Yesterday, on his way home from a very late night at work, Hubby called me from his cell phone to ask me this:
Hubby: Hey, Sal. I'm on my way home. Do we have any ice cream?
Me: Yes. We have Skinny Cow Chocolate and Vanilla Truffles.
Hubby: That's not what I mean. Do we have any REAL ICE CREAM?
Me: If you mean fattening crap, the answer is no.
Hubby: Well, I'm in the mood for some. I'm going to stop and buy some on the way home. Do you want anything?
Me: NO! DO NOT BRING ME ANYTHING!
Hubby: OK. I Won't. Bye.
Me: I mean it, Paul. Nothing for me...
Hubby: OK! BYE!
Fast forward one hour later.
I assumed that Hubby would stroll into the house with MAYBE a pint of Haagen Dazs or Ben and Jerry's...You know, just the perfect size container for ONE person to eat out of as they curl up on the couch and watch the telly...not that I've ever done that or anything.
Anywho, I should know by now not to make any assumptions. Because his idea of ice cream for ONE was this:
I know! You want to punch him in the head for throwing temptation in my path, too. Right?
Oh, and you know what the best part of this GIGUNDA GINORMA REESE'S PEANUT BUTTER ICE CREAM PIE IS? The horrendous nutritional information, which, by the way, is for ONE FIFTEENTH OF THE EFFIN PIE!
WANNA KNOW HOW MUCH HE ATE? AT ELEVEN O'CLOCK AT NIGHT? WHICH HE WASHED DOWN WITH A BUCKET OF MILK? RIGHT BEFORE BED?????!!!!!
That's right, my peeps. He ate ONE QUARTER of the pie.
Oh, I don't know. By my calculations, that means he ingested something like fifty thousand bazillion calories and twenty thousand quadrillion grams of fat.
And FYI? About a half hour later, he was in bed. Snoring. Not a friggin care in the world.
Smack, smack, smack, smack, smack. That's me. Beating the crap out of him....in my head.
It's called a coping mechanism, people.