I have been house and dog sitting for my aunt and uncle for a week. One long week. It’s necessary to point out that I’m childless, by choice and dog-less, due to circumstance. If I lived in an apartment that allowed dogs, I would have become a dog mama a long time ago. Forget “baby fever”, I have “puppy fever” something fierce. The second I see floppy ears, awkward paws, and big puppy eyes, I melt. I become that annoying, squealing girl, the kind of girl who says, “OMG, it’s a POOPY! WANT!”
So, I used to have puppy fever. I think I’m good for at least another 5 years before I will think I want a dog again. Maybe that’s being dramatic, but in my exhaustion, I have lost all desire to wake up to puppy breath. For those of you thinking of getting a puppy, let me tell you, puppy parenting is some serious, life-altering shit.
The dogs I am watching are actually total sweethearts. The younger one, Pepper, loves to cuddle. The old guy, Marley, loves to be by you at all times. With being alone in a big house, these traits are much appreciated. They also, for the most part, come when they’re called (unless they are in the middle of eating a turd, you can’t just leave a perfectly good poop uneaten like that), and they don’t bark at all.
This is where the easiness comes full halt. I am reminded why I don’t want children: I adore my sleep. Guess what? Dogs are like babies, in that they don’t give two shits if you get sleep or not. I’ve probably slept a total of 5 solid hours this entire week.
The first night, both dogs must have felt unsettled, as all I heard all night was toenails clicking on the hardwood floor and collars going “jingle-jingle”. They apparently didn’t need their sleep, like I needed mine. The next night, I got smarter, and moved to a room with carpet and I took their collars off. This was the only night I got any real sleep.
Marley has never really seemed thrilled his mom and dad have been gone. To self-soothe, he has been obsessively licking his butthole. He won’t stop and it’s red and irritated. Instead of calling and freaking out his parents, I asked my mom what to do. She said to make sure he poops and “just tell him to quit licking”. I’ve spent an ungodly amount of time yelling at a dog who is going down on his asshole.
3rd Night: Pepper decided the human bed was a better place to be than the dog bed. She slipped under the covers and literally slept with her nose between my buttcheeks all night. I was so scared she would suffocate, so all night long, I checked to see if she was still breathing.
4th Night: Both dogs woke me up no less than 3 times to go outside. Their potty breaks must not have been enough, as Marley unleashed farts all night that made me cry. Sleep was filled with nightmares and night sweats.
5th Night: The temperature dropped drastically and I was able to sleep with the window open. I woke up with a start to Marley having a nightmare. After I spent 10 minutes reassuring him and petting his belly, I worried that he was too cold. I found a blanket and covered him. I checked on him throughout the night, as I didn’t want him to freeze to death. Pepper was warm, as she still felt the need to sleep directly on top of me.
6th Night. I smelled poop. Pure poop. I guess that happens when a dog’s asshole is directly in your face. I still feel dirty.
7th Night: At 3:00 AM, I hear barfing. I hope it’s a nightmare, but it’s not. Marley is barfing in the corner. I can’t even, so I just go back to sleep. At 7:00 AM, I check to see if maybe, hopefully it was a nightmare. Nope, there’s puke in the corner. I resolve to be fully awake before I have to clean up dog vomit, so I go back to sleep again. 8:00 AM comes around and I let the dogs out, and, the puke is gone. HE ATE HIS OWN BARF. While I’m eternally grateful that he cleaned up his own mess, I’ve been dry heaving all day at the thought that he ate his own barf.
While it’s been nice to hang with some legit pups and drink free beer every night, I have bags under my eyes and I have 80 new gray hairs. I’m exhausted, and I can’t wait to get back to my bed. A bed that doesn’t smell of dog asshole and farts (well, at least dog farts).
Pepper and Marley are sweethearts, but just like with babies, I prefer to squeeze their cheeks, ogle over them, and then hand them back.
Pepper says, “Blogging is boring. Pay attention to me!”
