August 17, 2009


I buy the giant box of Goldfish now. I load James into the grocery cart at Publix, and proudly place the giant Goldfish box in the front with him, as if to scream "hey hey, I have a kid, and here's his Goldfish." Sometimes, I take Stella to Publix too. For good measure... she's just now sitting up well, so I can kinda prop her up, as if to say "heck yes, she's old enough to eat Goldfish. And she loooooves them."

The more kids, the more Goldfish I need. Simple math.

In truth, 8:42 each night rolls around, and you will find me curled up on the corner of our uncomfortable, yet practical, stained sofa from Haverty's, with my latest book, and a Pier One ramekin toppling to the brim with orange, delicious Goldfish.

And then, once that is polished off... I go in for seconds.

Some nights, the ramekin is settled all cozy on the end table, snuggling up to a nice cold bottle of Blue Moon or Killians. Heaven.

Fish ARE in heaven.

The moral of the story: fish are not fat. But Goldfish will make you fat. (Just ask my thighs). I'm going on a Goldfish-free diet... once I polish off the last giant box. Should be done by Friday.

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