I was felled by a damn bag of potato chips. Not just any bag, mind you. Utz Honey BBQ flavored crisp all natural potato chips. Who among you can withstand such a powerful force? Those chips were finger lickin' good. They were—‘were’ being the operative word here—the best dagblasted chips I think I've ever had . . . so good I almost cried. Once I started, there was no stopping until the last nuclear orange crumb was licked clean from my waiting digits.
How I Came About The Salty Sweet Taste of Evil
Let's get one thing straight. Earlier, I took the blame for this contentious act of gluttony. However, as I think about this in the most logical post-greedy fashion, culpability should be placed elsewhere. I shall do that now, as I take the monkey off my back and clamp it firmly on the back of my husband. It's all his fault. It is because of him I was awake before he had even the slightest desire to stir.
Did I—a stay-at-home writer whose office attire is usually a purple robe, a pink and white do-rag adorning my head and slippers sorely in need of the washing machine—want to be awake at 6:30 in the morning on the day after I had already lost one precious hour of sleep because of that damned daylight savings time? Puh-leeze! But I am nothing if not a devoted spouse. And since my other half (not necessarily the better half, but that's highly debatable) was making preparations to fly up, up and away to London later in the day, the logical thing to do was for me to chauffer him to the train station so that he wouldn't have to leave his car in the parking lot for five days.
So I awoke early . . . just so he could make the 7:30 Metro North train into the Big Apple. I am nothing if not a gem of a gal.
I will freely admit I am not a morning person. The nocturnal world is my haven. I think I was a vampire in a former life. So to be awake that early . . . well, the conclusion that I came to is that there was an adverse element in the early morning air that somehow metastasized in my lethargic and weak body, rendering me helpless against any onslaught of temptation. Yeah, that sounds right. That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.
At the train station, weary and with crust still adorning the inner corners of my eyes, I bid my husband adieu and, five minutes later, found myself in the parking lot of Shop & Stop grocery store. My intentions were to only grab a few necessary items –a loaf of bread, a gallon of diet green tea, the latest issue of National Enquirer—you know the important stuff. Somehow, I found myself wandering down the snack aisle.
It wasn't my fault. IT WASN'T MY FAULT!
The next thing I knew, I had tossed the bag of Utz in my cart and refused to look at it until I reached the register. When the cashier rang it up, I turned away in disgust. Bad, bad greasy chips. When I arrived home and began to put the few groceries away, I placed my hand on the potato chip bag and the sparks flew fast and furious. It was love at first grope. And there I stood...at 8:00 in the morning...in the middle of my kitchen...eating an entire bag of Utz Honey BBQ Potato Chips in less time than it took to brush my teeth.
This is my shame. It's almost as bad as the time that I ate nine faux-Twinkies for lunch in a fifteen minute span because I was too busy to take a break for a real meal. I don't think I can ever recall experiencing such an intense sugar high since . . .
But yes, this is all my husband's fault. Had he not taken that job at a nationally-recognized beer company nineteen months ago . . . moved us from Atlanta to Stamford . . . displayed such a geeky love for his job . . . agreed to go on his business trip . . . then I wouldn't have had to get out of my warm, cozy bed so freakin' early in the morning. Clearly, it is this horrific chain of events that led me to that grocery store, down that snack isle and, ultimately, nearly put me in a sweet and salty coma from an overdose of potato chips.
Oh, the things we do for food.
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