Psych! Nothing could ever ruin guac for me.

Today’s Take 5. Smells like egotism!

DR correspondent Michael Slezak (google alert!) took the liberty of printing out this gem from his AOL inbox:

He left it sitting on my chair — conveniently, right where my ass goes. Very clever. I could have just digital-imaged it straight from a computer, but decided to photograph it directly instead for the sake of authenticity — in the form of the two slight folds below “Flush” and above “up.” Totally didn’t need to point those out for you. It’s just that I have this extraordinary work ethic and sometimes run out of ways to channel it!

I appreciate the artwork and color scheme of this ad. I do wish it didn’t make me feel like such a heifer. Because, you see, the wording “this meal” is overwhelmingly inaccurate. This grub constituted probably seven of my meals last week, or any week for that matter. So I resent the implication, Colonex. My digestive tract is way more busted than you can even fathom. But nice try.

(For their next ad, Colonex may wish to consider this concoction that Dee found in a magazine three years ago.)

Check out these two episodes of Idolatry — live from Central Park! — on EW.com.

Part 1: “She had a lot of guttural, you know… errrrnh!” Please don’t speak.
Part 2: Dancin’ Dawnie, M-Sleaze, and I attempt to Blakedance.

Bonus: Hot dogs are involved. All right!

Big Decision Alert!

Liz Lemon is the greatest TV character ever.

I’m probably only saying that because she’s a lot like me and I’m all I ever think about. Whatever. Liz Lemon of 30 Rock (Tina Fey) is my hero for plenty of reasons, the most obvious of which is her unabashed obsession with junk food. Observe:

Liz gets a cookie after donating blood. Would you look at that SMIRK? This might be the best photo I’ve ever taken of my own television, and if you don’t know me that well, that is saying so much more than you think. Observe:

Liz is in the middle of an important, entire-episode-consuming office crisis, yet she hesitates when a catering cart wheels by. She actually CHANGES DIRECTION. I believe a pivot was involved, just like in high school girls basketball. (Me!) Again, note the fierce longing in her face. I just don’t understand how this could get any better. Observe:

Liz falls asleep after the same long day at work, but manages to keep a firm grip on a cheeseburger so weak and floppy it is obviously from McDonald’s, despite a lack of visible wrapper logos. Don’t you just want to eat her up? The burger.

Those pics were from last Thursday’s episode. Last night, Liz Lemon admitted the only times she remotely enjoyed her vile boyfriend’s company was when his actions involved food — first doughnuts, then chili, then cheesesteaks. I am seriously confounded at the brilliance of these snack selections. A few weeks ago, the reason I got going on this in the first place was Liz’s insistence that there’s nothing wrong with eating a turkey sub for lunch, and that she likes going to the “crappy” midtown deli because it’s dependable and you know what you’re getting. I couldn’t have said it better myself — god knows I’ve tried, but I’m not good at scripting myself in catchy, succinct TV sentences. When I get to talking about area delis, I can last for whole minutes. I try really hard to convince whomever I’m arguing with (who was never arguing with me, and who doesn’t care) that turkey subs go best when mouth-swished with regular cola, and don’t forget the mayo. The point is: I love Tina Fey.

And on top of all of that… She’s a lefty!

By the way, I’d like to start a Justin Timberlake-esque campaign to bring the spelling “doughnuts” back. Krispy Kreme spells the word that way, but the more pervasive Dunkin’ Donuts, and most people, do not. Are we that busy and low-class that we need to snub those two arguably negligible letters? I’m bringin’ DoughnutsBack. Owww! Sing it with me:

I’m bringin’ “doughnuts” back
Them other peeps they don’t know how to spell
I think it’s special… what’s it filled with, yo
So put it down and I’ll suck out the jelly

It’s about time we discussed a very important part of Summer Eating: Appies.

That’s appetizers in Barrett-speak. It’s a synonym of rushies, because people apparently eat them in a rush. I don’t. I prefer to savor.

Below is a typical August appies array in New Buffalo, MI:

It’s nothing special. Just chips and dip. Many food snobs might refuse to call such simple fare “appetizers.” I think that’s lame. If something comes before the main meal, it goes on the table, and people get a serious kick out of eating it, it’s an appie. No question.

