The Pillsbury Dough Boy has it out for me. I'm convinced. Every night, he comes to my house via big screen to show me what he's got. Delicate, flaky, melt-in-yo-mouth Crescent Rolls. Cinnamon rolls with their own tub of icing...happiness in a foil tube. And then...the chocolate chip cookies. I find myself pleading with the flat screen...Not the chocolate chip cookies!!! But alas...the dough boy brings the just-from-the-oven morsels right to me. And then breaks them apart to show me how the chocolate is still hot.

It seems I have a choice to make when it comes to the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Hate him. Or date him. It would be so easy to date him. He is the perfect man, really. He cooks, for one thing. All my favorites. And he's so sweet. I don't think he would ever stray. Although it would kill me if I found him wearing someone else's oven mitt. And he's so funny. He's always laughing. Or breaking the awkward family silence with his impeccable comedic timing. In the commercial where the brothers are about to throw down over the last Crescent Roll, he appears just in time with a fresh basket and a doughy belly laugh. My hero...the Dough Boy. 

I've figured it out. The one thing we all need to make it through the four letter word called DIET. It's not more will power. Or five hours of intense exercise a day. Or salmon and spinach at every meal. No. We need comedy writers. The same one who wrote the Golden Girls through seven seasons of cheesecake and The Nanny through all her seasons eating everything else. I feel like Tom Hanks in The Money Pit immediately after the bathtub falls through the floor and he starts to laugh hysterically. Tell me again how I'm supposed to make it through the next five haircuts with all the stresses of life while constantly being bombarded with images of all my favorite foods? If not on TV...I have the real life version at work, at the supermarket, at restaurants. I mean, at work today, one parent brought a rotating...rotating...multi-tiered cupcake stand. Complete with Martha Stewart-esque cupcakes and cookies. Are you freakin' kidding me? Where's Mark Cherry? I need a comedy writer to script me through this.

The good news? I've maintained the weight loss...despite a few birthday Eskimo Pies (sugar free, of course) and a visiting mamahla. That's right. My mom is visiting from Texas. The maternal unit. The one who brung me into this party called life.

But I have recently discovered something horrific. Brace yourself, people. Sit down even. I have recently discovered that my middle toe is growing longer than it's phalange partners. OMG!!! How did this happen?!? More importantly, when did it happen? I went to bed with normal (and pretty cute, if I may say so myself) feet just last week. Well, I don't know if they were exactly normal...but cute, yes. And now, I've got a glaring middle-toe mishap. I've become obsessed with this new digital development, pointing it out to unsuspecting family and friends and then watching very closely to see their facial reactions. And I'm convinced it's growing exponentially, like Pinocchio's nose. Every time I tell a story, my middle toe grows another centimeter longer. Only I don't think I've fibbed much the last week. Although I have thought of chocolate 477 times. Maybe every time I think of chocolate...

What's next? Will my toes soon be the same length as my foot? I can see the tabloid headlines now. "Neanderthal Women Discovered Living in Suburbs." The paparazzi will have a field day when they snap my photo trying on Shaquille-O'Neal-size-23 shoes, just waiting for the money shot of my naked foot. And, of course, my poor mother will have to go into hiding. 

In any event, it's time for damage control. I'll still have to get pedicures, of course. But I will certainly have to find a pedicurist who knows...maybe even embraces...my middle toe and doesn't shriek every time she pulls off my shoe. And speaking of shoes...it's going to have to be closed toe, of course, the rest of my life. Little black dresses with pearls. And sneakers.     

Today is my birthday. Yay!!! I'm going to see if I can get one person to call me Madam Cupcake...maybe it will catch on.

This is a photo of my 5th birthday...celebrated on Maxwell Drive in Midland, Texas. OK...here is the thing that sucks about birthdays. It's not the age thing. So NOT. I just wish birthdays at 36 and 56 and 86 were as fun as the birthdays we had at six. Why aren't they? Why don't we get one day to celebrate ourselves? Where are the cupcakes and balloons and presents wrapped in bright colors? The pink princess bike with fuschia streamers? And surprises...What happened to those? The last time anyone surprised me was 1980. And you can't really surprise yourself. Or throw your own b-day party. It just sends the wrong message.

But here is the best gift so far. Yesterday, on Jeff Lewis' Facebook page, I was listed as his #1 fan. For those of you who have not been watching Flipping Out on Bravo, this is the best season by far. And here is the icing on my Jeff Lewis cupcake. It turns out we have the same wicked, inappropriate sense of humor. Last night on the season finale, Jeff had his general contractor (a guy who looks a lot like Vanilla Ice...I see a karaoke machine and Ice Ice Baby in the near future) leave a round of spider bombs in a home he was remodeling for Sarah, a very beautiful, poised and zen homeowner. But here's the problem. No one told Sarah about the spider bombs. So she and her son came home...unaware of the fate that awaited them, and proceeded to do the things they would normally do on a Monday afternoon. Until the previously undetected spider bombs sent them both running outside to simultaneously and spontaneously throw up on their newly manicured lawn.

