The mango tree

I eat mangoes maniacally when I'm writing.  This is no exaggeration.  I can go through a half a bag of Philippine Dried Mangoes from Costco (the bag must weigh about 2 lbs) in one writing session.

I'm convinced they're the source of all my power.

I suppose it could be worse – I could be chomping on M&Ms or ketchup chips (if I could get ketchup chips here in the States, which I can't, which is probably a good thing), but nope, I eat mangoes.  So okay, they're filled with preservatives and sugar, and my mom once told me that in the Philippines they stomp these mango slices into submission using their BARE FEET before they're dried, but somehow none of this dissuades me from consuming copious amounts of this wonderful, chewy delight.

I did try to give up my precious mangoes at one point.  I'd started to wonder if they were contributing to my growing ass (which doesn't need to get bigger, thank you), so I put the mangoes on my bookshelf in an effort to reduce the temptation.  Here's a picture of my office – can you spot the mangoes?


But relocating my mangoes backfired.  Even if I only did move them three feet away.  Because one day last fall, as I was blushing my way through a sex scene, I automatically reached for my mangoes only to realize they weren't in their usual spot (right beside me, between my laptop and my printer).  Desperately needing some chewiness in my mouth to get through the graphic descriptions I was trying to write, I looked up and saw them sitting innocently on my damn bookshelf.  So of course I got up, got the bag, opened it, and indulged.

And by the time I sat back down at my desk again, I'd lost my train of thought completely.

Never again.   Dried mangoes for Jenny = spinach for Popeye.  Why mess with a good thing?

So my ass gets bigger.  I'm married and that's what stretchy pants are for.