Cheetos and Fritos and Doritos, OH MY!

In case you’ve been in asleep in your cubicle for the past 14 years, you should know that you are in the presence of a highly esteemed political figure. I, Ms. Jessica Harris Winston, was the very first, or rather the only President of the Eating Club. I know. Harris. Who gives their cherubic, little puffy-cheeked daughter the middle name Harris? I certainly didn’t own a penis, live in an active adult community r wet my Depends at the thought of the early-bird special at the Old Country Buffet. However, my parents claimed that it was the only name they liked that began with an H. Maybe the names Hillary and Hannah didn’t come about until late 1985.

I was one of those kids lucky enough to endure the excruciating pain of being the youngest sibling of three. Emily, my elder by seven years combines the fashion sense of your sixth grade math teacher with the brains of Doogie Howser. Now, with all of the recent publicity it seems like she and Neil Patrick Harris have a bit more in common then I originally thought. Senior year at Cornell, Emily pulled an Ellen. We had all assumed her heterosexuality up until that point, but for some reason the news was about as shocking as finding out that overdosing on Taco Bell gives you diarrhea. Mom responded with an “Oh, that’s nice. At least I won’t have to pay for another wedding!” and now she tells the world about her daughter’s ‘partner’ and thinks Lesbianism is as trendy as a pair of Ugg Boots.

Emily was my Mr. Myagi. I held her responsible for teaching me all of the important things in life. At about the age of 9, Emily inquired,

“Jessie, do you spit or swallow?”

“What do you mean? I, uh, I guess I do both!” I nervously replied.

“No way, you can’t do both! You have to pick one. Is it SPIT, or SWALLOW?”

“I guess I do both?"

Wrong answer.

Sarah is four years older then I am, and an excellent example of the Marsha Brady syndrome. She might as well have worn a Geisha outfit and bowed down to my parents because she was certainly the favorite, not to mention she always had boyfriends clinging to her like a bad case of Herpes. We act alike, sound alike and many people say we even look alike. Except for one minor detail. She is Nicole Richie, and I am Carnie Wilson. Post-Gastric Bypass, but still Carnie Wilson. Maybe I got a chubby sperm with a pokey metabolism, or perhaps my egg had a thing for big, beefy men. Or maybe, just maybe it was the long-lasting effects of the Eating Club.

I was El Presidente of the Eating Club. How does one attain this ultra-prestigious title? Well as I mentioned before, my sisters loved to tease me. Some days I was forced to me their child-slave, while on other occasions they would attempt to suffocate me with a blanket while simultaneously farting on my face until I begged for mercy. I believe it was Emily who had the genius idea of creating the Eating Club. I’m not sure whether it was out of pure cruelty or if she decided that I needed an extra-curricular activity. I had a brief run-in with soccer and gymnastics, but I guess mom got tired of paying to watch me stand obliviously on the field picking Umbros-induced wedgies out of my butt like I had Down Syndrome. I also attempted ice-skating which lasted a mere 13 minutes, 12 of which I was trying to shove my eggplant sized feet into those awful skates and 1 to decide the ice looked scary and I wanted to go home instead and shove cool ranch Doritos down my throat.

Becoming President wasn’t all fun and games. Getting elected into office was harder then the SATs. I thought that half a box of Milanos would do the trick, but apparently cookies were just not enough for the Winston sisters. In order to be considered ‘cool’ and hang out in the backyard clubhouse with the rest of the club, I really had to start packing it in. So I kept eating! Waffles and ice cream quickly became a breakfast favorite, while I went nuts for salami, provolone and mayo sandwiches for lunch. After-school snack? Box of mini pizza bagels!

"No, you can’t have any, they’re all mine!"
"Mom, is dinner ready yet? I’m starving!!"

My rampant eating habits combined with marathon episodes of Saved by the Bell quickly evoked the growth of a little somethin’ somethin’ right below the home of my future breasts. Emily and Sarah dubbed my fat belly, the ‘Twoogie”. They found it especially fun to surprise with a quick, hard pinch and a loud “TWOOGIE, TWOOGIE!!”

“Why are you guys making fun of me?? I’m cool and I’m the President of the Eating Club!”

I eventually discovered the joys of weight-loss through the Elliptical and fat-free food items, but not without a few more years of Twoogie Torture. To this day, I still blame my childhood chunk on my sisters. However, my adult on-set chunk is a whole other story, which I blame solely on my love of beer and…Milanos.