I think happiness can be defined as fresh, homemade tamales for lunch. Dear God, I feel like a happily stuffed tick after time spent with a Great Dane. This relates to the fact that by the refrigerator in the breakroom is a manual scale, the kind with the weights that you have to move about. It's pretty much irresistible, so you *have* to go check it out. And by checkout, I mean, check your weight. By the refrigerator. On one hand, as long as my clothes fit, I do not give a damn. On the other, I'm a girl, and I want to know. So curiosity satisfied at weighing in at roughly 160. I weighed 125-140 in high school, depending on week, so hell if I know what my weight is *supposed* to be. I will state that the likelihood of me ever dieting for any reason other than imminent death is laughable, so--huh. On the third hand, in heels, I am so very, very tall, and man do I get a kick out of that still. Yes, pointless entry here. Tamales . That, my friends, is what makes life worthwhile. Fannish Project of Mystery has begun. Well, if by begin, you mean, kind of mostly decided.