Mini-Vacation, Here I Come

I'm heading up to Flagstaff this evening to spend yet another weekend with the incomparable Snark's Mistress. Normally, this type of visit would entail us holing up in her room, spending hours and hours watching Stargate SG-1 and only emerging to forage for food. But this weekend, we actually have plans to go out. To the outdoors. Outside. Where other people are. I know, I'm kind of scared, too. Hold me?

This is our last great Flagstaff hurrah before SM comes back to Phoenix for the summer, so we intend to do it right. That means that we will be doing a not-insignificant amount of shopping, quite a bit of restaurant-hopping, and some late-night gossiping. Oh, all right, I'm sure there will be some SG-1 watching in there somewhere too. We're only human, after all.

We are also planning to spend an evening with Hotass, who will coincidentally also be in Flagstaff this weekend because her boyfriend?...boy friend?....lov-ah?...significant other?...whatever you want to call him?...has a gig up there this weekend. So we will go watch his band play and hopefully get to know him well enough to decide if he's good enough for our Hotass. If we feel really inspired, we'll make little scorecards and flash them as appropriate. "Oooh, that joke fell flat! Judges' score? It looks like a 7.0 from Cymber and a disappointing 5.5 from Snark's Mistress. He's really going to have to nail this next joke if he expects to pass through to the next round." I hope he's the sturdy sort, or this could get ugly.

Of course, the thing that really concerns me about this trip is that Snark's Mistress and I both have PMS. Which means that our defenses are down and our cravings for unhealthy food are in full-swing. And while we normally are good at talking each other down from our self-destructive tendencies, when we're both hormonal, all bets are off. There has already been much talk of deep-fat fried Mexican food and insanely greasy burgers and fries. Still, if we are able to stay away from the Ben and Jerry's, I will consider it a victory. Hell, if I can come back home without gaining back the almost 10 pounds I have lost in the last two months, I will consider it a victory.








But I'm not getting out the ticker tape for the parade quite yet.

PMS: Pretty Much Sociopathic

Well, apparently my menstrual cycle is regular as clockwork because it has been 4 weeks since my last hormonal freak-out, and today I was riding the Mood Swing Express straight to Crazyville. Snark's Mistress made the mistake earlier of asking how I was doing. Five or six hysterical rants later, she was wondering if PMS provided enough grounds to have me involuntarily committed.

It's almost like having an out-of-body experience. I can see myself acting like a crazed lunatic, but I can't do anything about it. And yet, when I return to my body, it's almost as though I forget how completely off the beam I was, because the thought of actually going out and procuring some sort of medical relief for this psychosis seems like an overreaction. "It's not that bad," I think. And yet, it so is.

At this point, I wonder if I could find a daycare that could take care of Turtle for one day a month, so when the hormones send me around the bend, I can just go underground and eschew human contact for the day. Of course, given that the most common byproduct of these hormonal freakouts is disproportionate rage, I'd probably just get pissed at the amount of money I'd have to spend for that one day a month and end up not taking him anyway. (Of course, if I were any kind of rational, I'd realize that the money spent now for day care is going to be significantly less than the money we'll spend later on intensive therapy, but rational is not what we're about at this time of the month.)

In any event, if the pattern holds, tomorrow I'll be back to my normal self. Whether that's good or bad is for others to decide, but at least I won't be biting their heads off before they make their judgments. In the meantime, if any of you are forced to deal with me, I apologize in advance. I promise you the other 29 days of the month, I'm perfectly pleasant. I AM! I puke up bunnies and puppies and little pink hearts, REMEMBER? GAH! Would you keep UP already? Do I have to do EVERYTHING for you? You suck!

Hmmm...something tells me I went off the beam again. I think it's time I headed back down into my hermit hole, don't you? I'll reemerge when I can be trusted to have a reasonable conversation without sobbing uncontrollably or ripping your vocal cords out your nose. Thanks for your understanding.

