Like a fat kid loves cake

i heart candy

Twice now (this week) my hus­band has come out of his office to find me run­ning out of the kitchen as if run­ning out of the kitchen is nor­mal.  Obvi­ously some­thing is up.  “Honey, what are you doing?”  He walks cau­tiously into the kitchen look­ing around as if I’d boo­bie trapped the cup­boards to bang open onto his fore­head if he leans in too far to investigate.

Noth­ing!”  I man­age to squeak from the other side of the drap­ery sep­a­rat­ing the liv­ing room from the kitchen.

Noth­ing? I hear candy wrap­pers crinkling!”

I don’t know what you’re talk­ing about!”  This of course is com­ing out of my mouth as I’m pulling a bag of M n M’s from my butt crack.  Toss­ing them onto the sofa hop­ing it will land from one crack into another and dis­ap­pear before The Hubbs swings open the drape. He lingers for a moment scout­ing out the couch, the table, the chair and then looks back into the kitchen.  “Honey!  You found the bag didn’t you?”  This is where I wish I had big brown doe eyes with eye­lashes so long; they’d stroke the inside of my sun­glasses.  I could use some eye­lash flit­ting right now.

That’s it, I’m defeated. “Mmmm…Yeah,” was my fee­ble response.

Now what?  He offers a sug­ges­tion.  “Now I have to hide the bag again!  Why were you in the liquor cab­i­net?”  After spend­ing 2 days look­ing every­where for that stu­pid bag of left­over Hal­loween candy it finally hit me, beck­oned me to open up the cab­i­net doors and like Jesus ris­ing from the dead there it was.  M n M’s, Whop­pers, Milk Duds, Kit-Kats and Peanut But­ter Cups in all their glory.

The thing is I don’t even like choco­late all that much.  I don’t crave it and it’s not what I grab for first thing in the candy isle.  But, damnit!  When it’s hid­den in the house it’s like a giant trea­sure hunt! He can’t out­smart me!  But alas, I’m the one that makes him hide it.  I tell him to keep it away from me for the obvi­ous rea­sons.  I’ll eat the whole bag, puke (not on pur­pose) or lay there moan­ing like an alien baby will shoot out my belly but­ton at any moment and when it doesn’t, I eat more.

When I think back this type of behav­ior isn’t uncom­mon for me.  I used to write the Easter bunny let­ters telling him where to hide my candy filled bas­ket.   At the time I didn’t really under­stand the sat­is­fac­tion of the hunt, I was just excited that the Easter Bunny actu­ally read my let­ter and he was leav­ing a gar­gan­tuan bas­ket full of candy for me and me alone!   There were times when I would make what was the most incred­i­ble sugar cookie recipe EVER and then stash it in my closet.   I would even­tu­ally for­get it was there and months later (prob­a­bly years) I finally cleaned my closet there it was. A giant mass of rock hard cookie dough wrapped in cel­lo­phane buried under stuffed ani­mals and shoes.

Today, it’s a mat­ter of keep­ing me healthy and sane.  You know how it goes.  I can have one.  Ok, two.  Maybe three.  Nobody’s watching…so four will be fine.  If no one sees you eat it there aren’t any calo­ries, right?   I’ve already ate the bod­ily weight of my cat…I’m screwed.  Self, don’t mind if I have another.   Ah, the vicious cycle!  And my poor hus­band has landed right smack in the mid­dle of it.

The Hubbs is what I like to call an enabler.  As much as I love him and as giant as his heart is, I know there is always some­thing stashed nearby.  All I have to say is “I want some­thing fun, Honey!” and off he goes know­ing exactly what I speak of.  My brain wants one piece of what­ever he brings back just to sat­isfy that stu­pid urge.  The Hubbs  brings back  5 pieces…for each of us.  I scorn him and he offers me a lop­sided smile and inside I’m going to explode.  Glory be!  What mag­nif­i­cent hand­fuls of sug­ary good­ness you bring!  Dammit.