Thursday, Dec. 09, 2004
Dear Diary:

Fruitcake. Somewhere in this house there is fruitcake.

Fruitcakes. Comedians make endless jokes about Christmas fruitcakes. Even the word itself has turned into a slam. You want to say someone is crazy? You call them a fruitcake.

I love fruitcake.

I can pass by almost all the other Christmas temptations without a problem, but put me anywhere near a fruitcake and within minutes my breath will smell suspiciously like candied cherries and all that will be left of said fruitcake will be a small pile of crumbs.

My mother-in-law makes two fruitcakes for each of her sons for Christmas. They are delicious. I begged the spousal unit not to bring ours up until just before Christmas. Did he listen to me? Oh, no, he did not. He wanted fruitcake. Now.

The spousal unit can eat anything he wants. Part of this is because he does very physical work and part of this is because he's been blessed with a fast metabolism. It's hard not to hate someone for this.

My goal has never been to be svelte and I never will be. But after my breast lump scare three years ago I made a determined effort to clean up my health. Slowly I've changed how I eat, dragged my aged carcass ever closer to fitness. I've now got cholesterol, blood pressure, bone density and body fat numbers that make my doctor beam.

Fruitcake. Somewhere in this house is fruitcake.

Last night we each had a small slice of fruitcake for dessert after supper. Dark, moist, chockablock with candied fruit goodness—omigawd, a small orgasm in every bite.

There is nothing wrong with savouring a small piece of fruitcake. But we all know that that one small piece of fruitcake is a gateway experience. Left on my own, how long would it be before I found myself awakening from a diabetic coma in a room I didn't recognize, a room strewn with torn, empty fruitcake boxes?

My thoughts, exactly.

So I told the spousal unit he had to wrap it up and hide it from me because this is one of those things I cannot be adult about. I told myself that if it wasn't under my nose, if I couldn't see it, I would be fine. Out of sight, out of mind. So he hid it. Mocking me greatly for my lack of self control, might I add.

Fruitcake. Somewhere in this house is fruitcake.

As you can see, that whole "out of sight out of mind" dealie is working like a charm.


P.S. – The Big Adventure has been nominated for a Web Log Award. These awards are run much like a Ukrainian election, meaning that you can vote more than once—every 24 hours, if you wish.

I think my three loyal readers can agree that this nomination was some sort of computer error. The odds of it ever happening again are oh, say, the equivalent of me being hit by lightning. We're talking a one shot deal here. I need your votes.

(This would be the part where the room goes dark except for a single spotlight. I wander into it, looking extremely piteous. Well, even more piteous than normal. There is heart rending violin music playing softly in the background. Inexplicably you feel your eyes well with sympathetic tears.)

Remember, I am older than dirt. How long do I have left to live? I ... I ... I could die without ever knowing the joy that is winning a Web Log Award for being obscure.

Do you understand how empty and meaningless that would make my life? Do you? Huh? HUH?

I'm just sayin' ...

Mileage on the Marnometer: 936.22 miles.
Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.25 per cent thereTen percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.25 per cent thereTen percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.
Oh man. This is going to be hard
Goal for 2004: 1,000 miles - 1609 kilometers

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Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -

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