Be-Be's Scale Gave Up

Thank heavens the holidays are finally over. I can get back to some essence of normalcy. Today is virtually the first day in weeks that I have awakened with no residuals from the art of miscalculating portion sizes due to my poor math skills, celebratory flu, sinus/cold or belly flu.

But I do take comfort in the fact that at least my scale didn't commit suicide during the holidays. How many of you had to go buy a new scale after the holidays? I only ask this because apparently some scales (okay the one owned by Be-Be) just give up from the duress in trying to please. Oh, I don't think it's due to excess weight on the scale - it was just pure fear of Be-Be's approach.

If you don't know Be-Be, she doesn't take bad news really well and I can only imagine the anxiety of those tiny little gears in the bowels of the scale when Be-Be's time of reckoning hit. I can hear the bugles belting out the Battle Hymn of the Republic trying to awake all the other scale parts from their peaceful slumber.

Scales aren't prone to sweating, but this poor fella had some pressure trying to soften those springs and crank those tiny little wheels and stop them before some unsuitable number popped up, just so no abuse could ensue post weight check.

She never told me what actually broke the scale - whether it was the time she kicked it into the wall after a night of riotous living, or when she threw it across the room after a week of consuming only sprouts and coffee - but I'm guessing if you opened it up and took a close look, you'd see hundreds of tiny little nooses dangling from every little gear, spring and pin.

Be-Be can be unpredictable, but I can now guarantee you, I will never hear the words "My scale broke," from her lips again.

I see Kim Kardashian in the mirror.

It's a new year and I've made no new resolutions. I'm dealing with enough from last year's commitment to Super Heroism. I've been feeling guilty the past couple of weeks, because my gym attendance has been at best, paltry. But I regained some sense of self-worth when it was brought to my attention that Kim Kardashian is apparently my twin.

I know, I couldn't believe it either, but after careful thought I see the resemblance. She is 20-something; and I'm 20-something plus 20-something. She is well-endowed in the hindquarter and, well, I just have a big ass.

She dates rich and famous guys; and I've been known to flirt with disaster by spending my time with the Infamous ones. She has paparazzi constantly stalking her for pictures; and I have friends constantly asking me to take their pictures with other famous people.

And that's not all, she has given up dating in 2011 - and low-and-behold, dating has given up on me. She doesn't drink much; and I don't drink much bad wine. And the Pièce de résistance is - she is drop-dead, stunningly beautiful; and let's just say, (and I'm going out on a limb here) - that I've got to be at least a Yerington, NV 10, a town where meth is what's for breakfast.

So with that said, I'm going to have to muster up the energy to get to the gym so I can hold my own when the not-so-tolerant 8 and 9s of Yerington start looking to bust my face. I still have my teeth and I want to keep them.