Tipping the Scale via Tubers.

Today marked another visit with the doctor. It isn't so bad once you get past the initial agony of the weigh in. Without fail, every month, the first thing they do is put you on the scale. I am convinced that this is some type of evil torture the nurses do to remind you that from here on out you aren't getting smaller, only bigger, much bigger, so big in fact that eventually you can no longer see if your shoes match your outfit. Each visit marks a new little chink, a little higher than the last. It brings to mind that yodeling mountain climber game that they have on The Price is Right. You know, the one where the guy slowly climbs up the mountain of money while singing, only on my mountain he ain't counting dollars, he's counting pounds, baby! Pounds.

I don't blame it on being pregnant, or the baby, I blame it all on the potato. The potato is the "root" of all evil. I frigging love potatoes. Especially the potato hiding behind the deep fried guise of "the chip". Ah the potato chip, hickory smoked, ranch, ruffled, I don't discriminate. As if "the chip" isn't bad enough, I also have do deal with its rat bastard brother "the french fry". This jerk, that I just can't seem to get enough of, has cost me many a wasted calorie during the last few months. To save some face, I won't even get into the variety of dipping sauces that I also, just can't seem to live without. Why, oh why can't I love steamed asparagus or carrot sticks as much as I love the fried golden goodness of an Idaho or Russett?