On the surface, everything seems fine about the spread above. Four kinds of chip and three dips — what could be better? No problem! Everyone’s happy. When facing off against twelve possible chip/dip combos, people generally tend to choose a favorite pairing and stick with it, which I think is bogus. If Dee Barrett bothered to put out seven separate troughs, I’m going to lap up the scraps from all of them.

But then there’s a problem: You lose yourself in one conversation or three bloody marys, and suddenly you stick a sweet potato Terra Chip into chili con queso and then pummel the two of those into your mouth, which was conveniently just hanging wide open.

WRONG!

DR’s advice: prepare a site map of the appies array in your head:

Neon green is a match! Pomegranate red means stop. Most of these you can determine based on common sense, but if you need to sample, by all means, do it. After all, you deserve the biggest portion of each bowl simply by being the wonderful you, phenomenally.

(File under “Things I Tell Myself in Michigan”)

“I don’t need to see that!”

Specifically, I don’t need to see 20-inch dioramas of gum disease at the dentist’s. I think dentists position atrocities like this so you can see them right when the hygenist prods the swirly thingie directly into your most sensitive gum area and says “Looks like someone needs to floss more.”

She should have said “Looks like someone needs to floss for the third time in her life.” Then I’d have perked up. As it was, I couldn’t stop focusing on how much the “infected area” looked like an uneven squirt of spicy mustard.

Denny the Dentist totally caught me photographing the gingivitis model on his way in to check for cavities. “Hey, you like that thing?” Sure do!

I should have asked for a freebie to put in our bathroom so it could inspire fear daily. I know what I’d do, though. I’d peer at the gingivitis extensively for at least 45 seconds — longer than it would take to floss — and then proceed to not floss.

I much preferred this little guy in the dentist’s bathroom:

Only because I’d just found out I had no cavities.

See? It’s all good. Sweet Tooth and I are on the same side, battling against gingivitis, veggies, sugar-free gum and diet soda every single day. Let’s do this, Sweet Tooth. Midwestern August-style eating, here we come.

Believe me, I could do it in one.

By the way, these things are amazing. I just wish the word “chunk” appeared somewhere in the description. Brownies, cookies, and ice cream are always better if they give good chunk. It really breaks up the monotony.

I’ve been sitting here obsessing about the concept of chunk for 20 minutes now. It’s also just a great word.

I’m having trouble deciding between the Fat Muffin and Fat Pound Cake. What’s a girl to do? Stop eating all her meals at delis? Surely you jest.

The menu at right is from a deli on 52nd and Broadway. (I don’t know the name of it even though I’ve eaten about 10,000 of their paninis. I ask for a little cup of Russian dressing on the side and dip the entire sandwich into it. It’s revolting. I love it.)

I’m guessing the inclusion of “fat” in the description is short for “fat-free.” Right? There are fat-free muffins everywhere. I can’t turn around without sinking my teeth into one and then spitting it out because it’s so ridiculously nasty. I feel like one of those kids with the eating disorder called pica, which causes one to eat dirt and rocks as if they were food. Apparently kids with pica can’t make the distinction. So basically I’m equating anyone who eats fat-free muffins… to a child afflicted with pica, stuffing twigs and bits of clay down her throat because she thinks it’s what she’s supposed to do. Just stop! It’s not worth it. Moral of the day:No letting pica/fat-free muffins get the better of you!

Fat-free pound cake is significantly less likely, though, largely because it’s called “pound cake.” There’s no way to make it un-fat. People who eat pound cake are either fat already or well on their way… at least in their minds. And they kind of love it.

I’m usually in the latter category. I like to buy pound cake just for the thriling, momentary recognition that I’m being a complete idiot… who’s about to really live it up for like three minutes. Pound cake is the worst and best thing you can do for yourself in a deli. They’re all delicious, but horrible for you, which is tragic, as a specimen such as myself can typically eat two or three in a sitting. (Sometimes I get up and walk around just so I can sit back down and tackle another.) Lemon poppyseed and cranberry walnut fat pound cakes do it for me sometimes, but I especially like the carrot cake variety with the cream-cheesy icing lining the top. (Why can’t it line the whole thing? Life would be so much more fulfilling.)

As a not-yet-fat person, when I buy pound cake, I’m semi-aware that in doing so I’m making a small pledge to become fat in the future. It’s like putting useless change you don’t want clinking in your jacket pockets into the plastic cancer box at McDonald’s. You don’t know it yet, Annie but you’re making a difference! I’m investing money, time, and a generous chunk of my thoughts for the day on pound cake and how the eating of it will likely backfire in the long run. But none of that matters at the time of purchase. Especially if I also just bought coffee and feel zany enough to do some dunking.

