised for ourselves. And we’re still pooching over our waistbands like the chicken/turkey/cottage cheese/broccoli/spinach/egg white/protein shake muffins we are. BUT! Now we’re writing it all down on paper. And that’s a recipe for success. Get it? Ingredients? Written down on paper? Making a recipe? Sheesh, you people are slow.