I work fulltime as a writer from my office at home…
…which means I have easy access to the kitchen...and pantry…and fridge…and freezer. So when I’m in the midst of working really, really, really hard on my current manuscript, sometimes I need industrial-strength fortification. Such fortification is often in the form of chocolate or other sweets.
During the holidays I allow myself to keep a tasty supply of my favorite treats in the house and frequently…um, I mean on rare occasions, find myself in the pantry opening packages of sugary goodness and ingesting the contents before exiting the confines of said pantry.
You see…chocolate nurtures the cells of a writer’s brain, thereby imbuing said writerly brain with a constant bathing of creative juices. So, depending on the particular manuscript dilemma, my brain sometimes requires inordinate amounts of sweets to get me through my writing task.
I’m sure you can see that this makes perfect sense and in no way indicates that I am hopelessly chocolate-obsessed.
Of course, there are those times a writer requires something savory. Something crunchy and salty. This usually occurs when the writer is working really, really, really hard creating scenes featuring the antagonist…you know, like the size double-zero, filthy-rich, underhanded, scheming 20-something woman who’s set on destroying the nice, average-size, over 30, honest, paycheck-to-paycheck heroine who totally doesn’t deserve humiliation and annihilation at the hands of said antagonist just because the heroine might finish not only her fries but the fries off the hero’s plate as well.
Unfortunately, I encountered a most serious, truly heinous, unintentional food-related self-injury the last time I felt the need to consume savory snacks white penning a heart wrenching scene featuring a bony-assed antagonist.
It was an admittedly stupid predicament, especially because it happened twice, but my resulting pain and suffering proves beyond the shadow of a doubt how immensely dedicated I am to my writing career.
The first traumatizing occurrence happened at dinner while I was blissfully enjoying some of my delicious homemade tacos. I’m a great cook who’s also a foodaholic, therefore this delicious meal should have been a time of tremendous pleasure and heartfelt elation. But instead…
Yes. Yes, it was just as horrid as you can possibly imagine. Have you ever heard your eyeball scream? Trust me, it’s not a pretty sound. I was deeply chagrined, to say the least. The good news is that I rubbed my eyes before I went to the bathroom to pee. And thank God for that because there’s no way in hell I was about to draw a scorched vagina.
My chipotle chagrin created more agony than most human beings endure in a lifetime…so you’d think, wouldn’t you, that I deserved a break after suffering such eye-blistering angst.
Later that night as I relaxed in front of the TV, whining both internally and externally about how unfair life is and how I’ve had waaay more than my share of chagrin to deal with, I decided to soothe my flaming eyeball torment. Like any card-carrying foodaholic worth their salt, I chose to ease my pain by turning to comfort food.
Oh my God, oh my God…OH MY GOD!!!
The sensation of salt seeping into my already chipotle-wounded eyeballs created such soul-searing pain that I could never begin to explain the deep, dark, torturous level of my chagrin. Yes, I really was that stupid. And I have the scorched, salty eyeballs to prove it.
I want you to know I’m not posting about these duo eyeball tragedies because I’m looking for pity. Oh no, no, no. The only reason I’m revealing what happened is because I’m a deeply altruistic, hugely responsible and caring adult, whose only interest is the benefit and wellbeing of mankind…and bloggerkind. My only concern is that you never, EVER find yourself in this same predicament so please learn from my foolish mistakes.
Sadly, my food-related torment didn’t end there. Due to my diligence, my determination to write, proof and edit…due to my poor overtaxed writerly brain’s need to be habitually nourished while I worked tirelessly during the holidays, I also endured the shame and humiliation of this:
Oh hell…who am I trying to kid? My real holiday-food-stuffed self doesn’t look anywhere near as cute as that. Here’s the real, gritty reality…the harsh undeniable truth…the sad, pitiful proof of me packing all those goodies into my chipmunk cheeks since the end of November:
So now I, the usually happy, peppy, chipper Daisy a/k/a Super Earthling a/k/a closet eater extraordinaire, am depressed, puffy, bloated and worried sick that I won’t be able to fit into any of my clothes when we go on our scheduled cruise this April. Yeah, I know diet experts say you shouldn’t go on a diet to lose weight for an event…you should do it to improve your health—to pledge yourself to a new, healthier way of eating for the rest of your life. Blah, blah, blah…
But, you see, I’m not a smart, savvy, skinny diet expert. I’m a normal, ordinary, plus-sized chocoholic, foodaholic writer who desperately NEEDS to have a valid reason for putting myself through three upcoming months of dietary torture. If you’re a seasoned dieter you understand. If not…there’s simply nothing I can say to make you understand.