It could be that the deli is simply really proud of their muffins and pound cake. Perhaps they think that “plumping them up,” so to speak, will attract people. Maybe the muffin really is fat, round, and plentiful, just like you will be after you eat it. And maybe the pound cake is just that large and robust… and buttery… and delicious. Also just like you.

In that case, it might have helped to substitute the ph version of the letter f, for maximum cool factor. You know, get the kids involved. I bet any urban youth would feel pretty groovy both ordering and carrying around a “phat pound cake.” He could brag to his friends about it. “Aw, man, you just got standard pound cake. That shit’s over.'’

Yes! Dee just sent a box containing three Reese’s Eggs. (I don’t see what would have been wrong with four.)

I’ve been meaning to do a thorough comparison of all of the Reese’s holiday variations on the traditional Cup. I now have an Egg, a Heart, and a Tree (I think the tree is from 2004, ew), so I just need to wait until this October so I can pick up the Pumpkin. There’ll be a photo shoot and everything. (Tyra Banks voiceover: “Come on, Tree, I wanna see fierce! Show me your wild side. Show me who Tree really is.”)

Right now, the Egg is my favorite. I suppose the Egg is my favorite right now because it’s what I’m eating… right now. That has to be a conflict of interest. A huge chunk of it is literally melting on my tonuge. My lazy teeth have sort of sunk into the top of it, but I’m just going to go with it. It’s heavenly.

Here’s photographic evidence of how heavenly I think the Egg is. Before eating, I placed it right at the most important area of my apartment (the trackpad), and the flash has produced an eerie, almost outer-space effect. The Egg is like that wondrous black monolith in the move 2001: A Space Odyssey. (Roll over the pic for a visual.)

But I think I’ve always actually favored the Egg. It’s the closest in shape to the original Cup, and yet due to its impressive surface area, you feel like you’re getting a ton more out of it than you do during a usual Cup experience. So size alone matters, and then there’s also the element of shape/contour. This may sound blasphemous to Reese’s purists, but I actually prefer the holiday Reese’s over the Reese’s Cups* because I’m not totally wowed by the crinkled edges on the Cups. If anything, I find them slightly burdensome. All those sharp angles make for a somewhat jarring job for the teeth and tongue. The pointy sections don’t melt on their own very quickly, like the peanut buttery part does. You have to break all those ridges up with your teeth. It’s not like I don’t have the time for it (this post serves as evidence to the contrary) but why should I have to go through the routine if there’s a specialty Shape around? The Shapes, on the other hand, have smooth and softer edges. Bites of Shapes are already at a near-perfect consistency right when they enter the endless black hole that is Annie Barrett’s human mouth. The procedure ends up being so seamless. Sometimes I finish an Egg and think, “That was nothing. I think I’ll have another. If only Dee had sent four.” Then I cry.

This is why there need to be more occasions throughout the year to which the Reese’s corporation responds by manufacturing seasonal shapes. That way, we’ll always have the option of Cup vs. Shape. Fans of either genre will be constantly happy!

Timely example: I’m not one of those people who get obsessed with St. Patrick’s Day, but I certainly wouldn’t kick a Reese’s Four Leaf Clover to the curb right now if one knocked on my door. I could definitely have more fun with one of those than I could with a beer.

They could also have a default Reese’s per month, just in case there’s no major holiday in sight. Here are some ideas:

January: Snowman

February: Snowwoman (extra hair = extra Reese’s)

November: Turkey OR Indian Feather (Is that racist? Go with it. Or add Pilgrim Belt Buckle to even it out.)

December: Me (it’s my birthday, plus I harbor a secret fantasy about being sculpted into a Reese’s) Fine, or a Dreidel.

Despite my obsession with the Shapes, I’ll still be forever impressed by the Cup. If not for the Cup, the Egg would never be. And there you have your answer to the rhetorical quandary posited in this (possibly regrettable) post’s title.

What’s your dream Reese’s shape?!

*I wanted to put that declaration in bold orange with an asterisk because I feel so strongly about this. It is one of my strongest opinions about anything.