“You weren’t in the room, and we thought you would never come back, so we helped ourselves”.
“If my eyes are closed, I can’t see you, so you can’t see me on the bed I’m not supposed to be on”.
Marley is over your shit, Pepper.
“We are handfuls, but we sure are cute little shits”.
Tag: blog
Awkward Moment #1
That awkward moment you are attempting to sit on a stool at the cupcake shop, you shouldn’t be at, and the bastard feels very, very untrustworthy. After coming too close to breaking a chair made out of metal, at a cupcakery, it’s only necessary to swear your friends to utter secrecy. You take it one step further by threatening bodily harm if your secret gets out. You didn’t break the chair, but in the “fat world” almost breaking it is just as damn bad.
The next realization you have is that if you didn’t feel it necessary to suggest cupcakes right after eating an entire meal (as if that wasn’t satisfying enough), you wouldn’t be in the predicament of almost breaking a chair while biting into a massive cupcake adorned with marshmallows, graham cracker crumbs, and chocolate sauce. No one suggesting hikes after lunch break chairs.
Then, you wonder when it will be that the awkward moments become too frequent and you actually make a change. How many chairs at specialty bakeries does your ass have to dismantle until one is done with the bad choices?
Awkward Moment #2 happens when you realize, probably never. Because cupcakes.
Shut up, Ryan Gosling, you don’t know me!
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Simply, Thank You
I was hoping to reblog the post When bloggers go MIA by Aunty Cath, but she must not have the “reblog” setting. I will share a screen shot of her post instead:
I am extremely humbled and honored that I’m being recognized in other writer’s blogs. After doing this blogging thing for precisely 58 days (WordPress counts in days, I guess), I never would have thought I’d have the amount of followers and attention I have presently.
I am not entirely new to blogging. As many of my Facebook friends know, I started blogging when I moved to BFE, AKA Elko, way back in 2007. Saying it was hard for me to leave my friends, family, and favorite Cold Stone, is putting it mildly. I decided to write about the foibles of a “city girl” living in a cow town. It was met with loads of support from my loved ones, but I had not one “outside” follower. I didn’t really understand how to put myself “out there” or network at all. I wrote as a therapeutic way to handle my new life of falling into cattle guards and being held up on the main road by slow-as-molasses ranchers. It was a way to express myself, yes, but more so a way to remain sane. I miss that small, comfortable, infuriating town more than I can express (that’s a totally different story, though).
As mentioned, I had loyal followers who were close family and friends. Secretly, I wondered if they were so supportive merely because they loved me, not based on my literary merit. Sure, my mom laughed so hard she cried upon reading my posts, and my best friend said she “peed a little” while reading my writing, but was it really because I was good? I want to emphasize, that I, in no way, am discrediting the opinions and comments of loved ones, just sharing a little of my innate insecurity. One of my longtime loyal followers is a writer herself, so I suppose I didn’t need to feel too insecure.
I guess I always believed I wouldn’t be a “real writer” until I began garnering support from strangers. More importantly, from other writers. Most humbly, I have gotten an immense amount of support from the blog world. It was terrifying to put myself out there, in such a naked and real way, which was why I played like I didn’t care how many followers I got. So, in the case that I would totally fall on my face, I could brush it off like I wasn’t doing it for the attention. Now I sound like I really am doing it for the attention *back peddling*.
Let me be real, there is a delicious spark of electricity that runs up my spine, that creates a euphoric high as I start reeling in the “likes” and followers after posting. It’s addictive and probably as good as a cocaine high (notice how I said, “probably”?). I have been trying not to let myself get so wrapped up in the “likes” and the amount of followers. Yet, how does one get their writing seen without readers? Skating the fine line between blogging for the enjoyment versus the attention is treacherous, and I’m still learning how to keep my balance.
With all this said, I’m eternally grateful to my loyal, longtime followers, those who have been reading my work since Elko. I am also so excited for the connections I’m making in the blogging world. I get to read posts from people all the way from India to Australia. I am also very lucky that such a diverse group of people relate to the crazy topics I write about.
