So, after I emerged from bathing babies and putting them down for bed, G had waiting the most wonderful, decadent, and divine combination of saturated fat and simple carbohydrates whose spiritual name cannot be pronounced but on Earth is known as the Brownie Sundae. He used organic vanilla gelato and Ghirardelli brownie mix topped with dark chocolate syrup. I hadn’t been that excited since the time I happened upon the only TV in Jamaica showing the final episode of Friends.
It was just what I needed at that moment…and then for 8 more moments. And then a moment an hour later. And one more moment before bed. And then again at a crisis moment at 9 the next morning. I looked like Miranda in that Sex and The City episode where she actually scoops brownie out of the trash, forcing her to pour dishwashing soap on top of it to finally render it inedible. The worst part was that our son would spy me and say, “Mama, I want!” I would wheel around, my face smeared with chocolate, to say, “You want what?? Carrots? Bananas? Apples? Because that’s what I’m eating!!”
After I’d polished off the tray of brownies within 24 hours, I felt disgusted with myself, like I could actually feel my struggling sclerotic arteries pumping clotted chocolate goop through my circulatory system. And then the bits of my body that have been feeling wobbly since having two babies in a year started to feel downright jiggly. All of the isn’t-my-husband-a-dream feelings started to fade away, being replaced by the defensive position that he’d better still love me when I look like Mama from What’s Eating Gilbert Grape. After all, he’d be culpable after serving deadly desserts like these. And then…the flashbulb…or the hallucinations caused from cacao poisoning.
Maybe he’s serving my sweet cravings intentionally? I have said that I would never undergo plastic surgery unless I became morbidly obese and needed to stave off a heart attack. Maybe all the US Weekly magazines laying around the house and the fact that I studied Heidi Montag’s new artificial shell for a full 48 hours gave him the notion that I was interested in being pulled and pumped and preened so that I look like…the other Erin. Erin Andrews. Of course. That’s it. I’ve gone so far down the mom rabbit hole with my disheveled hair and lumpy body that he is baiting me to rectify it with plastic surgery!
For the record, I’m not into it. I don’t care what kind of Spencer Pratt-voodoo spells he puts on me (the incantations would start with “dogg”), I am not visiting Heidi’s chop house. I’d rather see Dr. Conrad Murray; At least he makes you feel as tranquil as a monk before he kills you. Dr. Ryan tells you he’s just going to tweak one problem area until, next thing you know, you are being wheeled out of there in a full-body cast with only your new trout lips protruding. And as for the more natural weight loss route, I’m also not partaking in Heidi’s yoga videos. It’s been awhile since I’ve seen the inside of a studio, but I’m pretty sure I never saw anyone suffocated by their own boobs during downward facing dog!
At the moment I’m about to boil over like a molten chocolate lava cake (literally), the sane portion of my cerebral cortex (seriously, watch Grey’s Anatomy, it makes you sound smart!), whispers to the crazy and clogged-with-chocolate portions: He’s not fattening you up. You’re not Gretel here! He’s not feeding you a chocolate house so that he can make a meaty meal of you…or to make you get invasive surgery to look like Erin Andrews (that is the true European ending to Hansel & Gretel, PS.). Disembark the crazy train before the terminus! He was just being sweet because he knows you like brownies. Repeat after me, ‘Thank you. That was sweet. I loved it.’
Oh right. Whew.
Thank you. That was sweet. I loved it.
And I hope my thighs don’t pull us both under like quicksand when we sleep.