My mom has decided to eliminate sugar from her diet. That’s a bit like me swearing off hoses and Robert or Queen Elizabeth waking up one morning and saying, “No tea for me, thank you very much.” But I should start by saying this is not the first time my mom has attempted the impossible. A few years back, she lasted six and a half days before gorging on a piece of Sweet Lady Jane wedding cake. Things went downhill from there. Last November, she ended up going three days sans sweet stuff, but caved as soon as she landed in Australia and saw Pavlova on a dessert menu. Because everything is opposite down there, she ordered it for breakfast…you know, like a local.

Sugar is something I enjoy. Who doesn’t? But it’s not my vice. I like a good chunk of dried sweet potato every now and then but the choice between, say, a rib eye or a snickerdoodle has always been very clear to me. By that I mean: Rib eye. Perhaps being allergic to chocolate has something to do with this?

Anyway, when the Ginger Lady told me she was cutting the stuff out, I rolled my eyes and went back to sleep on the sofa I’m not allowed to be on. But I’ve since learned that she actually means it. This, reader, is no small matter. The girl eats pints of ice cream like they were lone M&Ms. Her cookie habit single-handedly allowed multiple west-side bakeries to weather the recent recession. I can’t overstate this: she loves sugar. I know you’re probably thinking the woman must be built like a bulldog, but she’s not. She’s a yoga teacher who takes fitness every bit as seriously as I take napping. In fact, it was her yoga practice that got us into this mess in the first place. A little while back, she sprained her hip. In an effort to treat the inflammation naturally, if possible, the Doc inquired about her diet. Whether she should have or not is another story, but my mom told the truth—that she consumes desserts the same way an aspiring Sumo Wrestler shovels down rice. Big surprise, that medical professional shut her down. No more sugar. None. Not even the kind in fruit.

Suffice it to say, things have not been fun for yours truly. Today is day four of the madness and her mood—consistently terrible, punctuated by encouraging bursts of awful—doesn’t seem to be improving. Did I mention she can’t sit still? Yesterday, I rolled out of bed and found myself in the bathtub before I’d even had the chance to stretch. I was still swallowing the last of my breakfast when she decided NOW was a good time to clip my nails. THE. WORST.  Oh, and she accidently smeared my personal peanut butter (from the jar labeled “Bogie’s Not Sanitary”) all over her paleo toast. Now she’s insisting I walk her every hour so she can “stay busy.” On top of that, with the exception of these ridiculous walks, she’s refusing to leave the house—something about too many temptations. This seriously messes with my gardening duties and social calendar. I’ve had zero time to chill with Robert. The poor chicken hasn’t seen the light of day since last weekend. In other news, the entire house has been reorganized. This began, of course, in the refrigerator. I watched as perfectly good half-eaten pints of ice cream got tossed like yesterday’s Droolitzer. Who is this person? I miss my mom.

So, reader, while I’d like nothing more than to be reviewing a restaurant right about now, I’m trapped in my office listening to Enya while my mother researches “sugar free chocolate mousse”. Barf-ola. In an effort to understand how long this strange behavior will last, I made the mistake of googling “sugar detox symptoms.”  Good DOG, this is gonna be a haul. Best case scenario, she caves this weekend and goes to Jon and Vinny’s for a breakfast donut.

Stay hungry my friends…