I don’t know if it was random timing, an implicit order sent from the O.C. gods, or me being a tool, but the only thing I ate all day was pad thai. I ate my friend Leno’s paltry leftovers from Wednesday night first, around noon. This took like twenty seconds. I ate a few bites of my own generous helping of leftovers at 5. I then went to Rebecca’s and proceeded to order a spicier version of pad thai with chicken AND shrimp. It was really intense and large, so there were leftovers from that too. Then I came home, festered, and generally blanked out in front of my computer screen for seven hours whilst intermittently sneaking bites of all of the remaining pad thai in the apartment. (The bites were mouth-swished with regular Pepsi. For your records.)

Only looking back on this experience one day wiser do I realize that the entire endeavour was sick. Now, 32 hours after the initial ingestion of pad thai (Wednesday night, circa 8 pm) I feel absolutely disgusting. And yet all day and night Thursday, I walked around feeling awesome about getting to eat so much pad thai, and only that. I thought this was not only cool but a quirky little diet plan that just might work! I realize now that it was neither, and that the entire pad thai-like mass in my system is going to probably rebel against me on the way out. Somehow.

Can I not be gross?

No.

The Office was amazing tonight, once again. I’m basically only writing this to weasel my parents into taping it. They claim they have “too many shows going on” in their lives right now, which everyone with a DVR knows is bogus. Start taping it, dudes. Next week.

Apologies in advance: I don’t get to write about The O.C. anymore (I’ve moved on to covering a far more ridiculous show), so I’m gonna do it right here. Instead of covering the entire episode, I’ll just be focusing on something really small (annoying, even!) and apply it to my own life because HELLO! It’s what I do. I’m cool.

Last night on The O.C., Marissa and her on-again/off-again sister Kaitlin were chillin’ out by the pier, because that’s what all cool girls do in Newport Beach mid-morning, and Kaitlin told some long-winded story — that was actually a lot like this sentence — about how when they were younger, Marissa could never decide on which flavor of ice cream to order at Baskin Robbins.

I was immediately intrigued, for many reasons. 1) These two actresses probably haven’t even eaten ice cream since they were around six. 2) That’s a really funny product placement, even if it’s only a Mention. And 3) Baskin Robbins was my favorite ice cream store when I was younger, and the more things on TV that can relate to Annie Barrett’s Own Life, the better! Also 4) Baskin Robbins made the Clown Cones I’ve written about before. You remember, right? (I’m basically talking to myself here, so yes, Annie, I totally remember that! It was such an awesome entry.)

Anyway, the story 14 year-old Kaitlin told was funny because I can totally picture someone as annoying as Marissa wanting to sample all 31 of the flavors before making her final decision. Imagine my shock and awe when I realized that Kaitlin was actually describing my life! See, Kaitlin, who bragged that she always got Gold Medal Ribbon because she “knew” that she “loved it,” is like my friend Kara, who in the hundreds of times we must have gone to Baskin Robbins NEVER ordered anything except Gold Medal Ribbon. She knew about it from day one, even before I’d ever been to the store with her. It was like she’d claimed that territory as part of her America. I’d always be a little jealous, becuase I too liked GMR. She was right — it never disappointed. It was just something you could count on, like running water or Ryan Atwood.

So Kara would choose Gold Medal Ribbon. They’d give it to her and she’d stand there all smug, totally happy with her decision. Smart as a whip, that Kara. Such conviction at such a young age. Meanwhile, I’d be sweating (literally… I wasn’t even fat, but I did sweat a lot as a preteen) while touring the rest of the flavors. If I got Gold Medal Ribbon, I’d be a copycat, but if I got something I didn’t like as much, I’d hate Kara and myself for the rest of that day. Sometimes I went with rainbow sherbet or a Clown Cone or even this other flavor they had called World Class Chocolate that always always always sat right on top of GMR. It was brutal. Sure, I liked World Class Chocolate, but I never once got to order GMR if Kara was there because I thought she’d get mad at me. Why didn’t I just order it first, or pretend like I didin’t remember that it was her favorite flavor? Nah, she’d be onto me in a second. Smart as a whip, like I said.

Wow, Annie, another killer graphic.

What the F is the point of this? It’s right here: I hate Marissa. And now I’m LIKE Marissa. It follows that I now hate myself. Great! Time for this week’s Query Chart, or what people searched online that made them find this site.

