Off to see the Wy-zard

No, I am not dead. Nor am I pretending to be one of those monks who makes the good fudge.

I started a new gig about a month ago, and I'm still adjusting to wearing shoes and proper undergarments all day. And that's all I'll say about it, other than the people are nice, it's a good situation, and I'm writing. The rest of it, nope.

What, you think I didn't learn from Dooce?

Anyway, I'm off to Cowtown in the morning, to frolic with the nieces and senior nephew, the parents, and of course, Greg-in-his-adorable-new-hut. G has kindly offered to be my date for Picnic with the Pops Saturday night, where we will gaze upon Wynonna and let her lull us into bliss.

Back away from the fork and nobody gets hurt

The FDA has decided we are all too fat. No, really? But in their bizarre quest to downsize the American waistline, they've just taken aim at restaurant portions. They're suggesting that chefs trim the fat--and the portion size of restaurant entrees--so that our citizens won't eat ourselves into a state of greater distress.

While some portions (okay, most) are absurdly enormous, isn't the FDA going a little far on this? What's wrong with suggesting that people use judgment? Push away from the table. Put down the fork. Don't take the second twirl with the pesto mayo, no matter how divine it may be. The reality is, we know what we're eating. We know what it can do. And sometimes, we still choose to shovel it in.

I don't want the government regulating my body--and I sure as hell don't want them regulating my chef. Let him (or her) create joyfully. You want nutrition information available? That's cool. But leave my pretty plate alone.