October 11, 2005

Bill, Dave, and Binging

I just reread yesterday’s entry, and now I feel really guilty about the two Mounds I had before bed. Also the Hershey bar dunked in peanut butter. Also, the Pepperidge Farm cookie. Why can’t I stop eating sugar? And why does MS Word know the word “Pepperidge”? Bill Gates must have a thing for Nantuckets. Nope, it can’t be Nantuckets—Word doesn’t recognize that word. Milanos? Nope. Chantillies? Genevas? Goldfish? AHA! He likes goldfish.

Anyway, I can’t keep my hands off the sugar. I think I will try buying a bag of butterscotch discs or root beer barrels for my sugar cravings. Yeah, they are just a bunch of empty calories, but they’re not fat and calories. I am trying to think of ways to head my stomach off at the pass. Actually, it’s more like my brain, because I’m not even hungry—I just want to eat all of the sugar in the house. No, it’s not PMS—I checked that already, but thanks for thinking of me. I’m scared of what will happen when Fat Week does actually arrive—nine Mounds before bed? A whole pint of ice cream? Good thing we’re headed into sweater season. NO! Bad Beedoo! Focus! Wheat crackers and prunes. Yogurts. Lovely, lovely rice cakes.

So anyway, I had quite the rumbly tummy this morning, thanks to my binge. And I remembered right before I dropped off to sleep that I forgot to set up the tape so my aunt can get her weekly fix of CSI or CIS or SUV or whatever, so in addition to all the food in the house with a molecule of sugar in it, I was also sleeping on guilt. (It turned out she set up the tape herself, though, so crisis avoided. Not that I still didn’t have dreams that I was being chased by David Caruso. I couldn’t run, because I weighed 300 pounds, so I hid behind the couch until he ran out into the front yard, which had palm trees. So then I tried to set the tape, but of course I couldn’t read the Comcast screen, because you can’t read in dreams. But I did see the word ERROR; my brain has it memorized, because as the Comcast server hates me in real life, so shall it also hate me in my dreams. Then I realized the clicker in my hand was actually a Hershey bar. I was really frustrated at this point, so I decided to eat it, but when David Caruso showed back up I had to split it with him so he wouldn’t kill me.) Note to aunt: Please tell me when you check up on me, so I don’t have to share my dream-candy with TV-star murderers anymore. Thank You.

So I was just a little bit off this morning, as you can imagine. My oldest sister came into town this morning with her two kids, and I really wanted to go to breakfast with them and my mother, whom I never see, but I responsibly ended up coming to work. Now I regret it. I should have just called in and said I was going to be late. I would just tell them I was skiving off for the morning, and they’d just have to deal. Or, if I wanted to keep my job, I could have lied and called it a family emergency. I could have said someone was sick or dying, or otherwise just ‘needed me’ in some urgently vague way. Then if they hassled me, I could yell “Dammit, man—there are LIVES at stake here!”, as I have always wanted to do but tragically never had the opportunity. Because we all know that the best movies are always those which contain the lines “Dammit, man!”, “My God, man!”, or “Are you mad?!”* Here, you say it—you’ll like it. “My God man—have you gone mad?!” It’s twice as fun if you do it with an accent.

I don’t know if they would have bought it, though. It’s just as well I didn’t go—I would have ordered pancakes, which I don’t need, and which would make it extra hard to run later, but hey—how often do you get to have breakfast with your Mom, sister, niece and nephew without the rest of the annoying family present? Oh… not everyone has this problem? Not everyone was born into a small colony, like ants or bees or the Borg? Hey—Bill Gates also watches Star Trek. Anyone shocked?

I didn’t think so.

* I watch a lot of PBS. And BBC. And anything else where people wear bonnets.

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