See those? They’re evil.

Oh, sure, they look innocent enough. Their makers would have you believe they’re downright good for you, too. They tout the fact that Sunchips are baked, not fried, so they contain less fat. And there, at the top of the bag is a bright red label promising 18 times more fiber than potato chips. Which is to say they contain all of 2 grams.

But that’s not the part that irritates me most of all.

I’m mad because, once someone opens a bag of Sunchips in my house, I can’t stop eating them. I try. I really do. I put the bag away in a hard-to-reach cupboard and tell myself to forget all about them. But they call to me in wavy golden voices. “Eat me!” they beg. So I do. And once I start, I just can’t stop.

They’re addictive, I swear it. I wouldn’t be in the least bit surprised to find there’s some kind of “secret ingredient” in Sunchips that will send my body into all sorts of withdrawal convulsions just as soon as I go a full week without polishing off a bag all by myself. Not that I’ve made it that long yet. For some reason my husband insists on buying them every time he goes to the store.

“But you LIKE them!” he’ll exclaim when I grumble about how he brought these rectangular harbingers of dietary temptation back into our house.

“Yes, I do,” I tell him. “Too much. That’s the problem.”

Being an effortlessly thin man despite his half-gallon a day ice cream habit, he just doesn’t get it. Not in the least bit. And so he continues bringing home Sunchips as a sign of affection. And, even though I know they’re bad for me, I keep eating them because, well, they’re there and I just can’t say ‘no’ as far as they’re concerned.

Someday, I may be the world’s only woman to check herself into drug rehab to recover from her Sunchip addiction.

“Hello, I’m Chubby Mommy and I’m addicted to Sunchips,” I’ll say. And all of the hard-core drug and booze addicts around me will pause, take a deep breath and nod before welcoming me into the fold.

Want to have your margarita without killing your diet? The woman who made “Zilch” says you can!

“It’s a powdered concoction that we put in little packets about the size of a sugar packet. You go into a bar or restaurant or a party and order a tequila on the rocks. Just take a packet of Zilch from your purse or pocket and sprinkle it into the tequila on the rocks. Now you’ve got an authentic-tasting margarita with zero carbs and zero sugar. Zilch itself has no calories, so the whole drink will have only 70 or 80 calories from the tequila, and still no carbs. It’s a good deal for people who want to enjoy a margarita and stick to their low-carb diet. Here’s a margarita that’s only two points on the Weight Watchers plan,” Johnson said.

I’m not a ‘rita fan myself. My tastes run heavily toward martinis, if you didn’t already know that. And, well, I tend to get a bit more ‘Venomous’ than usual when tippling the tequilla.

But for those of you who’ve been longing for a way to have your margarita and diet, too, check out ZilchMixers.

FatBlogger has a truly thought-provoking entry on the many roles that food plays in our lives.

Food is in the Garden of Eden, forbidden fruit, crunchy delicious Red Delicious. Don’t eat from the Tree of Knowledge…or nutritional labels. God was right, some things we just don’t want to know.

Food is both deceiving and up-front, both friend and foe, food is a killer of dreams… and African babies (and Mid-Atlantic Appalachian babies too).

Food saves all. I’m hungry. What is food to you?

Food is my best friend and my worst enemy. It’s my mother’s constant nagging about my weight and her needling to have seconds of her pecan pie. It’s the silencer of my son’s constant talking and the trigger for wonderful talks at our family table. Food is what I deny myself routinely while showing my love to my family as I cook for them.

I think it was Audrey Hepburn who once said how much she resented food because it’s something we seek to control our relationship with while not ever being able to actually live without.

Visit FatBlogger and share what food means to you.

Last night, I dreamt of you.

How gorgeous you were, spread out and waiting for me. Pink in all the right places, hard bone gleaming with juice. White mounds glistening, creamy liquid running down and making puddles beneath you.

Oh, how I want you, 12-ounce Porterhouse steak and baked potato with sour cream.

I want you bad.

After a few days of rather mild temps, it’s starting to heat up here in Kansas again. That means, of course, that I’m hankering for cool treats, and my jones has been made all the worse thanks to a friend from NYC who sent an email today raving about her latest find: a gelato from a new place called Grom that opened in Manhattan just over a month ago.

“You’ve never tasted anything like this,” she tells me. “Sweet, creamy. Every spoonful tastes like an Italian vacation.” It doesn’t help that my friend is one of those fortunate few who’s been blessed with a hummingbird’s metabolism and has never, despite having three kids, outgrown her size 2 jeans. The bitch.

So it’s some comfort to me, at least, that she’s having to stand in line for half an hour to place her order. Half an hour! Sorry, by that time I’d have had to go somewhere else to grab a bite to eat lest I faint from hunger. Not her, though.

An even greater comfort: that half-cup of Grom Gelato is 215 calories. She’s ordering two at a time every day, claiming that with her metabolism she can handle the extra callories.

Meanwhile, Grom’s owners are banking on their product’s addictive qualities. Says Mr. Grom:

“..we think our gelato is like a drug. Once they have their free taste, they’ll be hooked.”

Anyone remember that Seinfeld episode where Elaine, Neuman and others went gaga over the frozen low-fat yogurt that turned out to pack a caloric wallop? I am so praying that life imitates art.

Yeah, I guess I’m evil that way. But did I mention: three kids and size two jeans? The bitch.

Hard as I try to rid my life of them, I’ve got a few Vegan friends. I believe they secretly hope to convert me to their meat-eschewing ways, and thus gladly suffer my not-so-subtle contempt. Little do they know, I’ve got an agenda of my own: sooner or later, their low protein levels will lead them to yawn.

That’s when I’m going to shove a double cheeseburger down their meat-starved throats.

Meanwhile, I can’t help noticing my vegetarian or vegan friends succumb to each and every little virus that wends its way through our town. Sometimes it doesn’t even take a virus to make an appearance: the mere rumor of one is sufficient to put them in bed for two days.

Humankind was meant to eat meat. If we weren’t, we wouldn’t have these pointy teeth known as “canines.” Name me ONE herbivore species that isn’t more prey than predator.

Can’t, can you?