I have been told that I am not a real writer until I get a book published, and my ex couldn’t stand my humor, but you can’t win them all. I’m simply going to cherish the people who support me, and continue to write, and create. It’s all I can do. It’s all I must do.
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Why? No. Just Stop!
So, this morning, on my way to brunch, I saw a dude, walking down the street, wearing a bathrobe. A bathrobe. Strangely, he did not appear to be nude under said robe. He was wearing a Led Zeppelin shirt and jeans. And a bathrobe. If it were winter, or chilly at all, maybe this wouldn’t be as weird, but it was 90 degrees. What would posses someone to:
A. Wear a bathrobe in public, and…
B. Wear a bathrobe in public in 90 degree weather?
And, no, he was not a street person, he was talking on his iPhone 6.
Like, did he think, “I may get lost going down the street, so, in case I’m lost well into the night, I better be prepared, by wearing…a nice, fuzzy, warm bathrobe”?
Except, this bathrobe wasn’t nice and fuzzy. It was colored shit brown, had numerous holes, and was adorned with curious stains, and I don’t even want to imagine the amount of porn that poor piece of terry cloth has seen.
What possesses people to wear items of clothing in public that should never see the light of day? Additionally, and even more curiously, why do people wear winter weather items in the summer?
I know you have a mad case of swamp ass in those black leather skinny pants, don’t even lie. And, who can even stand to be around the genius who sweats buckets in their Ugg boots and then takes them off, in a room with other people, like no biggie? Also, is it not common knowledge that if your head is hot, the rest of your body will be too? Why then all the beanies, people? Why????
Next person I see wearing a sweatshirt in the heat of another 90 degree day, I’m going to stop and ask about their clothing choice. I’ll pretend I’m a fashion writer in search of the latest trend. I’ll ask them why they chose a long-sleeved, fleece-lined, sweat factory, usually worn in the snow, on a day where most people try getting away with wearing next to nothing.
I have to know why. Do they not get hot? Does the heat not bother them? If so, what’s their secret? Is it a weight loss or cleanse thing? Are they going for boob and crotch sweat of epic proportions on purpose, to lose weight? Are they not of the human race? Were they sent here from a planet where the thermostat is always set to 68, and they are just cold, always? Fucking why?
Also, I’m kind of tired of the “Wear Anything in Public Because This is America” trend. No, just because you have the right, you should not wear your sweat-stained, used-to-be-white negligee as a dress. We all know it’s not a dress, it’s from Suzy’s, and it’s for the bedroom. It’s not trendy, no one is envious of your attire, and your nipples are showing. Go put on an actual dress, mmmkay?
If I start sweating just looking at you, you’re probably wearing a beanie or knee high boots with shorts. STOP THAT. TAKE IT OFF.
If my cheeks are flushed and I start sweating upon looking at you, it’s probably because I’m embarrassed for you, no one wants to see your beef curtains, hanging out of your shorts, swaying in the summer breeze. STOP THAT. PUT THEM AWAY.
Well, I don’t really have much more to say after that. Good day.
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Ugly Sleep
Don’t get me wrong, I adore waking up to my boyfriend’s adorable sleeping face. Most days. Yes, I love feeling his warmth against me as he peacefully dreams, and all that mushy shit. But, let’s be real here. Those memes that paint the picture that love is sleeping like you’re one big romantic pretzel are bullshit.
This looks fucking awful. I bet his breath smells like hot Limburger cheese.
Let’s be honest, here. I’m going to paint a true portrait of what it’s like to share the same bed with someone.
First, I’m going to break it down to how sleeping with your significant other changes during the different stages of your relationship.
