Forgive me bloggers for I have sinned.

It’s been exactly one week since my last weigh in.

In that time, I consumed a mere twelve glasses of wine and can say with certainty that no pizza touched these lips. I’m not sure if that came across clearly, so I’ll type it again. NO PIZZA. No french fries. No fondue and no pate. Just 2 Points Bars and butter-sprayed popcorn and Chardonnay and Oxygen.

So you can imagine my surprise when I took off my shoes, my winter coat and my hairpiece and stepped onto the scale, only to have the cruel box register me as SIX OUNCES down from my last weight. Six ounces down. In 168 hours. The weight of your thong or the eyelashes on your freaking goldfish.

Did I mention that I actually exercised this week?

So you can also imagine I was somewhat upset. And then of course it would make sense that my next action was to reach behind the makeshift cashier’s desk, motion the petite “WW Success Story” cashier toward me with a quivering fat finger, and when I could smell the skinny on her, ask quietly, “come again?”

So I’m guessing you can also appreciate that when she simply repeated my lame weight loss total through her Stila’d lips that I was basically forced to pull her perky ass over the counter in one frenzied motion. I’m pretty sure I forced her to sit on the scale without removing her bat sunglasses or 40-lb Forever XXI beads or Size 0 gauchos. The details of what followed that are more of a blur, but I do recall a fellow Weight Watcher tossing me a bag of Ho Hos and me force feeding the defenseless Dub Dub employee while the weigh in line chanted, “THAT’S A FULL HOUSE, MARY KATE!” and “YOU’RE DOOMED, KLUM!” and possibly even, “HELP HER, FONDA!” Dick Simmons would have been brought to tears.

I couldn't find "assault" in the exercise tracker, but I'm pretty sure that counted as like two total exercise points. I’m so going to be down at least eight ounces next week.