*She hates when I call her my death mother. I don’t know why. I also don’t know why strangers ask me what orphanage I’m from when I refer to her as Birth Mother in public.

“Egg Donor,” I said, one wintry eve, whilst attempting to quash my eating claw’s proclivity for robotically jerking its way over to the rooster-shaped dish in front of me and picking up the stick of butter like some prize stuffed animal in an arcade machine and jamming it into my open gob. “What are you making me for supper?”

“Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and pie,” she said. She then screamed at the obese family dog to back away from the oven before he “burned his beautiful fur coat off.”

With a great heave she hoisted a giant roasting pan out of the Plath-killer and over to the granite-topped island where I supervised, taking copious mental notes. She slammed it with such violent fervor that I wondered if her Ove Gloves did not have the maximum flesh protection their infomercial boasts. She shook the residual heat from her hands while screaming “Yowza!” and I ignored her cry for help and instead looked upon the vessel in which she’d baked my “vegetarian” stuffing.

I eyed the sick beast sprawled out before me, shaking my head in dismay.

“When did Ralph’s start selling pterodactyl carcasses and where is my Tofurkey, damnit?”

“Nikki! Don’t say bad words and it’s not a pterodactyl.”

“Pshaa, woman. I’ve not seen a sky beast so large since my days of watching Pee Wee’s Playhouse. You killed Pterry! Now how will neglected children celebrate the word of the day?”

“Oh, stop. Have some more eggnog,” she said, by way of silencing me.

I obeyed, but only because it was Lite.

After dinner, I scanned the room for a rogue Rascal I might ride to the bathroom, but could not find one. Angry at having to walk the thirty paces to the room of rest, I grunted and glared and pulled myself up, nearly turning the dinner table into a seesaw with my great heft. When I finally completed far more exercise than I’d have liked, I locked the door behind me and turned to greet my twin self in the freshly-Windexed mirror.

Turning sideways, I lifted what should have been a muumuu and stared agog at the eggnog that was now bloating my belly to Octomom proportions. Only this was before that pop culture reference would have made sense (as I am not an employee of Miss Cleo) and so I instead thought my belly bore an uncanny resemblance to a snowman. Yes, the three thick rolls of white flesh could easily stand in for Frosty in a North Pole police line up. I considered busting out the camera tripod, stripping nude, save for a top hat, scarf, and corncob pipe, and getting a jump start on my holiday cards for the next year. But that all seemed like a lot of effort, so instead I stooped back into a pie digesting torpor and did what I’m best at: digesting pie.

As fate would have it, I friend introduced me to her yoga instructor at a birthday party not long after I’d begun training to compete in the Glutton Bowl. When the instructor invited me to attend a class at the studio where she taught, I took one look at her figure and decided that if I could look like her while still failing to contract anorexia nervosa on a daily basis, I should at least consider giving it a try. But I had worked so hard to customize my sedentary lifestyle to fit my lethargic needs and I wasn’t sure I wanted to interfere with the steadfast habits I’d cultivated.

Just then, she lifted her drink and I saw the muscles in her arm contract in such a way that I thought, “Why she is the perfect combination of body types: three fourths Portia de Rossi thin and one fourth Madonna muscular.” I had a quick mental image of where I might land on the celebrity fitness chart and saw myself in the passenger seat riding home from the all-you-can-eat sushi buffet, weeping that it hurt too bad to buckle my seatbelt over my swollen marsupial pouch, and then dropping my eating claw down upon my unzipped pants. In neon letters the words AL BUNDY flashed above my mental image of myself. “Why I must give this yoga a try.”

The first thing I noticed about yoga class was the man in front of me. It appeared he had unfettered access to Will Farrell’s wardrobe from the movie Semi-Pro. Decked out in ’70s-inspired regalia, from his terry cloth head band, to his ass-cradling daisy duke short shorts, he stretched before me, shirtless. On the celebrity size chart, he’s was coming in somewhere between Rosie O’Donnell and Snuffleupagus and I, for one, approved. But what really drew me in and made me decide I loved yoga class before it’d even begun, was the mural of a ravenous-looking tiger tattooed across his back. In vibrant ink, bright blue waves splashed out around the tiger so it seemed to be leaping out of the sea to attack what would be a very confused beach-goer. The man’s impressive smattering of back hair poked through the tiger’s body and thus created a fine 3D display akin to a live zoo exhibit. I gazed at it with much admiration every time I got bored during pashnaramadan-glockenshpiel* pose. *May not be actual name.

The second thing I observed about the class was that I seemed to be smelting to death. There was no convincing me I wouldn’t be reduced to a human puddle by the time the teacher said Namaste.

Thirdly, a pungent scent wafted through the air. If Air-Wick were to capture this heady fragrance, I’m quite sure they’d name it Decaying Feral Dog Wrapped in Old Sweaty Carpet. It made it hard to comply with the constant refrain to “inhale deeply through my nose.” To be fair though, I think a disproportionate amount of the scent could be attributed to the eggnog sweating forth from my pores.