If We Bottled It, We Could Call It Love Potion #9

Uh-oh. It looks like Turtle's romance with his little gym girlfriend is taking a dramatic turn. When I came to pick him up after doing an hour of cardio (and thinking about the cute trainer....*sigh*) the very lovely women who run the kids' care practically ran me down in their eagerness to tell me all about the latest chapter of the Young and the Potty-Trained. It seems that today, Turtle's girlfriend, who I think we'll call "Kitty" in light of the fact that when Turtle says her actual name, it sounds much like the name of another, less flattering, animal, threw down with another little girl over the attention she was paying Turtle.

Apparently, Kitty started a tug of war with this other girl, using Turtle as the rope. And when that wasn't enough to deter the competition, Kitty very snottily told the other little girl, "Why don't you go play with someone else? Your mommy is going to pick you up soon, anyway!" I wasn't clear about whether or not that was enough to show the other girl whose man Turtle actually is, because we were all laughing too hard to make much sense of anything that was said after that. Although the pictures they showed me on their camera phones pretty much said it all.

In any event, at least one thing is now abundantly clear to me:

There is something in the water at my gym. First, I start having fantasies about hot monkey sex with the cute trainer. Then Turtle starts living most guys' ultimate fantasy: being fought over by two attractive women. And while I certainly don't object to the former, I have a few qualms about the latter. Specifically, I am not quite sure I'm ready to have a sex education seminar for Turtle, complete with handy diagrams and visual aids, when he's still young enough to need assistance using the potty.

Maybe I'll just pass this one off on Oscar. He deserves the opportunity to meaningfully contribute to his son's development, don't you think? Besides, Oscar was never much of a player, so the likelihood that I'll have to worry about his sex ed seminar including such gems as "How to Juggle Multiple Honeys" and "Plausible Deniability: An Introduction" seem slim. Then again, he is a man, and men are notoriously stupid about women. Looks like I'll be seeing to Turtle's education, after all.

I Bet I Would Have To Pay Extra For That Training Session

So, I was on the leg extension machine at the gym today when the cute trainer I spoke of waaaaaaaaaaaay back when walked by me. In the space of about 5 seconds, I went from wondering if I was going to be able to finish my set without taking a break to having a very brief but VERY graphic sex fantasy, starring said trainer. In my fantasy, the cute trainer asked me if he could help me with anything and in response, I cocked my eyebrow (I really wish I could do that in real life. The properly cocked eyebrow is often more eloquent than the most cleverly worded phrase.) looked him dead in the eye and said, "Yes. You can fuck me." Rather than being taken aback, the cute trainer responded with a cocky smile and then my fantasy fast-forwarded to the part where he had me splayed out on a counter in a back room and was giving me a MOST energetic "personal training session."

I'm not sure that I started blushing after that, but I do know that my rhythm on the machine was SERIOUSLY disrupted. First of all, while I am a flirt, I'm not the kind of girl who is very confident in her own sex appeal. Chalk it up to poor self esteem or a bad body image or whatever, but I've always seen myself as the kind of girl the guys make their best friend or counselor, not the one they run to when they are after a booty call. And, of course, at that time, with the sweat pouring off of me and my breath ragged from exertion, I wasn't exactly feeling like Salma Hayek reborn. So it caught me my surprise.

Then there's the fact that I am just not given to fantasizing in that way. And even when I do, my fantasies rarely feature people I have gotten close enough to actually touch. This is one area in which Oscar and I are completely opposite. Oscar has a rich fantasy life and will often whisper naughty things in my ear about things he'd thought about doing or would like to do and I'll start to squirm thinking about what he's saying. Then he'll ask me what I've been thinking about and I'll come up with something particularly arousing like "balancing the checkbook," or "doing the taxes," or cleaning the house." Gets him really hot, let me tell you.

