Get outta my house

So the juicing thing. Yeah. I'm trying to make my body inhospitable to cancer cells, and one thing most intel doesn't go on to say beyond the holy trinity of diet/exercise/environment is that shifting your body's pH and eating more alkaline foods can not only keep cancer at bay but can kill the sucker dog cells dead.

The obvious alkaline helpers include your garden variety fruits and leafy greens as well as some nuts and spices. The acid dogs include the usual soda/booze/most dairy/most meat/most grains - the fun stuff. But trying to cram all the right leafy greens and fruits into a single body that's been hell-bent on producing cancer cells instead of killing them is not an easy task. Especially when the sense of taste has been blown off one's tongue. Hence the juicer. For the past couple of years I've been reading up on this jazz, and every once in awhile, the juicer has come out of the basement to entertain us for a spell. Hopefully this time it's here to stay.

The typical cocktail includes cuke, celery, some kind of leaf (lettuce, beet top, kale) and something to sweeten, like pear or apple. It's not fantastic to drink but it's okay. Getting it all bought, stored, chopped, juiced and cleaned is a pain in the arse, but really, is that my complaint? And it takes me beyond worrying about the twinges in my breast (bad cells dividing?), the high WBC count in my last blood test (bad cells dividing?) and whatever fucked up universe might await me (bad cells dividing?) and into the sphere of control.

And in typical Cadboro Bay fashion, I made contact with the parents of one of Stella's school friends and they want to lend me their super-duper mega-expensive juicer that channels the enzymes and such. "Designed for cancer girls, darling!" Rockin' good times.