So I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow, which is usually rich material for blogging. Last week I looked at the appointment on the calendar and then looked at my scale and thought, "I should go on a diet." Then I looked at HIM, the man to whom I'm married, and said, "You should go on a diet, too." HIM looked at me and said, "But why? Why me?" I said, "Because I have all the power." HIM said, "I'm leaving you until you stop dieting." (Most of that conversation was really in my head.) In my head I yelled back, "AND I'M TAKING ALL THE HALLOWEEN CANDY!" Then HIM screamed, "NOES! Don't take all the Halloween candy! Please!" Then the whole imaginary conversation denigrated into what my version of Pulp Fiction should have really been about, because I went on a diet and my brain immediately broke.
1.) Dieting sucks. I walk by the Halloween candy every day. My daughter, who got a ton of candy, doesn't really eat it much. (So not my daughter.) I'm not even talking about the yucky candy like the dum dums or the gummy bear package. (I don't know which sick bastard gave her a package of pretzels but I hope he got TP'd.) She's not eating the Snickers bars or the Three Muskateers bars, or, horrors of horrors, the Reeces Peanut Butter Cups. I don't know who could not eat the Reeces Peanut Butter Cups, but they must be a zombie. Therefore I've come to the conclusion that my daughter is a zombie because she won't eat the Reeces Peanut Butter Cups. (Conversely I'm sort of proud of her. When she wants something she gets it, but mostly it's good just when she feels like it. There's no eat the candy until she pukes, unlike how I was when I was ten years old.)
3.) HIM is a cheater. Not the kind where he goes off and finds wild women, but the kind who cruises past the vending machines at his work. (What I imagine he says to the vending machine: "Hey, baby, looking good with G4. Give me that chocolate nougat yumminess. I have a few extra quarters.") I don't work there, you see, and he knows I don't work there. Plus I can't tell the people he works with to watch him to make sure he's not diet-cheating. (That should be shortened to di-eating. Get it?) But hey he eats his brekky muffin with the poached egg. (I added spinach, mushrooms, and green onions to it, so it wasn't completely bland.) Then he does his lunch. By the time he gets home he's ravenous. Then I go to bed and eats all the Cheezits in the house. HIM sucks.
5.) Watching television is pure f**king torture because I've come to realize that those sponsors know exactly when to play the food commercials. Arby's. Hardee's. Red Lobster. All of them, criminals. This is what they say: "Look, here's our super ultra fatty food that you must eat, b*tches! You want it! And we have mounds of cheese, too!" I bet they have a group of fat testers who tell them stuff. "Put the commercial on right about 8 p.m. when all fat people are wavering dangerously. Make sure the cheese is dripping and there's bacon on everything. Play upbeat music. Make eating fun, delicious, and sexy." TV sucks as much as dieting. (I tried sticking to the kid's channels for Cressy, but you know what, you can salivate over an Easy Bake oven commercial.)