Observations on Dieting OR OH NOES, NOT ANOTHER DIET BLOG!

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.

Observations:

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.)

2.) I'm sick of salads after seven days.  I'm not even eating them more than once a day.  This was the menu for the week.  Brekky muffin with poached egg.  Green leafy salad for lunch.  Yogurt snacky poo mid-afternoon.  Regular dinner with low carbs.  I've lost six pounds in one week but I hate it.  I want to barf if I look at a poached egg again.  I want to smother everything with cheese, lots of cheese, mounds of cheese.  Salads suck.

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.

4.) The half gallon of vanilla ice cream in the freezer that's been there for about a month is calling my name like a diabolical fiend from the realm called Diets Will Fail!  "CAREN!" it calls.  "We need you to eat us!  We taste good!  We're vanilla-y good!  We will melt in your fat mouth!  Come to us!"  Leftover ice cream 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.)

6.) Exercise sucks.  Right now I'm doing walkies.  I walk for 30 minutes a day.  I walk my ass off.  So I get home, sit down, and then I can't get up.  What the he-ell?  And my hips hurt.  What do my hips have to do with walkies?  Is this some arcane sign of old age that no one filled me in on?  Walkies suck.  Old hipbones suck, too.

7.) I need to interject something about the cat we adopted recently.  Splotch was a free range cat, i.e., someone lost him or dumped him.  He was that way for years which is why he wants lots of love and LOTS OF FOOD.  I call him Hoover Cat.  Hoover Cat weighs 15 pounds now and the vet has told me that Hoover Cat needs to loose weight.  However Hoover Cat wants to eat...everything...now.  So I decided I have to hide the food from Hoover Cat.  One would think that Megaroy, the other moron cat, would have lost weight, but somehow Megaroy has gained a pound too.  I always think it's a big laugh when the vet tells me that my cat(s) are fat and need to loose weight.  It's not like I don't have to listen to that from my doctor because, oh, yes, I do.  Now I have to listen to it from the cats' doctor, too.  This sucks.

In conclusion, everything sucks.  I want a cheeseburger.