As anyone who's seen me in the last several years knows, I am a chubby bunny. Not that I was ever a skinny kitty, as even in high school I was a bit 'thick,' but the inevitable freshman fifteen seemed to recur yearly for me, although some strenuous self hate and crash dieting helped keep that in check. But then I moved to California and put on another 40 lbs, for which I of course blame the guy I was living with, 'cause god knows it wasn't my idea to follow three slices of deep dish with a dozen Krispy Kremes and a four hour nap. Ok, it was, but do you know what that kind of weight gain (in less than six months!) does to a body? It ain't pretty. For the first time in my life, it wasn't my chest and hips that made dressing a problem (which was fine, because at least I looked decent in the buff), but rather my waist and my rapidly expanding rear. I shed a tear in many a dressing room, trust me. But since I started my Life Altering Path To Enlightenment (quit smoking, work out, FOMYL), I've had some success. Down 20 lbs, about to drop below the 200 lb mark, and cigarettes are basically a thing of the past. You would think that after quitting smoking, losing weight would seem like a walk in the park, but they don't really have a fried cheese patch to help with the withdrawal, and once you take smoking out of the mix, the only social activity I engaged in was eating out. In fact, 60% of my income has gone straight to my ass. I started the NutriSystem program last week, which is going OK, although in about a month I'll probably go nuts in the mall and start stealing little kids' ice cream cones and Auntie Anne's pretzels.

What really concerns me, however, is that so much of my time has been devoted to improving my appearance that everything else, including figuring out my life (FOMYL) has taken a back seat. Baby steps in the future department, StairMaster in the looks department. Damn, I am the worst feminist EVER! Blame society, folks, I'm the victim here. ;)

I know I haven't posted very much, despite the triumphant declaration of my return to blogging. I've just been so busy with work and hanging out with my best friend, a toddler with an M&M addiction and a fetish for tummies. My nephew was away with his parents for the weekend, leaving me bereft of the sunshine and puppies feeling he always inspires in me, even when he is defecating in public or lobbing plastic zebras at my head. I have more fun with him than I ever did in college, and somehow his endless prattle about dinosaurs going to get us and his new 'bestofriend' or hot dogs is far more engaging than listening to most of the adults I consort with. Except for you, of course. The worst part about him being gone is that it reminds me that, due to the various and sundry choices I have made in my life, I will probably never have a little Fraser all of my own. Logically, I know that the idea of me having spawn anywhere near as cool or gorgeous as my sister's is unlikely, but ah! what we'll never know, eh? At least I have him on loan whenever I'm feeling down, and as the few parents I know never cease to tell me, kids are a lot more fun when you can fill them up with sugar till their heads spin and then drop them off at home before they puke. And that is why I'm the bestoauntie, no doubt about it.