And that's when the fight started.

My Fabulous Neighbor came to dinner last night and was, as usual, lovely. We adore her, Roommate and I. Not quite to the following-her-around, making-a-shrine-with-surreptitiously-snapped-photographs level, but adore her, none the less. When we are so fortunate to spend time with her, however, my thoughts inevitably turn to plastic surgery.

What? No! No, no, no. She's lovely, I told you that. No, she happens to work for a plastic surgeon, that's all. I can't tell you how reassuring that is to me, on a strictly selfish level.

No comments from the peanut gallery, please.

The thing is, assuming that my endeavors to lose more than half of my body weight are successful, I'm going to have to get a little tailoring on the birthday suit. I don't know how much tailoring, obviously; I haven't reached that goal weight and I have no idea how my skin will react. As we all know, I'm not in my first bloom of youth.

Seriously, peanut gallery. I'm about to make peanut butter.

Anyway. I feel fairly confident that no matter what "work" is to be done, the breast lift will have to be on the list. Even if I were to stay at this weight, I'm tired of the Girls looking so depressed all the time. We've talked about it.

Me: Perk up, already!

The Girls: Why? [This said in mournful, Eeyore-like tones.]

Me: People are talking to you! Look 'em in the eye, for Pete's sake!!

Left: It's Right's fault. She has that...divot.

Right: That wasn't my fault!

Me: That's right, Right. It's wasn't your fault. It was a mass. And you look...fine.

Right: [more depressed than ever] No, I don't.

Me: No one's complained about it. [Meaningful look as Left snorts in derision.]

Right: That's because no one stays around long enough to notice.

Me: Hey! That's---

Left: That's true. And it doesn't matter how many people offer to buy us drinks---

Right: ---You don't let us drink anymore.

Me: Well, you two are irresponsible drinkers.

The Girls: We are not.

Me: You are, too. Remember what happened last time?

[A brief, uncomfortable silence.]

Right: That was Left's fault.

Left: Excuse me?

Right: Excuse you, all right, with the tassel?

Left: Um, I wasn't the one on the table.

And that's when the fight started.

I tell you, some days in the Peanut Gallery are hell.