Yesssss. larry king’s chili and i hate oprah are welcome additions to the list, which 100% of the time includes the query “butt crack.” I am an amazing writer and a prominent thinker of my time.

Speaking of phrases like “of my time,” how absolutely offensive is it that in this year’s Survivor, they broke up the women and men into older and younger groups? One of the women, Cirie, was like “I thought I was young!” while the graphic below her name said she belonged to the OLDER WOMEN group. Yikes. I also think producers planted that fish in the rocks so Tina could find it, bring it back to camp, be seen as even more of a threat, and get BOOTED!

The Office was really good last night, too.

But I don’t really like TV.

Dee called yesterday to tell me that the title of my last entry (”Stop coming here”) and the part where I said I was currently hating myself made it sound like I was depressed. I was like, “No, mom, that was a joke.” She was like, “How was it funny?” It was a really good question.

You’re probably wondering how the Plan (officially titled “Lose Weight”) is going. I kept a log, asked for professional feedback (free at NYU’s health center for Students Who Should Have Graduated By Now) and a group of dieticians categorized my progress as “Not Good.” Check out what I had for 3am Snack, or what in normal-person-time can be translated to: Lunch

It’s a smattering of the some of the few items left in my festering fridge and the end of a baguette that was stale yesterday. The topping consists of shredded mozzerella cheese (melted), pine nuts, scallions, olive oil, and garlic salt. They were not applied to the bread in that order. For a DR Challenge, try to guess the order yourself!

Sometimes (not in this case, because those little fuckers tasted amazing), I decide I’m unhappy with the meal I just ate. Maybe it was a loserish sandwich on wheat bread or a bowl of nasty soup with bad croutons. When this happens, I mentally shut down and start panicking about when would be a proper time for me to eat again. I feel like it should be sooner than later, because my previous experience was such a letdown. But eating something else right away would be piggish.

My solution, as of late, has been to chug two extra-large bottles of water (right, flanked on one side by Fritos Scoops!). One is a rectangular Fiji bottle I can remember buying. The other is the biggest bottle Poland Spring makes, but since I can’t remember ever buying it I know that it’s by this point in time incredibly disgusting and probably has bits and pieces of the general filth in my apartment encased into each of its Michelin Man-like ridges.

Dieters or people who just like to do sick things to their bodies: take note! Chugging both of these at once actually makes me hungry again within the hour, and if you feel hungry, that’s your body’s way of saying you should eat. So, score.

The chugging also makes me pee a lot, which can be fun and semi-convincing of one’s general progress in life. If I’m just going to be sitting around for four hours, especially if I’m at home, I feel a lot more productive if I have to get up and jog to the bathroom a few times. Throw 20 times into the mix and I almost have a workout going. It’s awesome.

I’ll be out of town for nine days. Where? A bad photograph of the most ridiculous commercial currently on television is your clue:

Most people would find the Olive Garden’s Never-Ending Pasta Bowl disgusting because OG is an evil corporation whose food isn’t that good. I find it disgusting because I know, deep down, that my chain-restaurant standards are low enough that I would secretly really enjoy sitting in an Olive Garden eating plates of sub-par pasta until I gained seven pounds… just to make sure I got the most out of the deal.

Take a look at my new favorite meal of all time: the Sweet ‘n’ Savory French Toast at Southport Grocery in Chicago’s Lake View neighborhood. It’s french toast topped with gruyere cheese (whaaa?) and somewhat crispy ham with no fat on it, served with organic maple valley syrup on the side. The syrup came “from the grocery,” which in this place seems to be a very big deal. I was almost afraid to ask for a second little cup of it becuase I thought they might make me buy the whole $14 bottle.

You have no idea how good this breakfast is. It might not sound good to you just written out in words. It didn’t to me, on the menu. I would normally not order french toast in a restaurant, but my dining partner at SG a few weeks prior ordered it then. I sampled a bite so as not to be rude (and because I knew his generosity stemmed from his wanting a bite or more of my egg-laden bruschetta/crostini concoction, which was okay but not something to write in a shitty blog about. I don’t know why we didn’t just switch plates).

