12 days of potato

seriously, it's no wonder i feel like a mushroom cap in my clothes these days. we are deep into the time of year, i affectionately refer to as the 12 days of potato.

my 12 days of potato may be very similar to your 12 days of christmas cookies, or 12 days of office party lunches but is in no way to be confused with 12 days of sobriety. 12 days of sobriety would enable me to fit in my pants without first crying a little bit and secondly, dodging buttons that burst off like little rockets these days. (someone at work was nice enough to find one of my buttons that took flight this week and oh-so-anonymously left it in the bathroom stall for its owner to claim. thank you kind soul, now mam can stitch the sucker back on for me.)

one of my friends left me a voicemail the other day while i was out of the office over christmas: "hey, just calling to bitch that my pants are so tight today, i can't breathe. oh well, just thought you would understand." this is my same friend who had a meltdown in the bread aisle at trader joe's when she undertook a serious 10-day fast to fit in bridesmaid's dress.

but the 12 days of potato is partially all my fault. the official start of the 12 days of potato begins on PMD (pierogie-making-day) and officially ends when i can no longer fit into anything that resembles clothing in my closet. my friends, that day is here.

for 12 days, no one holds a butterknife to my throat to demand i eat pierogies until i start to resemble the fat little doughy pillows myself. for 12 days, no italian mafia forces me to order bruschetta and gnocci (more potato) at not one, but two holiday dinners back-to-back. of course, gluttony is to blame for a lot of my squishiness around my belly. the other part i blame on a fcukin' microscopic blood clot that tried to take me out this summer and now forces my vegetarian-self to eschew green leafy vegetables.

(oh, the irony, my cholesterol levels were fine before the bloodclot. now, i'm afraid to have them checked to see how much damage my cheese-and-bread restricted diet has done.)

that's okay, with less than 36 hours left in the fcukin' horrible year known as 2006, i'm ready now to go all double-0-seven on my fat cells in the new year. cheers, baby.