I wish my pants would fall down

I bought a treadmill last weekend. I have owned it now for nine days. I have been on it ...uh, I'll be generous and say three times.

My pseudo granddaughter was on it more Saturday alone than I have sine we lugged it home (I use "we" euphamistically). Then again, what seven-year-old could resist what is essentially an escalator in your own living room? Even her stuffed puppy took a ride or two.

But I digress.

I also got a fancy gravity lift thingie that is really quite fun. I've been on it, um, say five times. The first time it hurt me. There is a plant on it right now.

This morning I intended to be good (Mondays are just like that)and set my alarm for 5 am. I finally dragged my ass out of that nest of a bed at 7. Then for breakfast my man fixed me giant slices of french toast (with the bread he made yesterday) slathered in syrup.

In the midst of another child emergency at lunch today, I scarfed a bowl of honey-nut cheerios. We're on a carb roll now!

Later the inevitable carb overload - I want to eat my arm - hunger kicked in and I ate what was supposed to have been my lunch in the first place - a nice, healthy Kashi frozen meal (Lemon Rosemary Chicken). It was yummy, but still not enough so I continued on with the yogurt and the carrots and everything else in sight. Because what I really want is chocolate and damn if I don't wish I hadn't discovered the vending machine down the hall with its siren chorus of kit-kat, reeses and snickers voices.

Because I know I will go home and eat what my man has lovingly fixed for me, which will inevitably be fried and accompanied by potatoes, probably also fried.

I'm doomed.