Whoa. I spent the rest of that morning jealously salivating over — or shall I say savoring — the memory of that bite. I couldn’t even focus on conversation, much less my own meal, after getting a taste of this miracle. I think the jealousy overcame me to the point where I was downright nasty to the person who had had the good fortune of ordering it for himself. There’s no way of being sure, because I don’t really remember. I was out of my mind. That bite had been with me throughout the past three weeks, lifting me up during sour times, gently calling me back to the Midwest for another round. I made it, Sweet ‘n’ Savory French Toast! I came back to you. Are we in love? Is the feeling mutual? Call or write.
*

I often get a very tense feeling when a meal I know I’m going to enjoy more than anything else that day is about to be served to me. It’s almost like I don’t want to receive it. I want to have ordered it, to have waited for it, to have it be on its way, but I don’t actulally want it set down because at that point, it’s practically gone. The food’s there, but the suspense, thrill, and yearning have all vanished by that point. The plate in front of me is just a given. It, too, will go away, and all too quickly. There’s something profoundly sad in that.

I felt this great depression while eating for the second time at Southport Grocery. I wanted to take each bite of the Sweet ‘n’ Savory French Toast, but I also didn’t want to because then whatever little percentage of it that I managed to load onto the fork would be gone forever. I mean, I could come back, but not, like, for the next meal. They’d think I was weird. I’d have to wait at least a few days. Maybe one day. I don’t know. It’s too much to think about.

I always envision a huge, looming, color-coded pie chart when I’m eating one of my favorite things. Like I said above, the moment right before it’s placed in front of me is the happiest moment. At that point, the pie chart is not a chart at all but just a benign, bunny-yellow circle: a big, smiling, hungry face with one of those wagging tongues that looks like it’s about to slurp up something delicious. With each bite, not only do portions of the smiley face get taken over by a different, gloomier color (midnight blue… perhaps thundercloud gray), but the smile slowly but surely turns into a frown. At the meal’s pausing point, usually somewhere right in the middle (also called the “breather,” “timeout,” or “period of solemn reflection”), I imagine the face having a completely horizontal line for a smile. It’s not a grimace — not yet — but there is no joy left. It’s the “look what you’ve done to me” face a sullen teenager might shoot at the parent who never gave him any attention. I almost consider not eating any more so as not to produce the inevitable downwards-drooping smile line. All of this makes it significantly difficult for me to find joy in the eating process.

And then I do anyway!

You know, if I hadn’t taken Tylenol P.M. nearly three hours ago, I would be totally up for creating graphics of the meal-progression pie charts, thundercloud gray and all, but as it is I’m starting to drool and didn’t even notice, and would be surprised if I even stay awake long enough to run upstairs, wait 10 mintues for dial-up to work, and get this posted. Right now I sound like a raving lunatic, so maybe falling asleep for once would not be a bad thing.

First of all, tell me if these earrings are as cool as I think they are right this second. That feathery turquoise thing is… a feather. Knowing me, I will wake up tomorrow and change my mind about them. How’s about you do that for me, or tell me they’re really cute. I don’t care either way. Honesty is encouraged. For your benefit, I did not look at the camera and instead took my own photo while glued to a horribly mediocre episode of Survivor. Only the best for our readers.

Also in Weird Things I Wear news, you can tell I haven’t done laundry in about three months when I end up wearing magenta socks with flowers on them that Dee sent me in a box, likely as a cute “aren’t these funny?” joke. Unless it was an unfunny “aren’t these cute” plea and she was serious. Either way, I find these socks rather humorous and kept laughing at them whilst writing my paper on the schizophrenic nature of Instant Messenger. Some people have requested to read this paper, so I put it online. Do not click unless you are interested. It’s not for everyone. But if you’re addicted to IM or once were, go for it.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you that reading the entire thing will be 20 to 90 minutes you will never, ever get back. Also, “bleeckerbimbo” and “parannieoia” are names I created for the paper. Do not put them on your buddy list. They will never be used again.

One of my paper-writing tactics relates to food. Actually, most of them do, but I thought I’d share one of my favorites. The PB&J-per-page is a very effective technique to use between the hours of 3-8 a.m. The way it works is: I write a page, I eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. (Sure you got that? It’s one of my more complicated techniques, so read that last sentence over if you need to.) To save time, I make at least four sandwiches at once, like so. Now, even if you never eat PB&J, admit that is a tantalizing photo. Or maybe it’s just me. It usually is.

