My Drink of Choice (DOC) is Captain & Coke. If my friend Adella orders them for me, it's a Captain & Diet Coke (which she calls a "Skinny Pirate" and I call "Captain & Blech!") This is beside the point, however; what I take exception to is the idea that all drinks are created equal when it comes to weight control. My own personal research has resulted in a far different conclusion: One drink a day only works if you're single and that drink is wine. How do I know this? Because I drink quite a bit and nobody would accuse me of getting any skinnier-but every unattached woman I know who drinks wine is able to zip her jeans without lying down on the bed.

Take for example a recent night out with several of my girlfriends. Girlfriend A (GFA) is a beautiful platinum blonde DJ with an ass to die for (it's Savannah Jones, so you can stop guessing). Girlfriend B (GFB) is another gorgeous blonde whose body is sheer perfection(Robin, this is you.) Needless to say, I secretly detest both GFA and GFB and avoid them whenever possible because by comparison, I am a sweaty female version of Shrek. Also in the party are Girlfriend C (GFC), a zaftig redhead with the face of a angel (love ya, Heather) and Adella (who defies description and a three-letter acronym).

Both GFA and GFB drink wine, almost exclusively. Me, GFC and Adella drink everything else. Of course, GFA and GFB are also both single...while the rest of us are married. Which proves my other point: Having a husband makes it necessary to drink something stronger than wine, and definitely more than one shot. In fact, my research has determined that for every hour you spend in the company of your spouse, a minimum of two shots is required to maintain something resembling sanity.

I say "minimum" because there are occasions when only full-on intoxication will keep you from ending up on the evening news for "accidentally" putting a pillow over his head in his sleep.("I don't know what happened, officer. I just wanted him to stop snoring.") Some of those occasions include: Dismembering a deer on your formal dining room table; being completely ignored when you've gone to the trouble of shaving your legs, applying make-up and wearing a push-up bra; and spending a whole Saturday in your bathrobe playing Mafia Wars (that's right, I'm talking about YOU, Bryon.)

So here's the bottom line: If you want your bottom line to stay thin, drink wine everywhere you can...except at your wedding.

Someone responded to my post by saying that when you ask most people what kind of music they like, they say "anything but country." Really? Who are you asking? I don't want to get into a culture war here, but my guess is that the writer of that comment (who says he likes country, but only the "traditional" stuff) is under 30 and lives in the city, as do most of the "people he asks." And don't talk to me about your appreciation for Cash and Waylon and Hank; hipsters have adopted those gritty traditionalists as some sort of badge of authenticity. It's a development that would have made Jennings laugh and Johnny spit some Beech Nut in their general di-rection.

At the risk of not being funny, I gotta tell ya, the bias against country music - and its listeners - really kinda ticks me off. Some time ago, when I was working at a country station in Seattle, one of the sales people made the comment that we couldn't do a web-based promotion because "country listeners are too stupid to work the internet."

She was serious. And I was furious.

I explained to her that while it was true that country listeners have not been early and widespread adapters to the online world, that it has nothing to do with relative intelligence. Country listeners are, by and large, the worker bees of the world. Getting a computer takes a back seat to getting the job done. They're the families who put their time and money where their mouth is by contributing beyond their fair share to their communities, churches, schools, and charities. More than that, they own their emotions--being cool isn't nearly as important as being real.

Are there rednecks, Jesus-loving snake handlers and trailer trash? You bet. But you'll find that in any group of rock geeks, hip-hop fans, and pop groupies--not just country listeners. The difference is that country listeners claim it and don't give a good goddamn what you think about it.

Oh, and that salesperson in Seattle? She still has a job, and I don't.
Go figure.

Big Dan Crombie was broadcasting drunk again, and my new boss insisted I get him off the air.

I looked at him wide-eyed. "Why me? You're the guy in charge!" I said, obviously worried at the thought of trying to wrestle the microphone away from a three-hundred-pound man on a mission. Dan was known to have a drink or two before his morning drive shift, but it rarely affected his work; occasionally - like when his wife left him after a fight - he'd go on the air and start playing the saddest love songs he could find, dedicating them all to Julie, the "love of my miserable life". This morning, country singer Doug Stone's dirge about being "better off in a pine box on a slow train bound for Georgia" had done him in, and Dan was standing in the studio singing along at the top of his lungs. With the microphone on.

"You've known the guy for over a year and I'm kind of new here. Help me out, wontcha?" pleaded Aaron Jones, the station's latest Program Director. I rolled my eyes and headed for the studio.

Dan was a terrific jock; he had a warm hug of a voice capable of charming just-baked pie from your grandma and a delivery so earnest she'd go buy a new sofa she didn't need at twenty per cent off if he told her to do it. His intermittent sojourns into alcoholism just authenticated him to the red clay hearts of our southern Georgia listeners, so these lapses were tolerated by Marshall Clifton, the station owner and Dan's best friend. Marshall was usually the one to talk Dan out of the studio and into a hot cup of coffee when this happened, but given that he was out of town and my new PD was obviously gifted at delegation, it looked like I was going to do the honors today.

