So I've been trying to eat better, and part of that is reserving the weekend for a bit of junkfood. By the end of the week, whatever treat I have waiting is set up in my mind like the golden idol of Machu Pichu waiting for me to finish the weeks journey of vegetables and other "adult" foods I've been told you allegedly have to eat to stay alive and functioning. Last week's treat was a mini banana cream pie! Every time i opened the fridge it was like Shambahla...the mythical land *and* the Three Dog Night song...there next to the kale and brown rice. About mid-week I opened the fridge door and the pie popped right out at me and landed facedown on the floor! GAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! I figure either I have a clown-ghost...or a malevolent poltergeist who haaates deliciousness. Luckily it was in a box, but now the pie was facedown in the box. It wasn't pretty. I decided the injury was dire enough for a medivac...to a specialist in my belly....ahead of schedule.
I opened the box, and most of the whipped cream peeled off the pie onto the lid like a bad toupee. Since this was my weekly treat, I wasn't about to let go of the whipped cream that stuck to the box lid. I am not particularly proud of the events that followed, but many years of bachelorette living have stripped me of the inhibitions that keep most from behaving like an extra in "Beyond Thunderdome" when eating....
I licked the lid. Yes I did. Just like a raccoon on trash day behind Dunkin' Donuts. A coworker once told me he dreamed I was a raccoon, so maybe that is my spirit animal. Actually, my spirit animal probably averted its eyes on this one. Still, that whipped cream was delicious, and worth the price of my dignity.
Now play me out Three Dog, play me out...
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