Better Get a Bucket

Ever since Thanksgiving, I have been stuffing myself sick.

I know this is something people do and talk and write about each year, but usually I don't. I mean sure, I pig out on the holidays themselves, and at related parties. And of course you have to sample while preparing treats, and it would be wasteful not to hoover up the leftovers. But that still usually leaves at least eight or ten days between Thanksgiving and Christmas for me to suck down a green vegetable or two.

This year, though, I managed not to waste those days. I'm not sure why, but I just woke up one morning around December 1st thinking "Fuck it. Bring it on." Did I want a cheeese omelette for breakfast, Johnny asked me? Why yes, that sounds delightful! What should we have for dinner tonight? How about if I make pizza! Would I like another Kahlua sombrero? In fact I believe I would! And isn't mac & cheese traditional this time of year?

Seriously, for the past four weeks I have been inhaling every spare calorie in my vicinity like a bear putting up stores for hibernation. I'm telling you: the cats are scared to linger within reach of my increasingly doughy arms, for fear I'll snatch them up and slather 'em with cheese.

It was fun at first. I ran through lists of Things I'm Not Allowed To Eat, and ate 'em all. Drive-through Wendy's chicken sandwiches with bacon. Chocolate cookies with chocolate chips in them from the honest-to-god bakery. Crackers and cheese for breakfast. Lots of beer (which, okay, is generally allowed, but not generally every single night and occasional afternoon).

After a while, though, all this excess started feeling like a chore. I started dreaming of zucchinis (though not in any filthy-rotten way) and fantasizing about Bobby Sands. Unfortunately, I'd started celebrating so early that my gorge began to rise just as the season was reaching its crescendo. When I wanted nothing more than to lock myself in a sweat lodge with a week's worth of water and a loofah sponge, instead I had a week's work of consumption planned -- Lady Dinners, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, Stephen's Day, a Fun Night Out That Was Scheduled For After Christmas Because I Was So Busy Before, and two Football Games (in one of which I was reduced to rooting for the Jets, which was going to require lots of drinking).

I plodded through that last week, enjoying it not at all. Apple pie? I guess so. Seven-layer dip? Okay. Cinnamon rolls? Fine, whatever. Old Thumper? Sure. Although at some point even beer had lost its magic power.

Which is how I wound up stone cold sober last night, watching Eric Mangini try to play Belichick football and fail to pull it off. That last funky-chicken play might have worked, you a-hole, if you hadn't botched it up the first time so everyone down to the last parking lot attendant knew what you were planning. Not that you care. You totally went back to the locker room and, after a quick "sorry you tarnished your legacy" pat for #4, closed yourself in your office and did a little "Patriots aren't going to the playoffs" dance. You know you did, I know you did, and everybody else in the goddamn football universe knows you did. I hope you tore your ACL, you little worm.

And with that, I'm going into Total Health mode. I don't care that there's a few days left till January 1st, and I'm glad not to have football games to worry about. I'm having sour grapes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, every night, I swear to god. At least until the end of April.

Or, no, wait. At least until the end of March?

Dang.

Somebody get me a mint. Make sure it's wafer-thin.