Food, I have to break up with you.

"Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels." -Author, Moron.

I don't know who was the first to say that, but clearly, they have never tried bacon. Or mac and cheese. Or found themselves hiding from their kids and eating an entire package of Oreo cookies in their bedroom closet.

Ok, so I admit, the last part might just be me.

Since becoming a stay at home mom a few years ago, I have honed my cooking skills. Anything you desire, I can make it and I can make it better than restaurant quality.

DOUBLE EDGED SWORD, PEOPLE!

I make stuff that puts Paula Deen to shame.

"Well, we could make the mashed potatoes/mac and cheese/anything on this earth with regular milk, but it just tastes so much better with heavy cream."

"I put in an extra stick of butter and some cream cheese because it just didn't seem creamy enough."

Some of the cuisine I have ventured into, my God, it should be illegal it's so damned good. 

Bacon wrapped this and cheese coated that.

Sauces, gravies and dips (Oh my!).

I have been defining my world experience through my tongue and stomach and it has been an amazing ride. As a matter of fact, I just got up and got myself a brownie because I made myself hungry just thinking about all the foodie goodness.

So, it probably shouldn't surprise me I have become too fat. (Who would've thought, right?) Not like "Jabba the Hut" fat, maybe "half a Jabba".

I AM HALF A JABBA, FAT.

Amy the Plump. Someone is gonna start playing the tuba when I walk.

And I am gonna need to drive one of those carts at Walmart.

Which, I told Jude, would be my deal breaker for how fat he could get before I would have to draw the line on riding Mister Toad's Wild Ride.

And I don't even know how it happened. It seems like one day I was single with no kids and 120 lbs and the next I have three kids and if you tied rope to my arms and legs, you could float me in a parade.

What the hell, food? You did me dirty. You're like a scruffy-faced bad boy that I just can't stay away from. The one that gets me hooked on meth and booked as an accessory.

So I should probably get on that. The only problem is, that I love food. I love to make it, I love to eat it.

And when I say "love", I mean like romantic, emotional, crazy person love.

When I see a pot full of mac cheese, I swoon. Eating makes me happy. Whenever we have a party, I feed people and we are happy. People tell me that they like my food and I feel like a good host. Whenever I am sad, I eat things and it makes me feel better. They don't call it comfort food for nothing. It's a drug, but you can't just quit eating cold turkey, cause you would die, and dying is bad. But eating too much causes you to die too. You can't win.

So what the hell to do?

Obviously I can't just keep eating what I want or I will end up looking like a character out of Honey Boo Boo. And so will my kids. Cause they watch me eat. Not all the time, just enough, to get a sense that I eat too much crap in too large of a volume.

"Did mom run a marathon while we were watching Elmo this morning? Cause that's a ridiculously large bowl of pasta."

"What do you mean, there are no more girl scout cookies left? You just bought that box off me yesterday."

They're onto me.

And Jude and I are so good about preaching the values of eating fruits and veggies and always making sure the kids eat healthy foods. I don't want it to become some forbidden fun grown up thing to stuff your face.

Like when they are 20 and the realization hits them that they could, theoretically, eat ice cream for breakfast.

I don't want that for them. I want them to see food as a fuel and not as a friend. They need to be healthy. So, I guess, I need to be healthy.

So, here it goes.

Oreos, macaroni and cheese, pizza, cookies, pastas, and good tasting things of all kind: We have to break up. It's not you, it's me. Actually, you know what, IT IS YOU. I have let you run my life for far too long and I deserve someone who will treat me better. Someone like kale or tofu. Sure, they aren't super good looking and they are probably pretty bland on the plate, but they won't make me talk about mah diabeetus like Wilfred Brimley.

Wish me luck. I'm gonna feed need it.

Every fucking time.

Forever Fatty Workout System.

Amy Seinfeld. Starbucks purchaser.

This post is from February 2012, when I was going through Mocha Coconut Frappuccino withdrawals. Enjoy!
                                                                                                                  
So, I have this Seinfeldian relationship with the Starbucks across the street. It's my fault really. I first discovered Starbucks in July (a late bloomer, I know).

I was in love with this Mocha Coconut Frappuccino. My Frap was so good. It was sweet, a bit like a dessert, but still thirst quenching. After my first Frap, I went in a few days later to have another, then another, until I was getting them daily. It became a delicious, frosty reward after a day filled with heaps of bullshit.

And then it happened. I went to get my drink and it was gone. It was just GONE. They told me it was a summer drink. I cried a little and tried to fill the Mocha Coconut shaped void in my heart by telling this doe-eyed brunette to dump some coconut flakes into a Mocha Frappuccino. It just wasn't the same. Actually it was kinda like eating a really gritty, icy candy bar, which sounds good in theory, but in reality was pretty disgusting. I walked out and decided that until it returned and I could buy them by the pallet and freeze them, I would stick to getting a regular, no frills Mocha Frap, like all the other Frapheads.

The next couple times I came in, I just got a Mocha Frap. Then one of the times, I was in a rush. I didn't realize doe-eyes was working and she snuck in the coconut flakes. Crap. But I just didn't have time to go back in. And she probably felt like she was the only one who remembered my love for coconut and had memorialized that by dumping what must have been half a pound of coconut flakes in the drink.

So I didn't say anything and just drank (chewed) the damn thing. A couple times passed after that of regular fraps and then doe-eyes did it again. But she seemed so happy to have remembered my love of coconut, that I felt like I would have crushed her spirit by sending it back and telling her that I despised drinking it that way.

So now, when I go into Starbucks, I bide my time until next summer, mostly drinking regular old no-frills Mocha Frappuccinos and the occassional chewed cup of coconut slurry.

And when my Mocha Coconut finally returns, I hope doe-eyes is the one who gets to tell me and I hope it makes her day.

It fucking better because these coconut flakes are disgusting.