"Oh hey, everybody! It's Amanda Lynn!" Dan announced when I walked through the studio door. Smiling, I went over to the ancient control board and put my right arm around him while I repositioned the microphone, which smelled stale and smoky like a tavern during the day. Dan had resumed singing beside me.

"Best Country, WVDA! That's the latest from Doug Stone...with back-up from Big Dan the Morning Man," I laughed into the mic. "It's 9:23...on the way next, a look at the the rainy weather forecast and somethin' to get ya ready for the weekend from that new guy, Garth Brooks - on Best Country, WVDA!" I popped off the lever for the main microphone and turned down the rotary volume knob.

Dan heard the commercial start and threw off his headphones. "What the hell are you doing? It's my show until 10!" He yelled, pulling away from me.

"Well, honey, you were off key, and I thought I'd save you from embarrassing yourself," I said, as nonchalantly as I could. "Besides - you don't want Aaron to come in here do ya? He might pull you off the air for a few days while Marshall's out of town." I knew that like most jocks, Dan's self-esteem would take a hit if he couldn't be in front of a microphone.

"That joker," Dan growled. "Just let him try and take me off the air. His ass would be outta here so fast." He took a sip of coffee - which I knew was spiked with something besides cream - and gestured toward Aaron, who was watching from the window in the luckily soundproof door. "We don't need a PD anyway, do we dear? We could run this place by ourselves. Hell, we practically do!"

He was right. In addition to morning drive, Dan did the heavy lifting of production,writing and creating all of the commercials that were put on the air at the station. My days were equally long: after a five-hour air shift, I scheduled the music and handled the unweildy promotional end of things, coming up with ideas for station events and promotions, which I then had to organize. Aaron jocked a four-hour afternoon drive airshift and coasted through the rest of his day, jawing on the phone with record company reps, encouraging them to come to town and treat him to dinner. I sighed and put a hand on Dan's shoulder. "How 'bout I take over for now, and you just go home, ok?"

Dan looked at me a second and then his face crumbled. "Julie left," he said. "Wouldn't be worried 'cept that she took the dog this time." He wiped his neon nose with the back of his hand, then reached over to start the next commercial in the stopset. Even drunk and despondent, the man never missed a cue.

I'm so sorry, but really guy - why don't you have one of the salespeople drive you home? Then I'll come and get you tonight and you can pick up your truck."

He shook his head. "Yeah, ok, ok." He unplugged his headphones, picked up the newspaper and sheets of show prep, and putting a comforting hand on his back, I walked him to the door. My show would start a few minutes early today, but that was okay. Being on the air at WVDA was like sitting at the kitchen table having coffee with your neighbors. As long as you didn't talk bad about the President or make fun of Reba McEntire's hair, they'd let you stay as long as you liked.

Specifically, just how good were the eats they served at the fellowship hall after church?

I grew up (and grew large) in the South, where even the damn 7-11 sells biscuits that'll rock your world. Anyone who attends church below the sweet-tea line not only believes in God, but believes that on the third day, he created chicken in pieces that were easy to fry and pork specifically for its ability to suck up barbeque sauce. And he saw that it was good.

There is no way, after the heavenly experience of Cherry Yum-Yum or homemade apple butter, a person would miss church and that lord-a-mercy potluck unless they were dying or in jail. And it follows that if you go to church in the south, you're probably going to be conservative, and much more likely to be faithful to your third wife.

On the other hand, if you attended a church that handed out plastic jug punch and box cookies after the service, there's less incentive to get out of bed, thereby making you more susceptible to Obama's charms.

But not to worry. That same study says there's very little chance that the human race is destined to become a bunch of hemp-wearing, Prius-driving house husbands. That's because we liberal types (I've lived on the left coast long enough that I've gone to the dark side, sorry) get very little energy from the sprouts and soy cheese we eat, and we need to spend that hugging trees. Meanwhile, those conservative, church-going folks down south? They're busy bastin' ribs and makin' babies.

And I felt awesome and beautiful, and more than that: I felt seen, as if no other girl anywhere could have been more wanted, no matter how tiny her butt, how perfect her hair or flat her belly. I could not have been more in love - with him, or with myself.

We jumped when somebody banged hard on the car window.

"Outta the car, kids!" barked an irritated male voice. I managed to get on my jeans and purple push-up bra (I'd known what was going to happen that night and had dressed for the occasion) before I scrambled out of the back seat. Martin was barefoot in half-zipped Levi's and his fully unbuttoned shirt. We stood there, two sheepish honor students, shivering in the glare of a Mag-light. The officer holding it was short and puffy with dubious authority. His partner was tall and bald, with a horseshoe-shaped moustache running down both sides of his mouth to his chin.

"I need to see your I.D.s, please," he demanded. Unlike Deputy Mag-Light, this one was all business, looking me straight in the tits when he talked. Martin and I reached in our back pockets for our driver's licenses, handed them over, and stood waiting as they were inspected.

