As I sit here, in what we used to say Indian Style but is now referred to as criss cross applesauce (by the way monkey bars are now called parallel ladders), I am staring at my pathetic attempt at a meal. Like many people, it is half good, half bad. The good, my delightful garlic chicken. Oh, that’s a sinfully delicious thing when it comes out of the oven. I want to burn my lips on it as I get a bite of the crunchy skin. Oh, that’s right, I’m not supposed to eat the skin. Well, I tell myself that the two parts along the breast fell in my mouth by accident. Then I suck it off the bone (I’m not going to remark on that one, too easy) of the wings, and pull the rest of the skin off and give it to the dogs. If I didn’t do that, I would just drag that garlic infused skin through the olive oil. Man, why did I have to write that? Oh, the sea salt. As if I could forget that. And if it were summer I would have fresh basil or rosemary from the garden on it. OK OK OK got to calm down. Hey, that chicken is actually good for you. Don’t eat the skin. No, for real, don’t eat the skin. Bake it at 350 for about an hour and 15 minutes and it should be about done. Now, the bad. I bought tiny rolls. And heated them up. And then. Oh yes. And then I put butter on them. Well, I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter. And I can’t, that stuff has it going on. As a gastric bypass patient, I shouldn’t be eating tiny rolls. Let alone warm ones with butter. But wait, there’s more. I put two on my salad plate. I ate one, and I’m just staring at the other one. The bastard roll. It is no longer a threat to me. It is not hot. Therefore the butter does not ooze. My desire has waned. Yet my disappointment in myself now grows. Why did I buy them? Like Everest, they were there. Then why put them on my plate? Because I am a loathsome pig? I can only assume so. I told my friend Shan I was going to duct-tape myself underneath a dress of hers that I was borrowing for an event. I was doing this because it’s a major press event. Oh please, like you’ve never duct-taped yourself? Do it right and it feels like a reassuring hug. Just don’t do it directly on the skin. Because that’s just crazy. Shan asked why I was doing that. I said because I had gained soooo muuuuccchhh weight. She said, and I quote, “You realize I saw you one week ago.” My rational mind knows it’s all about perception. My irrational mind knows I am so large and hideous that I can barely fit through the door to my own home and that I will be lucky to find a Hefty bag to fit me for this event. I mean, it worked for Deborah Harry. My plate looks sad now. My husband ate the bun. I suppose that’s a good thing. I was toying with the idea of putting chocolate peanut butter on it. Sure am glad he didn’t choke on it. Because that would be bad. Right? Bun stealer.