In the beginning, during that fateful “first sleep”, you don’t actually sleep. Instead, you lay perfectly still so as to not wake the other person. You don’t want to portray, so early on, that you sleep like an epileptic Tasmanian Devil. Not yet. Additionally, you fail to sleep because you must concentrate on never opening your mouth. No one likes a mouth breather, especially after you’ve had chicken cesear salad for dinner.
Not only must you keep your mouth odor to yourself, you can’t, for a second, allow your body to relax. You don’t want your bowels to believe it’s “a go” to expel any gas. Farting on your first night together, especially if your fart smells like hot salad, would be the absolute worst thing to happen.
Eventually, you relax enough to actually sleep and you feel euphoric that you shared such an intimate, beautiful thing together. Cuddling sometimes occurs, as does morning kisses. Either you don’t smell each other’s breath, because you both secretly brushed your teeth prior to “waking up”, or you’re too happy to care your breath smells like something died.
Somehow, your communal sleeping habits move from nose-breathing picturesque statue and sickeningly romantic, to something so ugly. So scary.
When my boyfriend and I first started dating, I was so scared to pop the fart cherry. You know, getting past that first fart in front of the same person you don’t let know you pluck hairs from your chin? It was so scary, and so painful. If the gas was too intense, I would pretend I left something in my car, so that I could go outside to let them fly. I recall a time when he, too, used to be embarrassed to fart in my presence and would actually say, “Oh! Excuse me!” Gone are those days.
Like easing up on farting in each other’s presence, so has our sleeping-with-someone-new-rituals. Nose breathing all night long is just not realistic, so full-on-gaping-mouth breathing complete with drool is what’s happening now. You don’t really know someone until you’ve smelled breakfast, lunch, and dinner on their breath.
The idea to write on this topic came the other night when, while rolling over, I almost lost an eye to the corner of my boyfriend’s man-sized pillow. It’s this behemoth down pillow with really poky corners, sharp as tacks. I secretly think that’s how he’s going to do me in. Who will ever be charged with murder by pillow corner?
As I laid there, feeling grateful I still had two eyes, I pondered how the way we sleep is the direct opposite of how every “love meme” says its done. As I listened to his even breathing, mixed in with a fart here, and a fart there, I wondered how we got past that too-embarrassed-to-be-a-real-human stage. I figured it all comes down to the fact that it hurts to hold farts in, and breathing your morning breath into someone’s face, is just another way of saying, “I love you”.
When your relationship has made it past the first, surreal, romantic “get a room” months, sleeping gets real and it gets ugly. If you can honestly say you or your significant other has not farted in bed, laughed, and said, “I was just warming up the bed for you, because I’m romantic as shit”, you’re a fucking liar. If you don’t wake up looking like Amy Winehouse, after a binge, you’re an alien. If you still sleep with your mouth as far away from your lover as possible, give it up. Pretty sleep is no way to live. I don’t love my boyfriend any less because I recoil when his frigid toes touch me in the night. He doesn’t find me less attractive even when dried drool cakes my eye shut. We both understand we don’t have to sleep like horny teenagers to be in love. “Ugly sleep” wins over shitty “pretty sleep” every time.
We all wish we looked like Snow White while sleeping. Just like having Kylie Jenner “asshole lips” is unrealistic, so is looking pretty while snoring.
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Sweet Moves, Yo
Tomorrow I am planning on attending a workout Burlesque dance class with a friend. I simply cannot wait to see how much material I can get for my blog. I am about as talented dance-wise as your bald, middle-aged uncle, who thinks he has moves (he also still thinks his cellphone belt clip is what the cool kids have). If I wanted to, I could make a video of my dancing, upload it onto YouTube and, easily, I could be the next William Hung. I am BAD. BAD.
Why am I doing this then? Well, I would actually like to find my sexy. I know it is in there. It’s just hiding under my insecurity, my spastic muscles, and my inability to find anything resembling a rhythm. If I try hard enough, learn to count and move at the same time, and allow my body to move to the beat, it is possible that someday I will not look like I am having a seizure when I am attempting to dance. Maybe.
