Relish the red onion!

Today was another Weight Watchers* weigh-in day. Did I fail to whine about being back on the Dub Dub again? Well I am. So suck it.

So for the past two weeks I have successfully managed to lose, and for effect I will wait for an insert-your-own-drumroll-here moment, a whopping .4 pounds. As in the U.S. equivalent of Bug's long-lost testicles. GRANTED, I attended a tiny wine event that served cream liquers and THE Dubliner cheese, both of which I may or may not have sampled, but for the rest of my six dieting days I lived on light popcorn and oxygen. Or so that's how I very precisely recorded it in my food journal.

My beef with this whole diet thing is, or should I say my 93% lean ground turkey with this whole thing is (ha, that's the processed humor product of a starving brain, people), is that I have absolutely no interest in the consumption of crap. Something does taste as good as being thin feels, friends, and it's called FOOOOOOOD.

Case in point: fellow diet plan members regale us with tales of scrumptious soy-and-something-or-other burgers laid on delectable light, whuheeet English muffins with all the succulent sprouts and manatee-milk mozzarella and all the other curious cardboard toppings one can muster, and how they (SHE/HE/IT = SHEEIT) ate said ridiculousness with extra celery and pickles and zero-point ice cubes (YOU GO, GIRL!) and how SHEEIT felt not even a pang of desire when that nasty dessert tray WITH CANNOLI presented itself linenside later in the evening (HELLLLL NO, GIRL!) and I'm left thinking, now seriously, WHO ARE WE KIDDING?

I don't want to convert the beauty that is pizza, not even Chicago's, but North Jersey's, the kind that ensures a slice might cover your whole damn head, into a shell of its former self, made of a GD whuheet pita covered in shredded cyborg cow product and dried herbs, cooked up on a NASA-like foil contraption made large enough for my chubby hands to manipulate.

Come to the corner with me and let Mama whisper:

Do you not want you some pizza that makes you weep, what with it's thick, doughy on the inside, crisp-like-Fall-football-games on the outside crust, the cheese that somehow tastes so new, and yet, so perfectly bubbly and fully-cooked through, and tomato sauce - OH! - the tomato sauce, a genius amalgam of tomato and crushed garlic and fresh basil and oregano and love, sweet pea, LOVE in a slow cooker? Do you not want to eat said pizza on a first date, and watch as he devours it just as he might later kiss you, while you giggle and pull burning mozzarella off of your oversized chin?

YES. Because just like sex, you want the real thing. And no substitute will do.

Now excuse me while I wipe my brow. And proceed to draw two-point Sharpie lines on all of my wine glasses.



* I don't hate you Weight Watchers. I've lost quite a bit of body while partnering with you before. I'm just a grumpy old bitty who is only down .4 in two weeks. Let's make up with you sending me free stuff, no?