Sound it out: mah-dur-ay-shun

Tonight as I was cleaning up the kids' dinner by shoveling into my face a portion of the leftovers, some of which had most likely already been partially masticated by Buggleboy, I at last understood the deeply disturbing magnitude of my snacking compulsion. Which, like a vampire during the waxing moon, only emerges when conditions are ideal; i.e., after a hearty serving of antioxidant-rich-fermented-grape beverage.

I am one of those people who simultaneously must, and should never, mix junk food and alcohol.

In reality, I think I am probably quite the lightweight when it comes to booze, particularly when it's ninety degrees out and I've been "exercising." Snacking while imbibing prevents me from, at worst, spinning during tubby time and at best, waking up at three in the morning to chug a liter of Vitamin Water.

My go-to solution to this problem, to Buggledaddy's chagrin, is simply not to keep much junk food around the house. But today at the grocery store they had Cheetos Puffs for two dollars and I caved. They blended so effortlessly into the bounty already shoved onto the kitchen counter between the dirty Tupperware: the remains of a bottle of cabernet sauvignon, polished off during the opening number of The Backyardigans, and the Trader Joe's original hummus and white corn tortilla chips that's been my snacking staple all week.

On tap for the kids' dinner tonight was the leftover chicken and rice with vegetables that I had made last night. Buggleboy was wolfing it down, but Bugglegirl seemed destined for a repeat performance of yesterday, when she ended the meal with a mighty gag and subsequent regurgitation into the bowl a mere three bites in. It's really those moments that make standing in front of a hot oven in July so touching. Last night I wrapped up the bowl "as is," popped it into the fridge, and nuked it for her dining pleasure this evening.

And tonight, she gobbled it up. The difference? The alluring promise of artificially-flavored, chemically-colored, extruded bits of turd-shaped, puffed corn. For every three bites of dinner, I offered up one Cheeto. I, not surprisingly, attacked the bag like I'd spent the summer at fat camp. Which of course is exactly where I'll find myself next year, should I continue this nightly bacchanalia.