Seasoning....

Tis the season. For what? I can’t be sure. Binge eating I suspect. For me, the ball starts rolling in September when I turn 25 for the 42nd time. I get better looking every year. It’s a fact. At least that’s what my husband says. He can’t be trusted. He has an agenda. No cake. That’s been my punishment since I met him. I’m fat. Fat people like cake. Why deprive me on the one day when it’s acceptable for me to indulge? I think he does it on purpose. Blah Blah…I took you to dinner on Saturday and the waiter brought you cake. That was one piece. After “25 years” I think I’ve earned the right to the whole cake, haven’t I? One piece? Who does he think he’s dealing with? I ate the entire top of our wedding cake myself. Well except for the one piece tradition dictated I smear in his face. Waste of good cake if you ask me. Buying me dinner and cake on Saturday doesn’t exempt you from celebratory protocol when my birthday falls on a Monday. There are rules regarding this sort of skewed male logic. If you choose to treat me to a little pre-birthday grazing, fine. I shall play along. However, I still expect to be taken to trough on Monday. And for the record…cake isn’t optional. I’m starting to think we should renew our vows and address this issue as it seems to come up every year. Thank God for the local chapter of Sisters in Fat. They came to the table with a chocolate cake dripping in chocolate icing. I dare say they baked it in a chocolate pan. Now that’s love.

Moving right along. October. Thirty one days of hell. All the deals on Halloween candy start at the beginning of the month. Yet Halloween is all the way at the end. Quite a pickle for a frugal fatty. To buy or not to buy? Buy of course. I just blame my husband. He likes the mini-sized candy treats, so I “say” they are for him. However, he never sees the writing on the wrapper. Unless he looks in the trash. That’s where I dispose of them. Right underneath anything large enough to cover the crime. I tried buying one of those bowls with the battery operated hand that grabs you when you reach for the candy. I guess it’s supposed to scare you into submission? Not so much. I got mad game. It takes the same size batteries as the remote to the TV. Given the state of the economy, we only have 1 set of batteries in the whole house. Suffice it to say the TV wins that battle. Besides, I don’t need a clammy hand grabbing at me whilst I am trying to watch “The Biggest Loser” and enjoy my evening “snack bar.” By the time Halloween rolls around I’m just….angry. At this point I’ve had to buy candy six times. The fruits of my labor are clearly visible. To make matters worse, it’s not appropriate to fight with people under 3 feet tall over sugar. It’s just not. They win by default and I end up looking like a deranged fatty. So unfair. Typically, I don’t allow people to come to my house without calling. Yet on October 31st, I willingly open my home and share chocolate. I must be high from the sugar because this just doesn’t happen to a Sister in Fat. Sharing chocolate? Sharing? I don’t share. Technically it’s not sharing because it’s not my candy. It’s my husbands. Remember?

Time to cleanse the pallet in preparation for Thanksgiving. I dare say the Pilgrims are first generation Sisters in Fat. Think about it. Who else would make a holiday out of eating? I’m sure the world would have you believe there was something more prolific going on there, but I choose to believe otherwise. It’s a SIF holiday. Case closed. I literally eat until it hurts. And then I nap until the hurt goes away. Repeat until midnight. While I am known more for my consumption than my cooking, I do “get my bake on” around the holidays. Mostly because my wallet cannot keep up with my veracious appetite. I bake all sorts of cookies, breads and confections. Mother thinks I go overboard. “How are you going to eat all of these cookies before they spoil,” she says. Since she lost all her weight the woman can’t carry a conversation. Who are you? I fear the brain cells went with the fat cells. Let this be a lesson to all, fat people are by far smarter than the average light weight. “How am I going to eat them before they spoil?” Have you seen my ass? Crisis averted. Christmas marks the end of my stint as Betty Crocker and the death of “old me.” After celebrating the birth of Jesus, I always ask for a parting gift. What? Like you don’t have a Christmas list? Mine is just delayed a bit. Out of respect. It’s the same every year. A miracle….the miracle of “new me.” God help me he must not have on his Miracle Ear because after all these year, “old me” has yet to leave the building! Lord, hear my prayer!