But it didn’t take long to become inured to the smell and every time I felt like complaining, I needed only to look around me at the toned, sweaty yogis whose hard, nubile bodies gave me much inspiration to press on.

I’d say the most difficult part of my first class, besides the constant urge to projectile vomit and pass out from the heat exhaustion, was my longing to rehydrate with eggnog. I had a thirst only the nog could cure and I kept having visions of myself wearing a gray hoodie and dumping a glass of the yellow egg juice down my throat while “Eye of the Tiger” blared in the background.

But alas, I could only quench my need for liquids with boring old water and even then I was only allowed to sip hydrogen and oxygen after suffering through multiple postures, many of which made my face turn purple. For once I am not employing hyperbole. My face actually turned bright strangulation-grade purple. I’d be hanging upside down, twisted like some Cirque de Soleil freak, listening to the instructor say this particular pose improved the complexion, only to look up and nearly scream in terror at my reflection. It looked like Satan had possessed me. I’m talking a purple so deep it was almost red. Almost burnt sienna.

Somehow I survived Intro to Masochism 101 and boy, was I happy I did. Because once the hour and a half ended, I realized I hadn’t been that happy to have survived a traumatic experience since I’d watched The Wiggles during a rough bout of babysitting duty.

For a long time I viewed hot yoga as a recently released prison inmate might view his time in the clink: It sure sucks when you’re on the inside, what with the incessant commands to bend over, but once you’ve done your time, you have a whole new appreciation for life on the outside.

After many sessions, the bile rose up less and less in my throat, and the black fog of unconsciousness only threatened to knock me out an average of two times a session as opposed to the previous ten times a session I’d experienced.

The other day I had a great class and felt rather pleased with my practice. As I lay in the final dead body pose, I realized I had gone a whole ninety minutes without worrying about anything, including when I’d get my next pie fix, quite possibly for the first time in my life. It was only when I left class and got back into traffic that my view of hot yoga changed.

I still think of hot yoga as prison, only I’ve become the old dude in Shawshank Redemption who wants to kill himself after he’s released, not while he’s doing time. This, to me, signals improvement and I’m proud of this shift. I’m proud to say I now truly enjoy hot yoga and only the occasional glass of eggnog.

I was scrolling through part time jobs on craigslist today and happened to see a secret shopper reporting job that looked fun. I wrote a cover letter and changed my objective on my attached resume to read, “Seeking a secret shopping position….”

A few minutes later I came across some openings for English tutors. Thinking that would be a perfect fit for me, too, and seeing that they were looking to hire immediately, I quickly whipped up a cover letter about graduating with honors and volunteering as a tutor in the past. I updated the objective section on my resume again and was certain I had it in the bag.

When I went to change my objective back to copywriting for yet another application, I noticed that I had made a terrible mistake before sending out my resume to multiple tutoring companies. In my excited haste to apply, I hadn’t deleted back far enough before filling in my tutoring objective, and had sent out the following: “Seeking a secret tutoring position….”

Sweet Jesus! They’re going to think I’m the Michael Jackson of English tutors. I am dying of embarrassment.

I swear it’s not like that! I’m not a hands-on tutor! It’s not our little secret. Oh, dear God, suddenly the part of my cover letter about my passion for working with children seems very, very wrong. What have I done?!

I wasn’t sure what was going on, but I was determined to get to the bottom of things. Luckily, so was my new gastroenterologist.

He suggested I add Benefiber as part of this delicious breakfast, but it’s been hours and I’ve yet to experience any results besides extreme bloating in my marsupial pouch region.

As you know from reading my Master Cleanse post, I’ve traditionally lacked the willpower to sustain diets that last longer than six to eight hours. But this time is different; I’m going to embark on a healthier eating and exercise plan that may or may not involve Jazzercise. Just as soon as I finish this tub of Co-oo-ool Whip! While I’m scraping the bucket with a piece of licorice, I’ll offer some tips to help you get started on your diet as well.

My mom has been rather vocal about my attempts at weight loss and has provided the following tidbits of advice. Her nutritional intervention may not help me channel my inner Skeletor, but it sure makes me feel a hell of a lot better about my inability to put down my spork.

“Nikki! If you don’t eat just a little bit of meat soon, you are going to wind up with anemia and a serious protein deficiency!” That’s right my fellow vegetarians! Pepperoni will save your life. Open wide.

“Finish your cheesecake, Nikki! It’s good for you. It has calcium and protein.”

“Oh my God, Nikki! Did you skip breakfast again? Cool Whip does not count! Here, eat these fresh baked chocolate chip cookies. The chocolate boosts your serotonin levels and they’ll stabilize your blood sugar.”

My mom is an amazing cook and I typically gain about seven to nine pounds when I visit. So in order to achieve my weight loss goals, I’m going to have to come up with a plan for resisting temptation, which is especially difficult because she has me convinced I will die if I don’t enjoy a heaping portion of her mac and cheese. She makes it from scratch! Who does that?

So while I’m putting together a new diet plan and a strategy for warding off our mothers this holiday season, I suggest you consider just how likely you are to lose an eye or foot to Type Delicious Diabetes this Kwanza. And by “you” I mean “me.” As a hypochondriac, the best way for me to avoid interaction with anything is to remember that it could kill or maim me. In the case of dessert, remember, it could do both.