Which is why, instead of getting all freaked out about what this fantasy might mean about the stability of my marriage or my feelings for my husband or whatever, I am instead relishing the fact that for a brief moment today, I actually thought about doing dirty, naughty, sexy things with a really HAWT guy with a smokin' body. I consider this a milestone in my growth as a sexual being. (At least, that is how I am rationalizing it to myself. And Oscar, in case he asks.) After all, I am 30 years old and doesn't that mean I should be hitting my sexual peak soon? (No, you don't need to leave comments telling me that the whole "women reach their sexual peaks in their 30's" thing is a myth. We're rationalizing here. Get on board, would you please?) Right, so I figure this is just another stop on the path to complete sexual fulfillment. Or at least it would be if I could get the cute trainer to call me.

Err...did I say that last part out loud?

Highlights

Things have been crazy the past couple of days, so no time for a c0hesive post. Instead, let's take a look inside my brain and see what I've been pondering lately, shall we?

* For me, about the only upside to going through "personal issues" and not having a tube of brownie mix to fall back on is that I am extraordinarily productive. In the past couple of days, I have cleaned both of my bathrooms (for the second time in six months! I get a prize for that, right?), vacuumed all but two rooms in my house, done laundry, cleaned dishes, gone to the gym every day, and bought three pairs of shoes. Not that I wouldn't mind catching a break from the gods of karma, but my house has never looked better, I'm losing weight, and I've got kicky feet. Things could be worse, I suppose. (Not that I need any more help, UNIVERSE. Doing fine on messing up my own life, thanks.)

* To compound my "personal issues" and make my life that much worse, Turtle is going through a particularly nasty whining phase. I don't think he's managed to complete a sentence without whining all week. Coinciding with this phase, he is also going through an extra sensitive phase. I can't so much as level a hairy eyeball in his direction without him prostrating himself at my feet, whining "Sorry Mommy!" over and over again. It would be funny if it wasn't so annoying. I swear, people are going to start thinking I beat this kid, and really, I'm not THAT bad. I only use the belt when he's REALLY disobeying me. (Just kidding.) (No, really, I don't need a visit from CPS. I have enough going on.)

* Speaking of Turtle, did I mention he has a girlfriend at the gym? Oscar is jealous, having never been half the ladies man that Turtle is, and also a little perplexed at how he managed to spawn such a Casanova. Clearly, Oscar and I haven't gotten out and about much lately or he would remember that his wife is a flirting dervish and all of Turtle's best moves come from me. Which I guess makes up for the fact that Turtle was cursed with Oscar's feet. He's going to need all of those moves if he's going to keep his girlfriend after she sees him barefoot.

* It's almost swimsuit season again. I would like to say that living this healthier lifestyle and starting to lose some weight has given me a better body image and has made me more tolerant of those little scraps of spandex/lycra blend, but the fact of the matter is that I really think swimsuits were invented by a psycho misogynist with a torture fetish. They're like little localized weapons of mass destruction, targeting your ego and destroying it in one fell swoop. I think I'll be staying indoors this summer.

I think that's it for now. I sense we're getting ready for a brain shut-down sequence, which will be partly fueled by Tylenol PM (if you are unfamiliar with Tylenol PM, I have but one thing to say: It is Teh Awesome.) So have a good weekend and I'll see you all back here on Monday, barring the next unforseen monumental crisis the universe decides to throw at me.

I Am So Lame, Part 3

You know, we are long past-due for another peek into how seriously lame I am. I mean, really. Some of you seem to be under the impression that I am cool, when in fact, I am a complete and total dork. And I hate to think that I am in some way deceiving you. So let's talk for a minute about my nerdy habit of coming up with new lyrics to popular songs which somehow fit my current circumstances, shall we?

