At the grocery store last week I faced a daunting dilemma. Involving dip. You see, while roaming the aisles in the scavenger hunt that is grocery shopping, I was hit with a craving for my favorite dill dip. A craving that was not to be assuaged with promises of carrots or crackers upon arriving home. A craving that took control, pushing me and my objections to the side as it steered my cart in a straight line to the refrigerated dips.

I had no choice, obviously, but to lift a drum of dip from the shelf and place it in my cart. But as I reached toward the stack, I wavered. Because there among the tubs was a new option, a fat free option.

Everyone knows that nonfat versions sacrifice taste and texture. There's a reason even health-conscious recipes recommend using lowfat. And low is, in fact, my status quo. Between the three, I'll always choose lowfat. But there was no middle ground this time around. It was all or nothin'. And so I wavered.

First I told myself that I was purchasing this product to satisfy a craving, and since a craving is concerned with taste, I should buy the full-fledged fat variety. But then I visualized myself lifting chip after chip to my mouth, each straining to accommodate the ungainly glob of dip that overwhelms it (as is my routine). I grimaced in guilt at the scene, and elected to eschew the evil of the full-on fatty for its skinny sister.

Back in my car, I ripped open a bag of chips and lifted the lid off the dip in delight. (There was no waiting for home. Such cravings must be appeased immediately.) My first dunk was a nervous one for fear of being foiled by inferior flavor. I lifted the coated chip to my lips and let out a relieved sigh. It tasted great! The very same! Yipeee, let's hear it for fat free! I swallowed smugly and smiled.

And then my throat was overcome by an acrid aftertaste.

Despite this, I proceeded to pop the potato crisps, dip-covered, into my mouth. Each initial taste was true to its roots, and The Craving didn't care about the consequences. And soon, the dip's undesirable esophagal effect was barely noticeable.

I continued to chomp until a different complaint caused me to stop. The snack was stale. Moments ago the chips had been satisfactorily salty, but now the chips lacked zip. I cast an accusing glance at the crumpled bag, but then I realized the blame belonged to the dip. I hadn't acclimated to the aftertaste after all. Instead, the pungency had numbed my tongue.

Lesson learned: No matter the nutritional sin. Nonfat never again.

I'm really trying, but I'm just not feeling it. The holiday spirit, that is. On Friday I asked my hair stylist to make the cute haircut's highlights MORE RED and I said (and I quote), "You know, for the holidays." See? Trying. And Saturday my mom and I spent ALL DAY making Christmas cookies. I even let her turn the radio to the station I hate, the one that, starting on Thanksgiving Day, plays holiday songs continuously, without stop, on and on and on. Okay, so I could only take that for about an hour before grabbing my hair in my hands and screaming AAAAAHHHHH......SWITCH IT NOW, PLEASE. But still - trying.

And yesterday I sat Rob down and we had The Talk we have every year around this time, the one in which I inform him how many days are left until Christmas, and then his eyes widen incredulously, and then I inform him how many people are on our list and how many of those presents have already been purchased, and his eyes widen even more, in panic, and then I remind him that we will be out of town next weekend which means that we have ZERO weekends between now and Christmas, and his eyes fall out of his head and roll across the living room floor. And then I say, "Just because your eyes fell out of your head does not excuse you from helping me brainstorm gift ideas, dammit." And so we sit there and think, think, think. And then I have an AHA! moment and I leap forward and exclaim, "Ooh, I KNOW!! Let's skip Christmas and go to Hawaii!! Because if we're not here, we can avoid all of this!" And he looks at me like I'm nuts and says, "Hawaii? That's not a very realistic solution. . . . What about a Caribbean cruise?" And so then I spend half an hour looking at cruise itineraries, ones that start a few days before Christmas so that we won't be here for any of it. But they are all booked because apparently we are not the only ones who want to fuck Christmas and get the hell out of here. But still - the fact that I began The Talk in the first place, that I actually started out with the intention of working on our gift list? That's evidence that I'm trying.

