12:01 a.m. I don't know why, but it seems as if an inordinate amount of entries this month involve food. The weather really hasn't turned that cold here in Southern California ...

... but all I can think about lately is food. My hard-earned weight loss of the past year is in serious, serious jeopardy. If I can't figure out how to stop the slide, my weight is going to creep up again and that is just not a pleasant thought.

I once read somewhere that if you really want to lose weight, you should throw out all your too-small clothes, accept yourself as you are, and then -- and only then -- will you begin to lose all those unwanted pounds and inches.

Hogwash. I've never seen hogwash, but hogwash. I didn't do it and I'm here to tell you you shouldn't do it either. Hang on to your dreams! Throw out your fat clothes the second you shrink if you feel the need to throw cloths away.

I keep things for years and years. You never know.

And if you can't fit into your clothes, resist the temptation to move to a larger size, no matter how uncomfortable you are. Don't buy new ones. Sure, you'll be miserable and your self-worth will be in the toilet. But if you buy larger stuff, you'll expand to fill it. It's human nature.

And why is it that jeans shrink each and every time you wash them? It's a plot, I tell you. A plot to make us miserable and make us want to eat in compensation.

Now because I am generous, I have a handy tip for all you women, girls, and ladies out there who are trying to get a man.

The other day I put on a pair of just-washed jeans and true to form, I couldn't get them zipped up. I tugged and I pulled and I spun around. Even hurt my index finger trying to yank the zipper up. So after trying all the old tricks -- lying down, lurching up, walking stiff-legged like Frankenstein: me want food -- I lit upon an ingenious solution.

WD-40. I sprayed it on the zipper and wah-la. It slid up and down and I went off to the book store, as planned. And then the most interesting thing began to happen. No matter where I paused, be it near the computer books, or the romance novels, or even Women's Studies, little by little I would notice clumps of men and boys come closer and closer and just generally hang around.

They were being drawn by the scent. Like bees, driven by some kind of a deep, a primal instinct. No man can resist WD-40. For good measure, if you really want to reel 'em in, I'd also suggest a little duct tape around your wrist or your backpack. Can't hurt, right?

And since we're pondering the unanswerable questions here, let me just ask this last one. We all accept that the most important factor in our humanity and indeed, in our continuation as a dominant species on this planet is the fact of our really big heads. Big 'ole melon heads on our little spindly bodies.

Now, to accommodate this big head, woman's hips have gotten wider through the centuries. It would stand to reason, therefore, that the bigger-hipped women would yield the bigger-headed and thus smarter babies. In fact, scientists suggest that we are at the outer limits in head and hip sizes right about now.

So why, I ask you: why? Why aren't big hips revered, worshiped, emulated, and decorated with pride and joy? Why don't designers drape horizontal stripes and white silk scarves around the biggest hips they can find? Why are narrow boyish hips all the rage? It makes no sense, logically or biologically.

I mean, I've done my part. I have two nice, big-headed kids and I have heroic hips. I should be revered.

Well, at least there's relaxed fit. That's a small comfort. That, and maybe a nice turkey club on rye with a side of slaw. Don't even bother to hold the mayo ... oh, and throw in an extra pickle or three. I've borrowed a pair of jeans from my old pal Venus -- you know -- that nice lady from Willendorf.