I confessed to Meghan my psychological problems involving Magnolia cupcakes, and instead of empathizing with me like I thought she would, she laughed in my face. Here’s the problem: When there’s a food product I really value - and this is not limited to junk food like 99% of this site - I need to have a backup if I’m going to indulge.

This means that if I decide I want my last orange, I need to go out and buy another orange (or six) before I eat the first. The supply must be replenished before it depletes, or “diminishes,” if I want to be cute about it.

This isn’t funny. I have a serious problem. Late at night, I’ll decide I want to cook penne pasta, and unless there’s another box somewhere in apartment, I can’t bring myself to do it because then I wouldn’t have any more penne.

What?! I am insane! I know this. Just let me get it out, because you’re already here and probably not about to leave (although now would be a great time).

I do this with mini Twix, mac ‘n’ cheese, lime Tostitos, and eggs, to name a few. I will even let rotting flowers sit on my coffee table while I procrastinate buying new ones, instead of just throwing them out as soon as they start to flake out.

I’ve thought about it for a few hours now (I have a really fulfilling life) and have concluded that it’s only store-bought items that I need immediately replenished. If I cook eggplant parm or make tuna salad, it’s not like I’m going to whip up another tray of it just because I’m almost done with the leftovers. That would be crazy! And when I have restaruant leftovers, I don’t feel a strong urge to run back and order the same thing right away. Unless it was, you know, really good. No, the OCD seems to be limited to single items that are sold as small wholes unto themselves.

Case in point: Magnolia cupcakes. Meghan and I decided to split a box of four. I assumed this would provide a pretty good buffer zone for me, because she would only eat one (to my one) and leave me with two extra when she left. Then, I could safely eat the third while planning another trip to the bakery for more.

This is just wrong. I would apparently rather let the fourth innocent cupcake become stale and possibly never eaten than just eat all my purchased servings at once and live without the presence of cupcakes in my apartment for one whole day. I need some help.

When it was clear that Meghan was going to eat her second, I became despondent and confided this particular food-related OCD to her, to no avail. She thought I was nuts when I suggested that before we eat the second pair, we should walk over and get two more because the bakery wasn’t closed yet!

When I type it out, it doesn’t seem logical to me either. But at the time, the feeling was so intense, so certain. Look at those colors. Would you want to part with all of them without backup? Think about it. :(

Okay, that wasn’t the breaking news, although it was true and heartfelt. And green! Hooray for Irish people, etc. The real story is that I’ve sold out. I bought Better ‘n Eggs “real egg product” today. I was proud of this purchase as I would save time and arm movements because I’m sick of stirring my egg whites and these eggs are already liquified for me.

Turns out my sister, who knows everything about stuff like this, totally ragged on my new buy. I thought she’d be all for it, especially after I warmed her up by asking about another healthier egg product, the “beaters” variety, which I knew she used. But it completely backfired. Take a look:

Banannie54: do you ever eat egg beaters?
NutMeg54: i did
NutMeg54: i don’t know why

Exsqueeze me? Come again?

Banannie54: not good?
NutMeg54: b;/c they were REALLY disgusting
NutMeg54: like moldy runny goo that somewhat resembles the color and shape but not texture of real eggs
Banannie54: eww

Who was this person? She made sense and was arguing for real food instead of chemically arranged, nightmarish food products. Though alarmed, for some reason, I decided to forge ahead with my devastating news. I had already brought up eggs, after all.

Banannie54: i bought another egg product today
Banannie54: not beaters
NutMeg54: i don’t really get why people buy them when they can just buy real eggs and quickly beat them together

What?! Her line of really good reasoning threw me for a loop. Here’s when I knew my sister has returned from the Dark Side (and that I have plunged into it). She used to be obsessed with diet-friendly alternatives. What has happened to her? What has happened to me?

NutMeg54: what one
NutMeg54: why?
NutMeg54: eggs are great

I feel like crying out here. I know! I love eggs so much! At this point, I’m suffering an intense identity crisis. Who the F claims to be a true food lover and then buys something that claims to be an improvement upon, or “‘n,” that food? Save me from the egg product, Meghan. Take me back! Reel me in! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. Eggs are great. All those times you told me I shouldn’t be eating the orange part must have just gotten to me. I’ll make it up to you, I promise!

