Funny Guy

Today Ryan and I sat down and we had ourselves a talk. I have both been working two jobs and trying to provide healthful-yet-delicious meals and, frankly, I am losing steam. I decided we needed to sit down and discuss how we were going to make this machine run without my ending up in a psych ward. We spent a few hours crafting a new system, writing out menus and shopping lists, including items such as homemade black bean burgers and southwest salads. It was tiring but satisfying and I felt we had arrived at a good spot. My dreams for healthful, balanced family life seemed closer to my ever-outstretched talons.

Exhausted by the exertion of discussing nutritious food, Ryan decided it would be best for us to go to Wendy's. In retrospect, his desperate pleas could have been part of a bigger and more sinister strategy; weakened by continued rejection of his requests for crispy chicken, I ultimately found myself conceding to dine at the aptly titled Paradise cafe (somehow more expensive forms of cheese-laden bread are less reprehensible to me). We got to the restaurant about ten minutes before closing, to my husband's great relief, placed our order, and had a seat. Not ten minutes had passed before a waitress came to our table bearing the above-pictured box of TWENTY DELICIOUS COOKIES.

"I'm so sorry about the wait," she insisted, whilst her boss looked on from behind the counter. "This is an assortment of all our cookies, and your sandwich should be out in just a minute."

We hadn't been waiting long. The cookies were unwarranted. They were unrequested. And now they are sitting in my kitchen.

The tough thing about having a box of twenty jumbo cookies bequeathed to you is that it seems perfectly normal to consume two or three of them. Two or three FOUR HUNDRED CALORIE COOKIES. It just doesn't seem like that many when you still have seventeen left to put in your face.

The man upstairs must have thought he was a real funny guy tonight, is all I'm sayin'.