"What are you two doing here tonight? This is private property, you know."

"Listening to the radio and talking," I answered.

"Without your shirts on?"

"Yeah. It sounds better that way," I said. Martin looked at me with wide eyes, silently begging me to keep my mouth shut, although there'd never been any previous evidence I was remotely capable of verbal self-control. We fought often, and he lost. Always.

"Young lady, I doubt your mother would be happy knowing what you're out here doing. How 'bout we escort you home and see what she has to say?"

Martin tried to step in before things - meaning me - got out of hand. "That won't be necessary sir, we'll go right home right now and..."

"Hey! Looky what I found," said Mag-light from behind me. While we were talking to the other officer, he had rummaged around Martin's grandmother's car and discovered something horribly incriminating: A rotten banana, which he now held up with two fingers and great disgust.

I burst out laughing. "I was wondering where I'd left that," I choked out.

"Shut up," Martin hissed.

"It's a banana," I protested. "What are you gonna get us for? Lewd and lascivious produce?"

Unfortunately, I was the only one who thought it was funny. Actually, I was a little scared, but I always talk too much when I'm nervous. "Your mouth is what's gonna get you in trouble every time," my father often told me. He would have relished this moment.

While I can respect Kirstie's honesty about her hatred of being fat, the dimply bottom line for me is this: When is she going to realize that the only way she'll ever achieve lasting weight loss is to stop dieting and figure out WHY it is that she is a food addict? And trust me, she IS a food addict. Valerie Bertinelli and Marie Osmond? They were normal sized B-listers who, because of stressful life situations, put on a few too many pounds. But they're not junkies like me & Kirstie. When Kirstie says she's not one of those "loud & proud, large and in charge" women, what I hear is lots of self-hatred that can only lead to one place: Hometown Buffet.

You know what I'd like to see Kirstie do instead? Shut up and find an Overeaters Anonymous meeting or a good therapist. That way, she can figure out her issues without a paycheck depending on it and without a weekly show based on the idea that the worst thing in the world is being fat...when in fact, we all know that the worst thing in the world is being DESPERATE FOR ATTENTION.

Now as a fat person, you might think I would simply side with Kevin Smith (whose movies I happen to love...Pillowpants, anyone?). But actually, I think they're both to blame.

This isn't a case of self-hatred because I'm obese: My large behind and permanently Cheeto-stained fingers are a badge of honor, proof that I conquered the nearly overwhelming urges to kill some of my former bosses, run my car into the DMV, and drop-kick screaming kids on airplanes. That last one is the reason why I side with the airlines.

The fact is that if you are too large to fit in the seat, you're going to infringe on someone else's space, and they are going to be made uncomfortable by that through no fault of their own. Same with crying babies: there needs to be a minimum age on airplanes or a mandatory Benadryl requirement for anyone who isn't old enough to understand that Barney is Satan. I also feel the same way about people who insist on making conversation with you when it is obvious from the PILLOW OVER YOUR FACE that you DO NOT WANT TO TALK.

But Southwest doesn't get off that easily, and what I have to say about them goes for every other U.S.airline as well: What ever happened to customer service? Embarrassing someone publicly for whatever reason should never be company policy; they could have talked to Mr. Smith about the issue before he boarded the plane. Shrinking the size of seats to fit more of them on those glorified heifer haulers they call airplanes - at exactly the same time when their customers are obviously getting wider - is also very poor client relations. But the worst infringement on the customer service code? The way Southwest is twisting themselves and their policies into a pretzel in order to appease an angry celebrity, when the fact is the rest of us would have simply been ejected and euphemistically told to put down the fork.

UPDATE: Kevin has now written what he says will be his last word on the subject. What bothers me the most is that he says all he wants from Southwest is a public statement saying he isn't too fat to fly. He's said in the past that he "knows he's fat", but honestly, it's kinda like wanting the cool kids at school to give you a pass and say "Naw, you're not that fat. There are lots of people fatter than you."

Own it, and the problems and pleasures that go with too much food, or do something about it.

But here's the problem: I go to parties or out for drinks and I tell everyone I'm a writer (which I legitimately am), and someone will mention that I used to be "Kiss & Tell Michele" on The Wolf. All of a sudden, that's the only thing anybody wants to talk about, and it overtakes any other kind of meaningful conversation I might have had with them. Yeah, I met Kenny Chesney and he was short and bald. Yep, Johnny Cash is great, but the majority of today's country listeners don't want to hear his music unless they're really drunk. Uh huh,Taylor Swift is freakishly tall, gorgeous, and just as sweet in person.

In the hope that maybe one day I'll be able to go out socially and talk about subjects other than radio, here's a few things about me that are at least as interesting as my former profession:

Don't get me wrong - I am grateful for people's interest, and feel very lucky that I had the opportunity to do that job...but it's kind of like having a gorgeous ex-husband that everyone else wants to date.