I’ll be back soon with a heaping helping of Hungry Hypochondriac advice for the holidays.

Master Cleanse Eve, 1:37 a.m.
As I was indulging my adrenal gland in yet another exciting episode of the Discovery channel’s ingenious survival show, Man vs. Wild, I glanced towards the kitchen and caught sight of all the delicious treats on the microwave cart that would be off limits come the next afternoon when I awoke for day one of my Master Cleanse.

While watching Bear Grills slice open and then burrow inside of a rotting camel corpse for protection from harsh Saharan winds didn’t exactly inspire me to run to the fridge for snacks, the thought of my own impending and self-inflicted survival situation did. When I turned my attention from the corn tortillas and chocolate-dipped granola bars taunting me from the next room back to the TV, Grills had birthed himself from the bloody camel stomach self-cesarean style and was proceeding to urinate in a circle around this dead beast he now called home. In his thick British accent he explained the importance of marking one’s territory before lying down to sleep. Instead of usefully turning this fascinating new information into a practical application for my own life and tiptoeing into the bedroom to relegate Brian back to his one fourth edge of our bed, I was mesmerized by the amount of fluids a person can dispel even after subsisting on a relatively small serving of camel bladder. This worried me as I was already quite the pee-er. It was not uncommon for me to sprint past confused men in public restrooms because the women’s line snaked endlessly around the facilities. Shockingly, my new liquid diet contained an abundance of fluid and I began to worry that I might find myself squatting on the sides of freeways or behind an unpopular row in the library, like say the cookbook section. Would I be able to hold all the lemonade I was required to drink?

But public urination sans public restrooms was just one of my many concerns on Master Cleanse Eve. I was also anxious about the tantalizing treats that lurked so closely within reach in my kitchen. As Bear Grills chomped on his aged camel meat it occurred to me that if I was truly going to succeed at the Master Cleanse, I would need to solidify my commitment as soon as possible. And so, the night before my cleanse I elected to cleanse my fridge of all its delicious temptations, which I did by cramming the food in the only place where I knew I wouldn’t be able to reach it again-thanks to my stubborn uvula and inability to throw up on command. Once the hummus dip, leftover lasagna, cookies, and breakfast bars were safely stowed in my small intestine, I moved on to the tortilla chips and chocolate as only someone who is committed to a healthful diet can. As I hid hundreds and hundreds of calories from myself I praised my diligent dedication to this new weight loss plan.

It wasn’t until I was bloated and full that I remembered the starring role of laxative tea in the Master Cleanse. Oh, shit, I thought, before cursing my brain for always thinking in puns at the most inappropriate and serious moments. I told myself that perhaps the tea would not be so strong as to painfully unload the contents of my refrigerator – which were now the contents of my intestinal tract – in one fowl poop. In any case, I had taken the first step towards easing my original anxieties. As they say, in order to conquer your fears you must first confront them, and boy did I! I confronted that can of whipped cream like the Long Island Lolita confronted Mary-Jo Buttafuoco, only I didn’t shoot it in its head, that would be too dangerous as the contents are under pressure. I sighed with relief, no longer having to fear the snide come hithers made by imitation Oreo cookies and cheesy Italian pastas. I had silenced the seductive calls of my quesadilla ingredients, but, if that was so, then why were they making such a ruckus from my belly? Perhaps that was the tea.

The Tivo asked if I wanted to delete the just finished episode of Man vs. Wild and I considered what he had just been through. If Grills can subsist on the remains of a camel cadaver, then I can make it on lemonade. No, Tivo, you may not delete this episode. Bear and I are just getting started.

Day One
I woke up today with my usual crack whore urge to attack my coffee maker but stopped short of biting open my bag of Starbucks House Blend when I remembered that it was day one of the Master Cleanse and caffeine was not on the menu. What did I get instead of a nice chewy cup of legal amphetamines? Why I got to enjoy a nice tall lukewarm thirty-two ounce bucket of salt water, thank you very much, Stanley Burroughs, creator of the lemonade fast. Unless there are glorious amounts of dessert foods and total privacy involved, I have a very hard time putting anything life-threatening into my body. I’m no scientist, but years of watching Baywatch have led me to adopt the firm belief that humans just aren’t supposed to swallow massive amounts of salt water.

With the heavy reluctance of a sumo wrestler stepping onto a tightrope, I measured and poured and concocted nature’s rinse cycle as the book had instructed me to. Not since FDA regulations banned breast implants from containing silicone had I seen a bigger saline salute. After the first gagging gulp of my sodium anti-Imodium I found myself waiting for Mitch Buchanan to knock me down and pound the water from my stomach with his hairy fists. But instead of sputtering mouthfuls of sea juice up at the angora sweater David Hasslehoff calls his naked chest, I found myself taking note of a nearby clock that showed I had already wasted forty-five minutes attempting to down the first sixteen ounces. Just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, I conceded that indeed, I could not. I dumped the remains down the sink then rushed…