When Jeff heard about the gastrointestinal demise of his client, he tried to keep his professional demeanor. And it lasted for...hmmm...15 seconds. Until he broke down in a fit of laughter. Every time he thought about it. Everyone around him had the look of genuine concern on their faces. And the best part was the look of shock and disapproval that filled the room every time he got going again. He couldn't even get the sentence out on camera. I was rolling on the floor. I never loved him more. 

Let me introduce myself. Hi, my name is Elizabeth Jones. I laugh at the most inappropriate times. At knock knock jokes...no. But if someone gets knocked out...yes. It's a fine line, really. If someone is bleeding, on fire, or just skateboarded down a rail and bounced their head off the concrete, I'm horrified. But when my cousin's hamster died, my ex-boyfriend went flying down the movie theatre aisle when his wheelchair parking brake gave out, or someone is unexpectedly mauled by a house cat or gets whapped in the face by an unforseen tree branch, I am on the ground, writhing in fits of laughter as everyone around me looks on in horror. And days later, I could be lying in bed, sound asleep. And the thought will cross my mind again. I'll sit bolt upright in bed and start all over.

So, thank you, Jeff Lewis, for giving me the best and most inappropriate birthday gift ever! I heart you!!

11 pounds down...49 more to go. Stay tuned, lovies, because the photos are going to look a lot different soon! Bigger hair and smaller everything else. 

I remember the day I went to the Biggest Loser open casting call like it was yesterday. It was at the Hard Rock Cafe in downtown Dallas. Driving from Fort Worth, about 30 miles away, I thought for a moment that maybe, just maybe, I was one of only 27 people who knew about it. Then I got to the Hard Rock and saw the line around the block. There were easily 1,000 people there. Mostly women. Over the next three hours, I really got to know the people near me in line. A few people really stood out from the crowd, either because they were fascinating, beautiful or completely obnoxious. I took a pizza. Not a real one. A paper one. At the time, I was teaching a high school life skills class. It just so happened that our class was making personality pizzas, with each slice representing some aspect of their life: hobbies, favorite foods, favorite movies, holiday traditions, unique personality traits, etc. The night before the casting call, I was carefully decorating paper pizza slices and pasting them into a real pizza box.  

The Biggest Loser scouts took us 10 at a time to tables inside the restaurant. It was amazing to see the transformation that took place once the line moved inside. What was a mass of shivering, desperate, highly-competitive hopefuls immediately turned into shiny and happy once we crossed the threshold.  It was like everyone just stepped off the Happy Happy Cult caravan. Or like watching the talent competition at a Miss Plus Size America. Unfortunately, three hours of standing in the cold in a line with 1,000 other people all hoping for the same opportunity had rendered me unable to fake much enthusiasm. And my pizza was wilting. Finally the talent scout, a nice guy with Chiclet-white teeth, got to me. I opened my pizza box and showed him my paper pepperoni pizza slices. I thought I detected a glimmer of piqued interest in his eye, and he asked me a few questions. I wanted to ask him where he got his Chiclet teeth because I wanted some of my very own. But honestly...at that point, I just wanted to get out of there. You know what's worse than trying to have a conversation over the decibel level at the Hard Rock Cafe? Competing with 1,000 chubsters talking about how they can't wait to slip into a bubble bath, a relationship and a pair of skinny jeans at a decibel level 20 times higher than that.

Around 1:00, the interviews were over. I can't remember what I did between 1:00 and the time I got on the freeway to head for home eight hours later. But I can still remember driving down the Interstate 75 in Dallas when I got the call from Mr. Chiclet himself, wanting to arrange a second interview with me the following day. OK...let me tell you, NEVER in a million years did I think I was gonna get a call back. So I had the techno cranked to deafening when I finally noticed I had a voicemail. I almost ran off the road when I heard the voice on the other end tell me he wanted me to call him back ASAP. And ASAP I did, about 150 times. No answer. NO ANSWER?!?! (I left a message, of course.) To make a long story short, I did get the second interview. And a third...in a hotel room with a camera crew and two Biggest Loser producers, also with Chiclet teeth, at the Wyndham Anatole in Dallas. Just walking on the marble floors of that grand hotel with nothing but hope that my life was about to change in a huge way was the euphoric equivalent to what I imagined an acid trip would feel like. Everything was clearer and crisper. Colors were brighter. I heard every little sound like it was in THX.

PS...I didn't get to be on Biggest Loser. They contacted me a fourth time to ask me to send an audition tape to the producers in L.A. I asked my friend, Melinda G., a professional videographer, to capture every ridiculous moment. In involved eating at my favorite restaurant (Orlando's), car dancing, rolling down a grassy hill, and visiting a steam room, among other things. And that was the last I heard from Biggest Loser.

But here's the thing. It didn't matter. Looking back now, it really didn't. That feeling...that acid trip of hope and happiness...I couldn't just go back to a life of mediocrity after having felt that. I couldn't go back to fat and frumpy. Or to a job I dreaded going to every day. So I moved to Los Angeles anyway, lost 60 pounds, and worked in the film industry for a couple of years.

I think that's what we all crave. Deep down inside, we're all waiting for that moment. That moment when every second is alive and full of hope and on the verge of life-changing. It's the feeling you get when you know something big is just around the corner. The zephyr of change. And so tonight, let's make a toast. A toast to all the moments that remind us we're alive...really alive. Salud!