I don’t know what makes me love you so.
Is it your shape or your milky glow?
I do not know.
I love you in your festive garb,
even though you’re not low carb.
When I put you to my chin, I grin.
When I lick your silky skin, I begin
to shiver with anticipation.
My teeth, your tender flesh will crush
and soon there will be a rush
of wonderful white liquid gush
that I will lick from my lips.
(It will forever sit on my hips.)
When I taste your sweetness I will sigh
and feel a drip roll down my thigh–
your flavor makes me high.
In a moment, I’ll have consumed you
and our time together will be through.
But I can do this all the night
more orbs of delight are in my sight!
If loving balls is wrong, I don’t want to be right.

-An Ode to Lindt White Chocolate Truffles
by Fanny

Everyone, Fanny. Fanny, this is everyone.

Fanny is the demonic fat girl who lives inside me. She used to live inside my friend Lynne, but she got bored and migrated to me. She’s been with me for about 6 weeks now and the bitch made me gain 4lbs.

This is a picture of Fanny and Lynne together this past Halloween. Fanny isn’t wearing a costume.


She makes me do bad things. She hates it when I do yoga, pilates, or yogilates. Exercise of any kind angers her and she punishes me by making me eat chocolates. She fucking hates salad. She makes me eat cake instead. Whenever I eat my Kashi fiber cereal, she forces me to put sugar on it. I’d go on, but you get the idea. She’s the epitome of evil.

Christmas is Fanny’s favorite time of year. Right now the break room table at work contains an enormous array of treats falling under the following categories: salty shit, nutty shit, dried shit, shit covered in chocolate, dried shit covered in chocolate, shit in the form of logs and balls, shit with cheese, shit that thinks it’s cheese but isn’t, and shit with Rachel Ray’s picture on the box. Fanny loves it all and laughs her diabolical laugh every time I go near that room of horrors.

I need an exorcist or something. I tried calling The Ghost Whisperer, but then I saw on Entertainment Tonight that Jennifer Love Hewitt is having her own big butt issues. I don’t think she’ll be returning my call. And Buffy is retired…

Any suggestions as to how I can fix my little situation would be appreciated. In the meantime, as a temporary solution, every time I think about going into the break room I’m going to bash myself in the face with the nearest heavy object.

Am I PMS ing or does anyone else find Rachel Ray psychotically perky?

The woman is too freaking happy all the fuckingtime. I understand that it’s her job and all to seem friendly, but come on. You know that sometimes she just had a really crappy day and would much rather come out on stage and tell everyone to just microwave some damn popcorn for dinner for all she cares. But she doesn’t, and I really don’t think it’s all the free Dunkin’ Donuts coffee or her Yum-O Sammies made with EVOO that are helping her muddle on through.

I think it’s something else.

I say there’s a recipe she’s not giving us.

I say she’s got the good stuff and she’s not sharing.

I think she’s cooking up a little crystal meth in the basement.

Work email is broken.

First my bread machine, and now this.

I am freaking out.

In an effort to control my panic, I have consumed a total of 5 Hershey kisses and am contemplating a 6th as I write this. This is some form of terrorist attack. I just know it.

How am I going to waste work time and hyper email my co-worker now? I can’t just get up and go over and talk to her! This means that I might actually have to do work all day. This is intolerable.

Does anyone else have this illness? Total and utter dependence on email? Is there a support group–E-mailers Anonymous or something, someplace where I can go for help?

All is not lost though. At least I have you…

Epilogue: We got email back about 5 minutes after I posted this. Had we not, I would have been searching the office for a means of suicide by about 10:30.

It’s almost Thanksgiving.

If my family is like yours, then you know that the holidays are a time when certain loved ones choose to unfurl their Freak Flags at the dinner table.

But what is it about the holidays that provoke such fucked up behavior? Is it the pressure of cooking the perfect turkey? Do such calamitous decisions such as whether or not to put mini marshmallows on top of the sweet potato casserole get people all worked up in a tizzy?

Whatever the reason, it’s the holidays and we’re all in misery.

Perhaps if we could actually choose the people at the table there wouldn’t be so many suicides during this time of year.

Bummer that we can’t though.

They’re family and we have to invite them.

For better or worse.

Here’s the parade of circus freaks coming to dinner at my house.

The Alcoholic: Okay, this is me. I assure you it’s the only way to survive Thanksgiving without being tempted to stuff the turkey with D-con.

The Party Pooper: This is the person who doesn’t understand or believe in holidays and would rather sit at home–just like every other day in his/her pathetic existence. They come so they can try to ruin it for the rest of us and hopefully score some leftovers in the meantime.

The Cry Baby: A close friend of the party pooper, they can often be seen moping in the corner together. This one always feels left out of every conversation, hates everything being served, and opts for bread and water (or as we like to call it The Prisoner’s Plate) instead.

Johnny Come Lately: Dinner is at 1. Johnny comes at 4:30. Johnny is a douche.

Debbie Downer: “Hey, did I tell you guys about my friend Gladys? Remember how her house burned down last year and the whole family had to live in their mini van for 6 months? Well, she just found out that she’s only got two months to live and her husband just found out he has anal cancer. So now their 3 blind children and 1 legged dog will all be orphans. Isn’t that soooo saaddd?”

The Unabomber: No one knows exactly what cousin Stu does, be we know it’s Not. Good. Anyone whose pocket contents include a piece of rope, duct tape and a hunting knife is highly suspect. Don’t let Stu anywhere near the electric carving knife. Just saying.

The Peace Keeper: He/she will willingly volunteer to sit in the uncomfortable chair, chop onions until eyes fall out, or sit next to the Unabomber.

The Tycoon: Such an important guy! Cell phone. Rings. Constantly. Loud conversations. Everyone forced to listen.

The Patient: When we’re not listening to the Tycoon’s business dealings, The Patient is more than happy to fill the dead air with stories about suspicious moles, gory spinal surgery, oozing pustules, bunions, urinary incontinence and chronic diarrhea.

Diarrhea forever! Mmmmm… please pass the gravy!

The Critic: ALWAYS has a comment: “These potatoes could have used more salt. What happened to the turkey? It’s so dry! You look different dear…have you gained weight?” Sit this one next to the Unabomber–and let him have that carving knife.

The Snot: “Well, we’ve just been having the hardest time getting the historical society to approve our architect’s plans for the new house in Nantucket. We’ve had to fly out almost every weekend in our private plane. Our children, you know, the Harvard educated lawyer and the MIT dot com-er, they’ve just been soooo busy with their careers that they hardly ever have any time to ski with us in the Alps anymore….Our son almost never gets to race his Audi…Ugh! I’m just so worn out! I hope things get better soon.”

Seriously people. Can you blame me for being The Alcoholic?

Happy Thanksgiving!

Now, where the hell did I put that bottle of wine…?