I believe it started with the song "I Believe I Can Fly" by R. Kelly. If I recall this correctly (and Oscar will set me straight if I'm making this up, I'm sure) we were trying to figure out what to have for dinner one night when one of us suggested Chinese food. At the time, we frequented an establishment just down the street from our house which has a pretty kick-ass combination fried rice. So, before you know it, I'm singing:

I believe in fried rice
I believe it is very nice
Think about it every night and day
Prep my wok and fry away

Now, that was bad enough, but after regaling Hotass with my feat of absolute insanity brilliance, she had to go and contribute the next few lines:

I believe I'd like more
It gets me going like a dirty whore
I believe in fried rice
I believe in fried rice

Of course, the crazy thing about this is that the song as it originally written is difficult enough to get out of your head. But when you start putting your own stamp on it, it's that much worse. I would sing this over and over again, both out loud and in my head for days on end. And I have to say, while I love fried rice, I don't necessarily love it so much that I need 90% of my brain power focused on it for any length of time. Nor, really, do I have that much passion for the song, either my version or R. Kelly's. So I'm glad that one has pretty much been left in the late 90's, where it belongs.

On the other hand, John Denver's song "Sunshine On My Shoulders" is a bit more timeless, which goes a long way to explaining why I will frequently bust out with my version over the breakfast table:

Syrup on my pancakes makes me happy
Syrup on my hash browns makes me cry
Syrup in my sausage is so lovely
Syrup almost always makes me high

Hmm...now that I'm looking at this on paper, I am noticing a trend. I make up a lot of songs about food and eating. You would think that would be Oscar's milieu, given his reputation as our friendly neighborhood foodie. But I guess since I'm the musically inclined member of the family (not to mention the member of the family most likely to embarrass herself in public), it's up to me.

Speaking of embarrassing, I'm almost hesitant to share this last example of my complete dorkiness, because it's almost too lame, even for me. But really, I can't, in good conscience, let any of you go on thinking that I am in any way, shape, or form a normal member of society. So here we go. For Easter, Oscar dyed a beautiful green egg for me that said "Cymber-licious." He wanted me to take a picture of it for my blog, which I really tried to do, but the pictures did not want to come out well AT ALL. It must have been a really shy egg or something. It was not ready for its close up, Mr. DeMille. In any event, he was very proud of this egg. But of course, MY first thought was not "Oh how sweet" or "Oh how cute" or some other variation on how cool it was that Oscar made me an egg to post on my blog. No. Instead, MY first thought was:

I don't think you're ready for this jelly bean
I don't think you're ready for this jelly bean
I don't think you're ready for this
My egg is too Cymber-licious for you, baby

And this is why Destiny's Child never put out a special Easter album.

I would like to say that this is the last song I will ever butcher with my own, less commercially marketable, lyrics. But you and I would both know that I was lying through my teeth. So suffice it to say that this is the last one I will be sharing with you. (Unless, of course, I come up with another one of such overwhelming brilliance, or dorkiness, that it would be a crime not to share it. Then, all bets are off.) Still, I hope this was a large enough sample to prove that I'm not joking when I say I am completely and totally lame. And if not, I'm sure I'll think of more evidence to share with you later. There does seem to be an overwhelming abundance of it, after all.

Update

Hello? Is anyone still he- Oh, HI! Remember me? Your occasionally witty but always neurotic host? Yeah. Sorry it's been quiet on the Cymber front lately. As I mentioned....what? a week ago?...the Cymber household was felled by a particularly nasty cold/flu type illness. Turtle was feverish off and on for several days and as he started getting better, I started getting worse. It was a long week of "Mommy, come play with me!" and "Mommy doesn't feel very good, buddy" and resultant "bad mommy guilt" and disappointed Turtles and misery and anguish and torture. Good times.

Yesterday was the first day I think I felt 100%, and even that was tempered by a host of personal problems that brought me down. One of those was the stunning realization that the universe has it in for me. See, the thing is....well....it has to do with.....um....you know, let's just start at the beginning.

I have a long history of comfort eating. In fact, my history of comfort eating is probably responsible for at least half of my current weight problem. Bad things would happen and I would down a pint of Ben and Jerry's or a couple of candy bars in order to feel better. Then I got in the habit of eating that ice cream or those candy bars and even though I wouldn't eat them every day, I would feel like I needed something sugary after every meal. Before I knew it, my daily intake of crappy food greatly exceeded my intake of fruits and vegetables, and well, you know the rest.

