Intervention me. Please.

I know that part of this must go “accept the things I cannot change, and the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference”. But there is the problem. I am so blinded by my puffy eyelids, so groping with my chubby fingers that I cannot tell the difference.. the difference between a salad and that plate of bacon over there that I smell.

This happens every year that I come home. Gradually at first. We walk in the door from the airport and my mother is all too happy to make us but a bite to eat. Like waffles. Or veggies and dip. Who, I tell you, who in their sane mind off a flight from the airline that shall not be named choses the G.D. veggies and dip? She’s in cahoots with them. I know. She’s a pusha lady.

In the days that follow it only gets worse. Plates of hot madelaines lay around the house. Visits to Nicastro’s for fresh pizzas with brie and pancetta are always just an afterthought. Surprise “finding” duck confit in the fridge, would you like some wine with that? Pretty soon you’re falling asleep in bed with a nanaimo bar in hand, drooling cholately drool over your new pot belly as you watch Law and Order SVU reruns, creeping down to the kitchen in the middle of the night, pulling forks silently out of the drawer to dig at the praline cake on the counter. You wake up vaguely smelling of smokehouse nuts with the worst taste ever in your mouth thinking “please god let there just be a little whipped cream left for my coffee”.

I’ve taken to walking around with the top button of my jeans undone, tugging down my shirt when I have to go out for a full fat cinnamon dolce latte with extra whip to you know.. just take the edge off. I peed, took off all my clothes, put down the slice of cheese I was eating and I have gained 3 lbs in a week. And all I could think was “well, it’s late in the day and I bet my boobs and hair weigh at least a few lbs…”

Oh help.

*Coincedentally, my camera committed suicide last night. As I was reaching for beef stroganoff it leapt off of the counter, smashing the side of the lens in so it can’t zoom/focus. *sadness* At least it will remember me as I was..



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4 responses to “Intervention me. Please.

  1. What is it with mom’s? They really do think it’s their job to overfeed us! My mom was the one who pointed out that I was gaining weight when I was 13…now I go there for a day and she insists on feeding me three meals!!

  2. hahaha yessss

    Also: my eyes literally widened cartoon style at the mention of brie on pizza… swoon…

  3. I know this feeling well. My waistline is begging for January…

  4. My mom does the same thing, except with this concoction of cheddar cheese, sour cream, cream of chicken soup, and hasbrowns, baked and covered with butter-soaked cornflakes. It’s to die for. And I love her for it.

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