I realize how stereotypical I am, but when I am approaching my Special Time each month all I want is chocolate and ice cream. I CRAVE chocolate and ice cream. I DREAM about chocolate and ice cream. And let me tell you, when I do not get my chocolate and ice cream, my Special Time just feels a little less special and a little more hellish.
Particularly when, on the second week of my diet, Sonic goes and decides that they’re going to give away free root beer floats on Thursday night, and that they will air a commercial to this effect every bloody second on every bloody commercial. (Hm, perhaps a bad choice of modifier there… ew.) Last night, I practically broke down in tears when I saw the Free Root Beer Float (!) commercial at 11 o’clock and I realized that the opportunity had passed me by. You’d think I would be proud of myself for resisting the siren call of the delicious, bubbly, icy cold, creamy combo of soft serve vanilla and root beer, but no, all I could think was, “Good job, asshole, you missed your chance!”
Tonight I’m finally meeting one of the absolutely fabulous internet friends I’ve made over the past four years, and apparently the restaurant we’re going to serves a chocolate cake that is absolutely to die for. I don’t know how I’m going to hold up and make it through the evening without tears. I cracked under the pressure of the root beer float, however am I going to make it past a dessert with the name “Chocolate Insanity”?? It’s cruel really. Shouldn’t there be some kind of clause in the dieting contract that exempts you from participation when you are faced with such temptation?
The only light breaking through all of these black dessert clouds is that I am ever so excited to be meeting my friend and Colby should be arriving home some time tomorrow. At the exact point at which I lay eyes on him for the first time, I plan to go into full on campaigning mode, my platform being that we should hire the adorable painter who came yesterday and gave me an extremely reasonable quote for painting the majority of the remaining, unpainted interior of our house. The thought of picking up a paint roller again makes me feel physically ill, and I can’t bear to see another room of our beautiful new house butchered by our complete lack of painting skill. I was completely charmed by the painter when, on our first phone call, he segued from room sizes and number of coats of paint to an ongoing narrative about a bird that was talking to him, and playing with a ball. Then he emailed me a picture of his dog. Apparently, just because.
Now, that is the kind of endearing insanity that I wholeheartedly endorse, and I feel that our only choice is to do our part to support his bird talking, dog loving lifestyle.