Now, though, I'm making a conscious effort to change those habits. But it's very difficult to overcome 30 years of programming in a few months. Which brings us back to the present. I've got personal problems. And I'm doing my very best to deal with them in positive ways (and probably failing miserably, but that's beside the point.) I went back to the gym yesterday for the first time since I fell ill. I've been abusing Snark's Mistress's status as an almost-psychologist. And I've otherwise kind of withdrawn from all of the other things in my life so I can take the time to work on me and getting things fixed. And through this process, I have avoided the stash of Easter candy still in the cupboard. All of this represents some significant progress, in my opinion.

But even I have my limits. And yesterday at the grocery store, I came dangerously close to those limits. As I was wandering through the produce section, picking up the fruits and veggies I would need for the week, an ad on someone else's grocery cart caught my eye. You know those tubes of Pillsbury cookies? The ones that look suspiciously like this:

Yeah. Those were bad enough. Snark's Mistress and I have been known to purchase those little tubes from time to time, grab two spoons and go to town. We wouldn't even bother with the baking part. But, you know, that wasn't so bad, because I generally felt that homemade cookie dough tasted SO. MUCH. BETTER. And if I wanted cookies (or cookie dough) that badly, I was better off just making it myself. So it's not like we ever went overboard with the cookie dough tubes.

But now? NOW, Pillsbury is packaging brownie mix in a tube. BROWNIE MIX! B.R.O.W.N.I.E. M.I.X. The cookie dough was bad, but the brownie mix is EVIL. All of that fudgey chocolatey goodness? At a time when my resistance is low because I am having issues and my instinct is to face plant into a vat of sugar as it is? CURSE YOU, Pillsbury! Which brings me back to my original point which is that the universe kind of hates me.

I did walk away from the tubey brownie goodness last night, which means the score is still Cymber 1, Universe 0. But I'm not spiking the ball, yet. It doesn't look like things will be improving in my personal life anytime soon, and if things get much worse, I place no expectations on my ability to stay away from the Very. Evil. Brownie. Tubes. So, if you're in the Phoenix Metro area, and you see a woman on the floor of the grocery store in a pile of empty brownie tubes, with chocolate all over her face and a crazed look in her eye? Feel free to say hi. I'd love to hear from you.

Illness Central, Population: 2

Thanks to my little germ factory, I am once again sick with a flu or cold-like illness. The timing of this particular celebration of bacteria is particularly unfortunate because I was supposed to go to the Diamondbacks game tonight and meet Hotass's new...boyfriend?...guy friend with whom she frequently swaps spit?...lov-ah? They have yet to grace their new status with any kind of label, so suffice it to say I was supposed to meet the new man in her life this evening.

Instead, I was stuck at home, watching Good Eats (he made crepes tonight! And I don't think I have time to make crepes this weekend! GAH!) and wishing for death to come quickly. Unfortunately, Turtle is rebounding from his Viruspalooza experience much faster than I am, which means that it will probably linger in me ten times longer, as I will not have the advantage of being able to sleep my way to good health. Instead, I will be chasing a three year old with unlimited energy around the house until I collapse and Oscar comes home to find the cats eating my remains and Turtle eating all the candy that I don't let him eat when I'm not lying dead on the floor. (Oh, don't mind me. I just get morbid when I don't feel well.)

All this by way of saying that I will return when I don't feel like death warmed over. Thanks.

How Was Your Easter?

Turtle: Hey Daddy! Look! (handing Oscar his candy container)
Oscar: Oh, you've got M&M's in there, don't you?
Turtle: (nodding) You have one?
Oscar: Oh, you want me to have one?
Turtle: Yeah. Just one. (holding a finger up to clearly indicate the amount of candy Oscar was approved to ingest)
Oscar: Okay, just one. (holding out one M&M, to indicate that he was clear on his rationed amount)

Oscar eats the candy.