More evidence that I'm trying is that we actually went to Target last evening, Rob and I. With the purpose of purchasing presents. And we did! Oh yes - we purchased 2 whole presents! We then proceeded to fill the cart with stuff for us. Same at Barnes & Noble - book for this person, book for us, book for this person, two books for us. But still! Trying.

And ooh! I bought holiday stamps! You know, just in case I get swept up in yuletide revelry and decide to actually send Christmas cards. More than likely they'll decorate the envelopes of our bill payments for months to come, but still...give me some credit for trying.

These are the things I wish I'd told my mother when she asked me if I'd decorated the house for Christmas yet. No, Mom, I haven't exactly gotten around to that, but let me outline the holiday things I have done. Or at least tried to do, sorta. Instead, I made the mistake of being honest.

"We're not doing that this year, Mom."

"Not decorating for Christmas? WHY?! Do you think you're too busy?"

"No, not too busy. I've just decided that I hate Christmas."

"HATE Christmas? Kelly! You've always loved Christmas!" (This is true - back before the endless extended family gift exchanges for which I must buy presents for people I barely know and before the multitudinous carry-in meals for which I have to make food and before I got married and so in effect doubled all of this foolish festivity - yeah, I did love Christmas then. You know, back when I WAS A KID.)

"I know, Mom. But it's not fun anymore."

"Well, you are at least going to put up A TREE, right?!"

"No, I don't think so."

[audible gasp]

"Mom, the cats will just knock everything off of it. You remember last year - I told you how they jumped to the top of the sofa and then LEAPED into the tree, taking every single ornament to the floor with them? And how they ran full speed toward it and then skidded into it, sending the tree skirt flying and the tree toppling? Yeah, I don't need that."

"Well if the cats are the problem, maybe you should take them to the animal shelter." (See, JessicaRabbit? I told you my mom says shit like that, too.)

"MOM. Let me remind you that those cats are quite possibly the only grandchildren you're gonna get."

"I'm just saying that three cats are too many. And they should not prevent you from putting up a CHRISTMAS TREE."

"The cats are just a really good excuse - I'm not putting up a Christmas tree because I don't WANT a Christmas tree."

"I think maybe I should make you an appointment with [her psychiatrist]."

"Mom, I'm not depressed. I just hate Christmas."

Lessons learned:

• Book Christmas 2006 Caribbean cruise/trip to Hawaii NOW.




• Given that Mom considers the absence of a Christmas tree sacrilegious and sufficient reason for psychiatric consultation, DO NOT reveal (un)religious beliefs to her for fear of being committed.

Lesson learned: If, within the first five minutes of the date, you order a huge alcoholic drink
and proceed to tongue the whipped cream, dude is going to expect you to put out.

Lesson learned: When naked (because you just stepped out of the shower or whatever), do not cuddle to your bosom a cat who is clinging to a mouse toy. Because when said cat drops said toy to the floor, he will leap for it, using said bosom as a springboard, and his back claws will tear your nipple off.

Ouch.

(Google is going to make me regret using the word nipple, I just know it.)

Much to my dismay, it appears these confessions are becoming a continuing series. Last time I forgot to brush my teeth. This time I woke up 30 minutes before I had to be at work. THIRTY MINUTES, PEOPLE.

It went down something like this. I got up at 6:00 to feed the cats and then went back to bed. I always go back to bed after feeding the cats, even though our alarm goes off at 6:15 and it would make much more sense to just stay up. (Or make the cats wait until 6:15 to be fed but believe me, that is NOT an option.) This morning after feeding the cats I snuggled back into bed for my last snippet of precious, precious sleep. I woke up, seemingly minutes later, to Rob mumbling, “We gotta get up.” He always says this half-asleep, without even checking the clock, so I didn’t take him too seriously, especially since the alarm clock hadn’t gone off yet. Still, I rolled over to see what time it was so I could argue that no, we really could stay in bed at least another 10 minutes.

And the clock said 7:30. SEVEN-THIRTY. And I have to be at work at 8:00. EIGHT O’CLOCK.

