The Lord of Ring-Dings: The Return of the Scale

"Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You're my only Ho-Ho."

“Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You’re my only Ho-Ho.”

Hello darkness my old friend. I’ve come to snack with you again. These are the lyrics to the yet-to-be-produced Weird Al parody song being played at an eleven in my head as I blow the dust off my kitchen scale. A few weeks have passed since that dark, fateful day when the low battery icon on my proudly-made-in-China Taylor 3835 Kitchen Scale began to flash, I glanced around the kitchen to see if anyone was watching, and slowly and deliberately buried the scale in the mass grave of random household junk that is the left-hand drawer on my kitchen island. I can still hear the scale gasping for joules as I covered it with a ziplock bag of rubber bands, four copies of the same thai food take-out menu, and the owner’s manual to something I no longer own. What could lead me to such a depraved and senseless act of scale-slaughter? Was it the countless meals of chicken, broccoli slaw, mayonnaise, mustard, and Chex Mix, all carefully measured in consistent portions, that had slowly driven me to the brink of insanity? Or perhaps it was the PTSD (Post Traumatic Scale Disorder) I experienced every time I went out to eat with Wife and had no way of knowing how many calories was in that f***ing delicious duck confit panini. Whatever it was, it caused me to hit my breaking point, and, unfortunately, my kitchen scale payed the iron price. Well, actually, it was more like the protein, carbohydrate, and fat price, but I don’t want to be yet another nerdtritionist who lectures internet strangers on the importance of hitting macros. Not to worry—this sordid tale has a happy ending. I gained ten pounds, and the scale, blessed with a fresh battery, rose like a phoenix from the ashes. Now, who wants exactly one serving of Chex Mix?

Fried and Prejudice

True story.

I’m fat. It’s not that I weigh a lot, or go shopping in a scooter, it’s that I am American, and all Americans are fat, right? Wrong! Our great nation of industrialized enterprisers, free-speech provocateurs, and fifteen-year-old rappers with Twitter accounts has been misrepresented by the domestic and foreign medias as a nation of fatties. I cry foul, sir! I also cry fowl, because I love ducks (seriously, who doesn’t love a good Mallard?). And to prove that our country has been improperly labeled as a confederation of obese land manatees, I am going to the one place Americans young and old, black and white, blonde and smart (I’m a blonde so I get immunity for that joke) can come together as one, have a good time, and enjoy the fruits of another successful harvest: The County Fair. Yep, here we are, just look at all these happy people! Wow! Look at that cornucopia of fresh, organic vegetables! See? We value health and nutrition so much that we give people ribbons for growing the best veg- WHAT IS THAT SMELL?! OMG FRIED DOUGH?? I HAVEN’T HAD FRIED DOUGH IN YEARS!! LET’S GET SOME!! OH, LOOK: THE POWDERED SUGAR SHAKER IS COVERED IN BEES!! I DON’T CARE I’M STILL GOING TO USE IT!! And that, my friends, is the true story of how a brave young man rose above the unfair perception that his society was comprised entirely of fat people by shaking a giant bottle of powdered sugar that was literally covered in bees over a piece of dough fried in lard that he consumed in approximately fifteen seconds. Goodnight, sweet prince.

Snacks and Sensibility

Destruction imminent.

I’m starving. OK, maybe that’s an exaggeration. I’m not literally starving. In fact, I’m probably the opposite of starving – whatever that is. I can’t remember the exact word my doctor used. I think it starts with “you are getting fatter.” Regardless, I haven’t eaten since the beginning of this sentence, and now I’m hungry. I’m so hungry that I’m actually angry. “Hangry,” I like to call it. It’s an emotion I discovered as an infant, and is best described by medical experts as “high pitched screaming followed by excessive crying.” Hanger is typically found in people who are either extremely impatient or < five years old. I currently reside in the first category, although from 1985 – 1990, I fit both classifications, and nearly drove my parents insane. No, really, I was, like, two hanger-attacks away from causing an enzyme to be released into their brains that would have turned them into schizophrenics. Don’t believe me? It’s on Wikipedia under “Child Psychology,” because I just put it there. Even if you yourself don’t suffer from hanger-attacks, I bet my bottom dollar you have a friend or relative who does. And if you don’t, no biggie, because I have no idea what a bottom dollar is. Seriously, though, I don’t recommend tangling with a hangry person. If you start to see the warning signs (beady eyes and an empty box of junk-food), get the heck out of there! Trust me, you do not want to stick around for the crying, which is so pathetic, it’s scary. Oh, look, we’re all out of my favorite cereal. [whispering] “Run.”