So like any over-experienced dieter, last night I did what was necessary to get my new diet off to a good start:
And this morning I have dutifully started eating like this:
And I’ve started to do lots of this:
While I’m sure no explanation is necessary because it’s perfectly clear that I’m dancing to brain music in the above picture, I’ll elucidate for those few who may be wondering. Brain music an excellent form of exercise. Since I usually find listening to music too distracting while I write, I create my own accompanying music in my head. You know, like soundtracks to my books. And then I dance to it. Alone in my kitchen…making tippity-tap sounds on my kitchen floor. :) The more I dance, the more my brain jiggles, adding a pleasant clanking accompaniment to my brain-created tune.
Aw, come on, admit it. You all do the same thing. Right?
Anyway…by the time the middle of April rolls around and I’ve been eating spotlessly and exercising religiously (not in the biblical sense…I mean in the brain music sense, which bears little resemblance to anything in the old or new testament other than I feel entirely angelic when I don’t cheat on my diet), I will end up lean, healthy, and looking like one super-hot dynamite writer all set for her vacation. Just like this:
Hey, I have a terrific idea! Since I’m forced…um, I mean about to happily embark upon yet another diet, why not do it with me? I even have the cutest little book ever called, Hide! It’s the Diet Police! that you might enjoy reading to get you in the mood. I’ll tell you about it (just like a public service announcement):
Over the decades I’ve received many wonderful reviews for my work but there’s one reviewer's comment in particular that I’ve found especially rewarding: “If Dave Barry, Erma Bombeck and Nora Ephron could somehow have a love child, it would be Daisy Dexter Dobbs.” I’ve heard variations of this from other reviewers and readers as well so I guess it’s safe to say that if you enjoy the works of those humorists (and the posts here on my blog), chances are you’ll enjoy mine too.
In each volume of my “The Crazy Woman Inside Me” series of humorous essays, you’ll find ample humor drawn from everyday life…my life to be exact. The latest volume, Hide! It’s the Diet Police! was both fun and painful to write because in these diet and weight-loss-themed essays I brutally expose some of my most shameful diet-related faults.
Before we get to the book’s actual blurb, there’s one important thing you need to know. If you’re expecting this little volume to help you shed all your excess weight and reach your ultimate diet goal, all I have to say is: Hahahahahahahahaha…deep breath…hahahahahahahahaha! :D
About my newest release: Hide! It’s the Diet Police!
(Available as a Kindle exclusive for just 99-cents)
In the introduction, “It’s All About Perception,” Daisy delves into the sordid facts behind her lifelong love affair with food, years of resulting yoyo dieting, and the pivotal role laughter has played throughout.
“Plus Size Women and the Horror of Public Bathrooms,” tells of a cringe-worthy scenario, all too familiar to many woman. “Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire” introduces us to the shameful, cunning traits of Daisy’s dieter personality, as she attempts to deceive The Diet Police. Her scheming ways continue in “Done in by Compassion and Understanding.”
“Angering the Gods of Chocolate” verifies that Daisy’s a diehard chocoholic who’ll stop at nothing to answer the siren call of her favorite food group, while “Satan and the Cheesecake Incident” examines supernatural forces at work to sabotage her diet. She’s even had to deal with “The Rare and Sudden Phenomenon of Volcanic Geothermal-based Clothing Shrinkage” on her weight-loss journey.
A clever method to trick the scale is revealed in “The Dastardly Horrors of Water Retention,” and “If Only I Could Yank Out those Dental Fillings” enlightens us about proper preparation for a weekly weigh-in. By the end, we are in complete awe of the author’s near super-human endeavor to control the ever-changing number on her scale.
Wishing you all a happy, healthy New Year full of love, laughter, lots of great reading…and, most important of all—happy, successful dieting!
--Daisy Dexter Dobbs a/k/a Super Earthling…roger wilco, over and out
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