In honor of this dance class tomorrow, I am re-posting a piece I did on my blog I began while living in BFE Elko. I took a Zumba class and the result was pure hilarity.
I am such a masochist. I am also a really horrible dancer. Yes, I tried Zumba for the second time, despite the fact that I can’t dance for anything. I actually stepped on my own two left feet. Let me try to express to the fullest of my ability how bad I am at moving my body in an even remotely sexy manner…
First, I thought that the people I was going with were amateurs, like me. WRONG. One girl minored in dance in college. She looked better than the instructor. Now I know why she wanted to be in the front! What was I thinking agreeing to that?! Seeing myself front and center next to JLO did nothing for my self esteem. Then, to my right, another dancer who was counting the steps. Counting the what? You mean there are steps in dancing? And you have to count them? Behind me, a friend who was not afraid to let out her sexy wild woman self and let me tell you, she was truly shaking it. Me? I was stiff as a board and I had as much rhythm as an albatross. I looked like I was having a stroke at one point. It was bad, really bad. There was this move where you had to bend your knees and jump forward, sexily…LORD. Probably the worst move involved shaking our asses as we bent forward. I felt like I should apologize to the person behind me. My ass didn’t stop shaking for an hour after class.
Besides being surrounded by supposed “amateurs”, again, thanks guys… I was also surrounded by mirrors. As I mentioned above, I was persuaded to stand front and center, in front of the mirror. It would have been half alright if I didn’t have to be reminded every second how truly awful I was. I had to WATCH myself. It was truly nightmarish. At one point I decided it would be best to just laugh instead of maintain my determined face; that way no one would think I was actually serious with my ridiculous moves.
Next, dancing is EXHAUSTING, folks! What the hell? I understand now why all those club addicts are so skinny. Oh, and why Britney Spears has thighs the size of my big head. I was in agony. My thighs and calves were burning and my knees wanted to give in. I was dripping sweat and just looked a mess. I made the mistake to look over at “Miss Minored in Dance” and she was glistening beautifully with sweat. Grrr. I was so exhausted that I soon couldn’t do two things at once. Move my arms and legs? At the same time? Forget it…
HOWEVER, and this is a big however (notice how it is capitalized), I actually enjoyed myself and got a hell of a workout. I looked physically challenged, yes, but there were others similar to me (none quite as bad, but close). The third (most recent) time I attended I went with a friend who was more like me and we laughed and laughed and laughed at each other. My abs got a good workout as well as my growing thighs.
So, if you attend the Zumba class Fridays, in Elko, I apologize in advance. My spastic ass will be in attendance and my advice to you is to try not to look too much. I think I am getting better…
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Front Butt Thighs
I frequently wonder how it would feel to have decent looking inner thighs. I hate my inner thighs with the passion of the gods. I hide them behind long layering tanks and Grandma bathing suit skirts. I’m pretty sure my own boyfriend has not seen them in the light of day. If I want to pretend I’m sexy, I tuck them between my thighs and clamp my legs shut. I now understand what transvestites go through. I feel your “tuck and pray” pain, guys.
I check out other women’s crotchal-area with envy, like a total perv. Instead of salivating over another woman’s handbag or cute haircut, I totally crave their smooth thighs. I am envious of women who can wear skinny jeans without all of the layering tanks and spanks required to make me not look like a bean bag with a head.
I feel like my saggy thighs are totally my mom’s fault, along with my prematurely graying hair and manly calves. I’m basically a carbon-copy of my mom, right down to the swaying thigh skin. If my mom wasn’t the most amazing woman to walk this Earth, I would have a real bone to pick with her. Instead, we just complain together as we make brownies and homemade fudge sauce.
This past Friday, I hosted an It Works party. If you don’t recognize the name, you will know what I’m talking about when I say miracle body wraps. Yup, I got wrapped, along with some friends. It was part hilarious-fun-female-bonding, and part I-hate-my-body-don’t-look-at-me-why-was-I-born.
