MY DIET IS FAILING, AND I BLAME GERRY RAFFERTY

Well, I feel the need for a mid-month post about my dieting struggles. Mid-month, heck... we're only 8 days in. The ship may not be sinking, but it's taking on water (and carbs) at an alarming rate.

Let me start at the beginning. Last night, Mark and I went to feed the wild kitties. We discovered them back in the fall, one night when we drove past the old IBM building in Fayetteville. There were seven of them, playing in the parking lot, until we drove up and they scattered. Ever since then, we've gotten into this routine of taking them treats and catfood... and last night, it was some leftover chicken I'd cooked and not eaten. So we sat there for about half an hour, trying to build up some mutual trust as we coaxed them toward us with pieces of baked chicken breast. It's always fun feeding the wild cats. But it's amazing how you can work up an appetite. And in retrospect, I would have been better off sampling the kitties' baked chicken, because Applebee's was looming just up the hill. Like a carb-laden spectre of doom.

We walk into Applebee's, get seated, wash our hands and order. So far, so good. I stick with an order of a salad with grilled chicken. I'm hanging tough... no way I'll succumb to temptation tonight. And then Applebee's lulls me into submission with their feel-good 70's music. Have you ever noticed the music at Applebee's? It's insanely good. Much better than the food. I spend as much time singing along as I do eating, which is a winning combination, up to a point. And that point comes when you find yourself singing along to "Right Down The Line" and waxing philosophical over the musical genius that was Gerry Rafferty. No sooner than I'd said, "Remember Baker Street and Stuck In The Middle With You?", the words "I'll have a Maple Butter Blondie, please" tumbled right out. Suddenly, I didn't mind being 30 lbs overweight. Gerry Rafferty made me feel like a million bucks, and in an instant I was ordering a dessert with 71 carbs! That's, like, two whole days worth!

What am I going to do on vacation next week? My self-control is MIA. I've embarked on a spree that I can't seem to get a handle on. I don't have all the answers, but I think my TimeLife CD's had better not make the trip. I think there's some serious backmasking going on in restaurants. That's why all the tv's are set to closed-captioning... the music tracks contain some Svengali-like magic that stimulates dessert sales. I'm convinced that if you play "Right Down The Line" at just the proper speed, it says "Order the 71-carb dessert, Julie". Where is Tipper Gore and the PMRC when I need them? Can't they form the DMRC-- the Dieter's Music Resource Center-- to help combat the restaurants' musical voodoo I've fallen victim to?

Maybe this is all in my head. Maybe it's time to invest in a noise-blocking aparatus or some headphones I'd be too embarrassed to wear in public. Maybe it's time to stop dining out altogether. Maybe it's time to eat the catfood instead. Maybe Gerry Rafferty isn't enemy #1. Maybe it's time to stop making excuses.

Hmmm. I think I'll put on my Soft Rock CD's and ponder this conundrum.