28 days without martinis.
25 days of dieting.
15 pounds gone.
0 casualties to report.

That is all.

My cat has picked up an annoying new habit. He’s always been an attention whore and is notorious for following me from room to room. It’s cute, and until now was no big deal.

Lately, though, he’s taken to hurrying ahead of me then throwing himself on his side, belly up and yowling loudly, his way of saying “Play with me! Play with meeeeeee!” I can’t tell you how many times I’ve nearly broken my neck trying to step over him, or sidestepping out if his way when he comes running after me, still yowling.

You’d think he’d realize that it doesn’t work for my husband, so why bother?

Channel-surfing just now, I ran across something called “How Do I Look?” What kind of show is this where friends and family spend the first part of it ragging on how embarrassing the subject’s fashion sense (or lack thereof) is, and all the ways they’ve screwed up their lives, but, hey, it’s okay because now they’re wearing new clothes?

Man, I’d come out for my Big Reveal and start throwing punches. Granted, I’d be wearing designer clothes (and shoes!) while doing it, but my friends and family’s next TV appearance would only be suitable for Discovery Health.

Did everyone have a good Thanksgiving? I’m up here in the frozen north, burning off calories by shivering non-stop. But despite the best laid table I’ve sat at since embarking on my diet, I was a good girl: just turkey, green beans and celery. No martinis (or other booze) even!

Like I said before, the yummy holiday treats will be there next year and I’m certain they’ll taste better when I’m thin.

Ten and a half pounds gone. Mumble-mumble more to go.

Four pounds lost. Zero martinis consumed.
Die, die, die, die, die, die, die, die, die.

Next summer when my thighs are chapped it won’t be from wearing shorts.

The diet starts tomorrow. Yeah, I know, I know… that’s what everyone says. But in my case it’s true: today I went by the doctor’s for pre-breakfast blood work. Now I’m waiting on UPS to deliver the materials.

So while I feel very optimistic right now, it’s easy to feel that way the day before a diet starts. Tomorrow I’ll no doubt run into bumps in the road, and by this time next week those bumps might look more like big freaking huge mountains to climb. But why borrow worries? I’m feeling hopeful today.

As an added incentive, though, I’m starting a series of entries to remind myself of things that will change when I’m thin. Such as…

When I’m thin I won’t have to pretend that 3/4 of my clothing is black because I like it that way.

So, okay, let’s clear the air. First off, back in the days when I first started this here blog everyone who spent enough time online to actually write or read a blog was fat. Hate me for saying it if you want, but having grown up as an ugly, chubby kid (thankssomuch Mom and Dad for being such screw-ups), it was fantastic to suddenly appear online and be considered one of the hottest enemies of the planet. And being called “the hottest MILF in the blogosphere” by Timmer? Heady stuff.

But blogging and time have wreaked a toll on my formerly damn near perfect ass. (No, I’m not referring to that pimple.) And it’s not just my formerly damn near perfect ass that blogging has taken its toll on. In fact, my ass is probably the one part of my 42-year-old body that’s still defying gravity. (Okay, that and my boobs. But for reasons that are about to come clear, I’ll be missing those, although not as much as my husband will.)

See, there’s this thing about living online. You live. Online. Your life starts to rise and fall with page refreshes and comments that make your email InBox go “ding”. Breaking news (which usually proves to be neither breaking nor news) can throw off a whole day’s rhythm. What gets you through it? Anything fast and easy to eat, which usually translates into high-sodium, high-fat, high-calorie crap.

And so I, the girl who formerly looked like this:

am now willing to say: notsomuch. In fact, I look like the girl who ATE that girl. (Oh, get those dirty thoughts out of your mind. You know what I meant.)

But, dear Venomites, I’m on my way back there. Starting on Wednesday I’m going on a doctor-prescribed, -supervised, -monitored diet. And, even though it means no martinis for the foreseeable future (I know, I know, “Right before the holidays?”), they’ll be there when I’m done.

As, I hope, will you.

I’m going to be a bitch between now and when that scale shows I’ve lost at least 45 pounds. (Yes, you read that right: forty-freaking-five pounds.) Will I be here taking that bitchiness out on you? Only if you’re lucky. (Anyone but me just hear Clint Eastwood say, “So tell me, punk, are you feeling lucky?”)

I’ll be here, and I’ll be dieting. Because, to be perfectly honest, I want to be here next year being as much of a bitch as I’ve been all these years… I just don’t want to be as BIG of a bitch while I’m doing it.

Consider yourselves warned.