Turtle: Okay. You done. (taking back his candy container)
Cymber: *snort*

Somehow I think between the big fake bunny and the big basket of candy, Turtle has missed the true significance of Easter.

Hey Look! Another Post About My Stupid Diet! Sort Of.

So, being on a restricted diet and eating mostly fruits and vegetables, some low-fat yogurt and lots of egg-white omelets, you would think I would do myself a favor and stay away from things that might trigger my cravings, wouldn't you? Well, you would, but you would not be me, which is why I am instead watching hour upon hour of the Food Network. In some respects, this is a good thing, because most of the things they make on the Food Network, I am very unlikely to attempt and/or have the ingredients for in my refrigerator. However, they have been known to create delicacies that tempt me into testing the recipes in my very own kitchen and that's where it gets dangerous.

Last night, I was watching a DVR recording of an episode of Good Eats. If you are not familiar with Alton Brown, I am afraid you are missing out on one of the great geek wonders of the universe, as Mr. Brown manages to be both informative in his scientific knowledge of food and goofy in his willingness to embarass himself in whatever way possible to make cooking more accessible to the lay person. In short, he is brilliant. And last night, as I watched my pre-recorded episode of Good Eats, I was struck dumb, as he made what is quite possibly my favorite pastry in the world: the eclair.

Now, here's what normally happens when I watch an episode of Good Eats:
Me: Wow. That looks really good.
Oscar: Yeah, no kidding.
Me: Holy crap, that looks really damn good.
Oscar: I know.
Me: There's not a chance in hell I'm trying that recipe.
Oscar: Oh, hell no.
Because, see, while I love Alton Brown AND Good Eats, they take such a purist's approach to food that I sometimes have a hard time picturing myself going to the trouble. I have enough trouble raising two kids. Er. Um. I mean, one kid and a husband. I don't have time to spend umpteen hours smoking my own bacon. It's just not going to happen. If I can get a pound of bacon for a few bucks at the grocery store, I really don't care that it has preservatives in it because it means I can spend that much more time getting an elbow to the (VERY TENDER!) breast from Turtle, who, I believe, is practicing for his pro-wrestling debut. The Wicked Witch of the East would be so proud.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes, the eclairs. So normally, I would never even conceive of trying out one of the Good Eats recipes. But the eclairs! Oh, sweet baby Jeebus, the eclairs! I love them so. And when I buy them in the store, they so rarely end up being as perfect and fluffy and creamy and chocolatey as I want them to be. And the recipe looked relatively easy. And so I turned to Oscar and said, "I think I have a project for this weekend."

And some of you are, I'm sure, thinking "But your diet!" I know. I KNOW! But ECLAIRS, people! ECLAIRS! Besides, I have found that I have more willpower than I ever thought possible. Do you know that we have had 6 bags of Reeses Peanut Butter Eggs in our home over the course of the last 2 months? And did you also know that I have had exactly three (3) singular eggs? Oscar and Snark's Mistress have eaten the rest. (Don't tell them this, but I'm kind of hoping that the eggs will come to rest on their waistbands so that even if I don't end up losing weight, I will still start looking thinner by comparison.) (Okay, I kid. But wouldn't that be funny?) (Okay, not funny-ha-ha, but funny-interesting?) (I'm going to stop now before they get irate and start posting hate mail.) (Just kidding, guys! Really!)

Besides, I do allow myself one free day during the week, in which I don't stray completely away from my diet, but I do allow myself a few treats here or there, so I don't completely lose it over the idea of never eating another piece of cake again EVER, which is, quite frankly, a tragedy of such magnitude I can hardly contemplate it. I mean, seriously. Life has to be worth living, you know? Anyway, my free day falls on the weekend, so I will have the opportunity to not only bake eclairs to my heart's content, but also eat one or two. Brilliant!

