Indeed, I am in caloric hell

Since the last week of January, I have been working out at least 2x a week. Yes, I know that's not much by the standards of many, but when you've popped out two midgets, have to work for the man, and have more laundry than a Russian orphanage, your time is limited. So, I do Step Interval on Tuesdays, and Kickboxing on Thursdays. Both of which kick my ass. Hard. I'm often left on the floor, wheezing for breath, lying in a pool of my own sweat and tears. But I digress.

When I met with my "Nutritional Advisor" (read: blonde, cute, most likely wears a size 3, fresh-out-of-college chick with a bachelors in Fitness), she could not understand why I hadn't lost A SINGLE FUCKING POUND. Not one. ZERO. So, she asked me to keep track of my calories. "Okay," I said. Boy, am I an idiot, or what? For 3 weeks, I keep track of all the calories that make it to my mouth, the ones that I lick off my fingers, and the ones that secretly make it into my mouth because Jenna took a sip of my pop and good Lord that kid can't drink anything without leaving a smackerel of something behind. I presented it to Aleta--yes, that's her name. Doesn't she sound like some kind of goddess?--and she said she'd look over it and get back to me.

She called me back a few days later to tell me that she conferred with a dietician, and essentially, I am such a sporadic eater, that my metabolism doesn't know if I'm eating or starving. Nice. She told me to eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day. While she's telling me all this, I'm looking up "liposuction" on my laptop, because seriously, wouldn't that be so much easier?