“SHIT! It’s 7:30?!” I yelled at Rob, incredulous and panicked. Rob gave me that stoned expression – the look of someone who’s totally high and has no comprehension of what you’re trying to say or why you are getting so uptight about it. (When Rob is stoned on sleep, he is the complete opposite of his awake self. It’s as if his brain works so hard during the day being so incredibly, enviously intelligent that when it finally gets a break, it just packs up and heads to Hawaii.) “We have to be at work in HALF AN HOUR,” I explained. I saw the realization sink in, slowly at first, and then suddenly his eyes widened and without another word to each other, we were OFF.

I think I broke my own morning-routine record. I think that if morning routines were an Olympic event, I would have broken that record too. Get this – I woke up at 7:30 and I walked into work at 8:00. No, I STRUTTED into work at 8:00 because I was so damn proud of my record-breaking performance. And people even told my non-showered self, "You look nice today." (Mini-lesson learned: Used together, a ponytail and a little extra perfume are a completely acceptable substitute to a morning shower.)

Lesson learned: Do not let husband’s geek-genius quality fool you – he may be able to explain the international dateline, but the AM/PM distinction one must navigate when setting the alarm clock is beyond him.

Yesterday after work I stopped by the grocery store to pick up milk because we ran out. We ran out because we didn’t buy any milk when we did our weekly grocery shopping on Sunday. We didn’t buy any milk on Sunday because Rob said we still had enough in the fridge to last the week. Before we left, I had looked at the amount of milk left in the fridge and determined that we didn’t have enough to last the week, but once at the grocery store, Rob, who had not looked at the existing milk level, decided that we did in fact have enough milk. In fact, I believe his exact words were, “I didn’t see the milk, but I’m sure we have enough to make it through the week.” And I, who did in fact see the milk, said, “I don’t think so” but went along with it anyway. Turns out, I was right and I totally should have taken a bet on whether or not we’d have enough milk to last the week.

So as a result, yesterday I found myself at the grocery store after work. After work I am raw. Raw with fatigue, raw with annoyance, raw with hunger. And because I know the rule (Don’t go grocery shopping when you’re hungry) I planned my route in advance: directly to the milk, directly to the checkout, and directly to my car. And I can tell you honestly that I did walk directly to the milk, then directly to the checkout, and then directly to my car. I cannot help that there are cookies, donuts, and ice cream all along the most direct path to the milk. And I can tell you honestly that I did not buy donuts or ice cream because to get to the donuts and ice cream one must stop and open glass cases, and as you remember I was traveling DIRECTLY in all directions. However, the cookies sit out on tables in the middle of the path to the milk. As in, you must walk around the tables on your way to the milk. Still, everything would have been fine if it weren’t for the sign. Long before I got to the cookie table I saw the sign: “MVP Buy: 2 for $5” The 2 was referring to the plastic bins of mini-cookies that I absolutely love. These are quarter-sized cookies that you can eat like 12 of and still not have exceeded the suggested serving size. Now, I could have just bought 1 bin for $2.50 (cause MVP discounts are cool like that) but I then noticed (still walking, still on my direct path to the milk) that there were two different kinds of mini-cookies which just so happened to be my two favorite kinds: White-Chocolately Chip and Snickerdoodle. Clearly this was meant to be and I would be a fool to mess with fate. So as I scooted around the cookie table, on the way to the milk, I snagged 2 bins of mini-cookies without so much as a pause. And as I did, I saw the (regular-sized) No-Bake Peanut Butter Oatmeal Cookies. It was too late to grab those on the way to the milk, but I totally snatched them up on my way from the milk directly to the checkout. This was quite a feat, actually, because I did not have a cart or basket (only planning to buy milk, after all) and so my hands were rather occupied juggling my gallon of milk and 2 bins of mini-cookies. But where there’s a will…

So I paid $12 for milk and cookies and then continued directly to my car where I proceeded to tear open, in raw-after-work fashion, the No-Bake Peanut Butter Oatmeal Cookies and shove one whole into my mouth. And during my 1-mile direct route home, I ate another one. And in the driveway I ate one more. And I can tell you honestly that this is a direct route to feeling very fat and very without will-power.

Lesson learned: Don’t trust your husband to know how much milk is left in the fridge.