And then, of course, on Monday, when I am sick of the whole "you can look but don't touch" phenomenon, I will pack up a container full of those little pastries and send them to work with Oscar. I figure if he can share them with his office, I can kill two birds with one stone. It will get them out of the house so I am no longer tempted. And it will quite possibly get Oscar a raise so I can afford liposuction. Hey, a girl's got to have a back-up plan.

In Which I Blather On About Dieting. Again.

I'm a little obsessed. It's starting to get worrisome. Everything in my life is about what I am eating, or what I'm not eating, or whether I appear to be gaining weight or losing weight, or how my weight gain or loss makes me feel. I feel like I've become a very boring conversationalist. Although, as much as I'm worried about it, I must not be worried about it enough, because I'm about to talk about it some more. Please endeavor to contain your excitement.

So here's my thing: it's bad enough that men lose weight so much faster than women do and with half as much effort, but the fact that they also don't have to contend with PMS makes it that much more irritating. Is it too much to ask that they have to put up with a week-long festival of bloat and water-retention so that when they step on the scale, despite the fact that they've been so very good about their diet and exercise programs, they face a 5 pound weight gain? Or what about the part where, seeing the scale's number increasing over the course of a week, they have to make a decision about whether to surrender to their cravings for chocolate and pastries or to have faith that it IS just the PMS causing the weight gain and not that their efforts have been in vain?

I mean, come ON! We have to deal with the raging hormone swings that make our spouses wonder how much it might cost to hire a hit-man and whether they could cover their tracks well enough to avoid jail and still pick up the insurance payout. (Not that Oscar has said anything about that directly but I know him pretty well.) We have to deal with the discomfort and inconvenience of the cramps and the bleeding. We have to deal with pushing a wriggling, screaming watermelon out a tiny little garden hose. Do you think we could catch a break somewhere and maybe LOSE weight during our cycles instead of having to pull our fat-jeans out of the closet and trying to avoid looking directly in the mirror? Of course not.

For me? It just makes the whole healthy lifestyle/weight loss plan seem rather hopeless. And that's a dangerous thing to feel, because after "hopeless" comes "depressed" and after "depressed" comes "comfort eating" and after "comfort eating" comes "orgy of chocolate, ice cream, cake, and donuts." And as much as I love smearing pastries all over my body in spasms of ecstasy, it is kind of hard to get the chocolate frosting out of my sheets.

So far, I've managed to stay strong, but I am not placing bets on how much longer that will last. Particularly since it seems that every holiday comes with its own special candy section in my local Target store. I mean, I get the Easter thing, but if/when we get Memorial Day candy, I think I will throw in the towel. At that point, I will just have to assume that the universe wants me to gorge myself on chocolate and I will stop fighting the universe.

Why Am I Still Awake?

I had a long, busy, hectic, crazy, exhausting day today. I should, by all rights, be in bed right now. Instead, I'm wasting time on the internet. Like a junkie, I need my fix. But it's not all about me, because I have something to share with you that I am SURE will improve your life. How do I know? Because I'm the Mommy and I said so.

It's an error message generator. Isn't that cool? Don't you think that's cool? No? Well, maybe that's because you haven't played around with it yet. Why don't you go here and mess around for a while. I bet you get hooked. After all, any site that allows you to create THIS kind of genius is worth a little bit of time:

Simple Math

Cymber + PMS = Overwhelming Cravings for Craptastic Food

Overwhelming Cravings for Craptastic Food + Restricted Diet = Seriously Cranky Cymber

Seriously Cranky Cymber + Frustration over Progress (or lack thereof) on Restricted Diet = Cymber Caving and Ordering a Western Bacon Cheeseburger and Mint Chip Milkshake

Western Bacon Cheeseburger + Mint Chip Milkshake + Cymber's Tummy (which has grown rather accustomed to fruits, veggies and other healthier alternatives) = BLOAT CITY Population: 1,000,000 gas bubbles and counting

Final score? Crappy Food 1, Cymber 0

I just needed this recorded for posterity, so the next time I think it might be a good idea to give in to my craving for something fattening, I remember this moment.