Banannie54: um… Better ‘n Eggs
Banannie54: oh god, i will probably hate it
NutMeg54: try it though
NutMeg54: why did you buy it?
Banannie54: it says “real egg product”
NutMeg54: easier to make?
Banannie54: yeah
NutMeg54: it’s probably not
NutMeg54: real
Banannie54: oh god
Banannie54: then how can they say that?
NutMeg54: i’m sure it’s easier
NutMeg54: it has to be illegal

Hmmm. Cut ahead two hours. I just whipped up a few breakfast burritos with the real egg product and thought they were pretty good. This could simply be due to my flair with a skillet, but I’m going to count this post as a win for Annie and another blatant loss for Meghan Barrett and - as always - the readers of Diminishing Returns. I’m sorry. For everything.

Chicago fans: Anyone watch The Amazing Race? Tonight’s series finale featured the Water Tower and (Dad, brace yourself…) a Gino’s East deep dish pizza-eating challenge! I suddenly miss the Midwest.

I personally felt the contestants didn’t treat the Chicago-style pizza with the reverence it deserves. At one point, eating disorder spokesmodel Kendra (right, gagging), who was fighting off her gag reflex the whole time she was eating, declared, “This is disgusting.” No, Kendra. You are disgusting for saying such a wretched and unforgiveable thing. I wish that, as an added twist, Kendra’s cut of the million-dollar prize came in the form of a gift certificate only redeemable at Gino’s East. She’d probably turn it down.

I really need to start reading more.

I thoroughly enjoyed a large slice of Whole Foods cornbread at my desk this afternoon, 5-ish. (It was like I was intentionally sabatoging my chances of going running at 6:30. Except it wasn’t “like” that, it was that.)

I almost freaked out because as a result of what I thought was an ingenious plan to be tidy and let extranneous crumbs fall into the garbage can, I unwrapped the cornbread above the can only to watch a third of it crumble instantly and fall in. I took a moment and actually considered retrieving it, but realized it wouldn’t be “it,” it would be one million little pieces of “it” that I’d have to scrape up (against a banana peel) and re-mold as a dense little crumbly nugget of greasy cornmeal. “Oh no she di-iiiint!” the coworkers would say.

Well, they probably wouldnt’ say that because nobody ever speaks out loud in the office. But they totally would’ve e-mailed me about it.

When I was wee, we had cornbread for dinner a lot, the kind you can buy at Dominick’s in a big sheetcake for like $2.69 I was obsessed with it. Eating the cornbread today triggered an intense memory about my previous cornbread experiences. I realized that I used to swish room-temperature water in my mouth with every small bite of cornbread. Why the F would I do this? What a horrible idea, especially when there are so many other beverages I could have sampled? I think I was just really into ULTIMATE MOISTURE with the cornbread. Maybe it demanded it! It definitely asked very nicely.

The beverage-swishing process itself doesn’t strike me as that strange, considering I still have a vast repertroire of food-drink combos that MUST go together. For example, you must not know me that well if you didn’t know that I relish the mouth-swishing combination of 1) turkey sub and 2) regular cola. I like the cola to be ice-cold, but not on ice. Fresh out of the vending machine, sipped through a straw in a pitter-patter fashion is perfect. (I just said “pitter-patter.” I happen to know this is called onomatopoeia.) The sub should include crusty, somewhat challenging bread and a sizable, but not overwhelming, amount of mayo.

The Mouth Swish (MS) is key to our appreciation of food. Why shovel in more and more of one thing all at once when you can sit back, take little bites and little sips together, and really relish both what you are ingesting and the fact that — hey, you’re ingesting… and that’s awesome.

My own swishing process is not so much active swishing as an intense, euphoric period of comingling. First comes the bite, then the sip, and then you should just let the elements come together on their own. Don’t force it. Each bite/sip will be unique, according to the materials’ whimsies. It’s out of your hands. Just let them sit there and settle, and then 7-15 seconds later, let the tongue slowly compress the mixture…

This is getting weird. Rather than go into this more, I’ll just list a few more of my favorite MS combos:

–Fritos/Diet Pepsi
–Taco Bell Mexican Pizza/Mountain Dew
–anything cake-based/milk
–Nilla wafers/Minute Maid fruit punch
–Brownberry croutons/Five Alive citrus drink
–blueberry muffins/Tropicana OJ
–Pepperidge Farm gingerbread men/Haagen Dazs raspberry sorbet
–chicken pesto sandwiches/orange-banana smoothies

OMG BOOK IDEA.