So among the drama of finishing neither Soma OR my "bastard paper that's eating my life" (thanks for the new title, LBTEPA!) and listening to Britney's newest CD, a little drama has been playing out here that I thought I'd bring you in on.
So here's the setup: I have toaster streudels in my freezer. They are fake strudel with strawberry and creme cheese filling.
They are NOT real strudel; they are crap. I know this.
At the same time, they are like heroin. I must have them.
So, I keep them, and I allow myself one on any day that I run. They are to be savored, with tea or coffee, alone in my kitchen.
We all have our little indulgences. This is mine. Just let it go.
Last week, I had crazy days with nineteen parent-teacher teacher conferences in addition to my full days of work.
Since my schedule was upset I forgot to eat a couple of times, and by the ends of two days, I'd only racked up about 800 calories per. I had also ran two days in a row but and didn't have time for the toaster streudel goodness.
By the second day of running and sub 1000 calories I decided I'd better do something FAST or my metabolism would probably shut down and I wouldn't have any energy.
I thought about the streudels I had in the freezer. I thought about them all the way home.
I would have two of them.
Their fake trashy toasty goodness.
Turns out, Not. So. Much.
Mini-baboo, the teenager that eats almost anything that isn't attached to me, had found them, and even though they were a foreign item in the freezer (they're usually kept in the mini-fridge in our bedroom) he decided, what the hell, and ate them. All three of them. I came home, and found them gone.
When confronted, after a moment of silence, then he said, seemingly sincerely,
"Oh. My bad."
I came unglued. "NO MATTER WHAT ANYONE HAS TOLD YOU, 'MY BAD' IS NOT AN APOLOGY! I WANT MY FAKE STREUDEL! "
He said something like, "Jeez, Mom, get a grip," or something like that. I don't know. I-I think I went blind and deaf and just couldn't calm down. Finally, in a fit of anger and grief over my missing and unrequited craving, I marched upstairs and took his TV.
"Hey! No fair!"
"No tv until I get $6 or a box of toaster streudel," I shouted back.
"What? I only ate half a box! A whole box isn't that much!" retorted person who lives in my house and doesn't pay rent.
"I don't care. In the real world, if you steal, you have to pay it back AND pay a pentalty. This is yours."
For the rest of the week, he would occasionally broach the subject and I would snap, "$6! I want my $6!!" and thus held his TV hostage.
Tonight, for some reason, things came to a head. Maybe it was because I went grocery shopping and took and sharpie and wrote "Not Jon's" on most of the foodstuffs I bought. Or maybe it was because he really wanted to watch TV. Who knows. Who cares?
What resulted was that, after a weeklong standoff, Mini-baboo went to the store and came back with toaster pastries. In a box. At room temperature. Toaster pastries.
"Those aren't toaster streudel," I sneered. "They're generic poptarts. Do you remember where you found the toaster streudel? You found them in the freezer. you know why you found the toaster streudel in the freezer? BECAUSE THEYRE FROZEN!"
"This is so unfair!" Then more grumbling.
Then about 40 minutes later, a box of toaster streudel slid though the opening in the door.
"Now can I have my TV back," he whined.
"Yes," I said magnanimously.
I always get my way.
And he, he has learned a valuable lesson that, I think, will serve him well in his future as a significant other: You don't get in the way an insane, peri-menopausal woman and her snacks.
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