Let me explain.
Before the wrap is the essential, “before picture”. It’s mandatory. I recruited a long-time friend who’s seen me in my birthday suit and at my absolute worst. Who cares if she sees my frog skin crotch? So, she snapped quite a few pictures from multiple angles and really got down in there. I was terrified to see her work.
And rightfully fucking so.
When I say it was disgusting, you really have no idea. Some of you may wonder how it could be possible one is not aware of what they look like naked. Well, it’s possible when you avoid the mirror like the plague, while naked, that’s fucking how.
One picture she took confused me. It was an ass. It was a really saggy ass with dimples and pimples, the whole smorgasbord. MY INNER THIGHS LOOK LIKE AN ASS.
I have front butt thighs and…
I can’t. I can’t even. What else can I say? There’s nothing more to say. I HAVE A BUTT. ON MY THIGHS.
After some time to accept this disgusting realization, I’ve decided my front butt has got to go. I’m now even more glad that I spent $150 on body wraps, fat inhibitors, and tightening gel from It Works. I’m also going to be kicking my yoga practice into high gear. Perhaps, I’ll dust off my beach cruiser and take it for a spin. Anything, anything to get rid of my second butt. Anything.
I have a picture of a before and after of my thighs, but the thought of sharing it with all the world is more terrifying than those arriving-at-school-naked-on-the-first-day-of-school dreams. No. Just, no. So, here is proof I wrapped my nasty thighs. You’re welcome.
Thank you, Pinterest, for your endless array of memes and ecards to make me feel better about myself. Laughing through the pain, yo.
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Super Wimp
One of my new favorite bloggers I am following inspired my new blog post today. RobynChristi posted about being a scaredy-cat. I can relate ALL TOO WELL. Anyone who knows me, knows I am the person who checks the door 45 times before leaving. Usually that’s not enough, because I’m certain I was finally robbed and the door will be wide open, so I go back to check once more (do I want to admit that this is usually after I’ve gotten in the car, buckled up, found my chosen Pandora station, and started the car?)
I count the walk back to my motel, by the airport in Oakland, from the Bart station, on NYE 2014 as the most terrifying thing that ever happened to me. I was certain the entire time that I would be shanked. I also have never walked so fast in my entire life. In wedges. My leg muscles were cramped up for days.
The house I lived in in Elko was situated on a lonely dirt road, far from the main road. Getting out of my car at night was terrifying. It was pitch black and there were so many glowing eyes everywhere (they were jackrabbits, but still…) I would run so fast, once my feet hit the dirt, I basically flew to the door. My heart would be pounding out of my chest the whole terrifying journey. Once I was safely inside, I was sure I evaded certain death. This was EVERYDAY.
If I could lock myself into my bedroom at night with several different locks, I would. Two different chain locks would make me feel best, but I always figure that’s overkill. Summer proves a challenge for me, as it is too hot, so the door has.to.stay.open. OPEN.
Summer is not a good time for my nerves.
Am I the only weirdo who is certain that robbers, boogeyman, and psychopaths can sense when someone leaves their bedroom door open and that’s how they choose their victims? Leaving my door open at night is like a huge, welcoming invite to come eat me alive. I just can’t deal.
Some nights, I try to shut and lock the door when I know my boyfriend is fast asleep. It usually doesn’t work, because sleeping in a pool of his own sweat usually wakes him up, and then he gets mad that I did it again. He thinks I’m a psycho. He’s suggested therapy more times than I want to admit.
So, I think if there were a Guinness record for “Most Terrified Person”, I would get it hands-down. I’m not sure if I should be mildly proud or immensely embarrassed. Either way, I’m already counting the days until it starts getting cool enough at night so I can barricade myself in the bedroom and get a decent night’s sleep.
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One Liners Challenge
I was nominated by Rachel’s Whims to add some of my flavor to this “One Liner” challenge. I feel like a real blogger being nominated to do cool blogging shit. I was also nominated by another blogger for another challenge, and now that I know how to tag in my posts, I will be doing that one shortly. Aren’t I so blogging-cool? Anywhoo…
Here’s the rules.
1. Write one line in the ongoing story, in italics.
2. Pass the challenge onto the next victim/Nominee.
3. Link back to your nominator.
4. Link back to Me, Waffles, if you could please, this could be very interesting.
5. Copy and paste all the previous story and add your line.
And the story goes …
It was a warm sunny day and sea was an almost transparent shade of blue.
I lay there, watching the waves lap on the shore, a drink in hand, a tear rolling down my cheek.
I stand up yelling at that boy who threw this load of sand into my eyes and my drink when he jumped over me.
I then grabbed my water gun, running fast after him, I was laughing, he was jumping over people to escape. He turned to look at me, but didn’t see the two children in front of him carrying two delicious looking ice cream cones.
As he barreled into the children, knocking the ice-cream from their grasp, I caught one of the scoops of pistachio and hurled it at his head as I fell laughing to the ground!
And what luck, his mouth was open and he gulped down the scoop, spitting nuts rapid-fire style like a rabid squirrel! And wouldn’t you know it, a squirrel leaped from a nearby tree, performing a flying maneuver worthy of the best traveling circus family, catching the nuts in his mouth in mid-air!!
It was all too fantastical and I wondered for a moment if I’d forgotten to take my medication earlier…or perhaps I took too much!
I opened my eyes with a jolt, peeled my face from the sticky plastic beach lounger, and rubbed my eyes-sun and too many mojitos make for ridiculous dreams!
I nominate babysteps22 for the challenge! Good luck, dahling!
This challenge was originally started by a super sweet blogger, wafflemethis!
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The Struggle Continues
The other night, my boyfriend and I loafed on the couch, watched 5 episodes of Naked and Afraid, and ate an entire pineapple. Let me tell you something about pineapple…that tasty, deceptive shit expands in your stomach. After it expands and bloats your stomach to the point where you look like you’re carrying twins, it gives you horrific acid reflux. All night long, I really regretted not just eating a stupid candy bar, because candy bars just give me the shits.
I consider myself a fairly intelligent person, I will give you a run for your money on Trivia Crack, and I know the difference between ‘your’ and ‘you’re. Yet, I cannot seem to learn that eating an entire pint of Chunky Monkey will make me feel like dog poop for 3 days. I seriously never learn.
I do know some things. I know that I can’t be trusted with anything remotely tasty in my house. Like a crack addict, if it’s around, it’s going down in a big way. When I go to my parents’ house, I riffle around in the cabinets looking for what I know is always there. I usually end up eating a couple Little Debbie’s and a Tasty Kake, if I’m lucky. I try not to frequent my parents’ house. For shame…
This is why, at any time, I have a can of garbanzo beans and some stale tortilla chips in my cupboard. That’s it. I know I won’t be desperate enough to crack open an 8 year-old can of beans, so…
Last night, I was pinning healthy recipe after healthy recipe on my “Healthy Yummies” board on my Pinterest. I don’t know why I spend my time pinning healthy crap, I almost never make any of it…Well, I found one that looked so good, and super easy. It consisted of skim milk, light cool whip, ice and…one Oreo.
It sounded so light, and not too gluttonous. I felt an immense longing for a “diet” Oreo shake. Then, a depressing realization set in. These healthy shakes, will never, ever remain ‘healthy’ so long as I have to buy an entire package of Oreos to make them. The recipe calls for just one Oreo, but I know a couple more will fall into the blender, accidentally. Then, I know for a fact that the rest of those Oreos will last maybe a day in my house. I will have to eat them all in one, shameful, sweaty sitting, because I can’t just have Oreos laying around to tempt me.
Unless it’s acceptable to knock on your neighbor’s door for one Oreo, I won’t be making these fabulous sounding “diet” shakes.
The struggle is real, folks.