...Including Moderation.
So, the husband doesn't understand about moderation. Or, my lack of it.
Meaning this.
I can't eat half a fucking donut.
Said in my best Veruca Salt voice: "I want the whole donut, daddy...you must give me the whole chocolate frosted ring, or I shall scream!"
Donuts are like the worst possible thing you can eat-ever.
Imagine if you will: Deep fat fried dough, dipped in sugar, and coated in chocolate frosting or glaze.
Typical fat content: 1 million times infinity. (This would make a cool wrist tattoo, conversely...a donut with an infinity symbol in the hole...I'd totally do that, just sayin...)
Calories: 280 EACH.
That's like an entire meal for me, these days.
No, I'm not even close to kidding.
So, while hubs and I are walking through the grocery store this evening (you know how we do on a Saturday night in oldsville...we hit theclub Wal-Mart and do that shit up right. Poppin' mad tabs in the low-carbohydrate beer aisle and kickin' it live to the beats on the HD-TV's in Electronics. It's mad phat. Yo. Check it. )
Anyway, on our "turnt" Saturday night-we are perusing the produce and specifically the jicama selection when the the smell wafts over like a golden fog. (no, not the husband's dinner flatulence) the actual good smell of freshly baked donuts being transferred into the case from a metal cart.
Chocolate frosted with sprinkles, glazed, blueberry cake, cinnamon bear claws, strawberry frosted long johns.............
(**I cannot confirm it, but I may have had a small orgasm standing there. That, or a stroke.
At 47, who can tell the difference?**)
Oy.
The sweet smell of fat and sugar in an enticing perfume wrapping its deadly fingers around my throat and into my nostrils and taste buds making me look like a sad example of Pavlov's Dog.
Not cool, Wal-Mart. So not cool.
I think I might have even seen the embodiment of Cruella DeVille behind the bakery counter wringing her hands in a malevolent way.
It's my story, and I am sticking to it.
So, when I mentioned the smell and was staring intently at the case...husband speaks into his phone and asks-"calories of one chocolate frosted ring donut."
Ok Google replies: "Sure! Calorie content of one chocolate frosted donut: 280."
I cringe and shake loose my salivating revelry and bitterly throw a bag of sweet potatoes into my cart full of healthy vegetables and diet soda.
Husband then says to me..."You know...it's all about moderation...why don't we get one donut and take small bites and enjoy it together? We can split it in half."
Me: **blank stare**
Him: "What??"
Me: "No. A half of a donut? What is the point of that?"
Veruca Salt: "I SAID I WANT THE WHOLE DONUT, DADDY!"
I punched Veruca in the face and left her bleeding by the cucumbers. She might be eating the whole fuckin donut, but she's going to be drinking it through a straw for the time being.
Husband was frustrated with this response, of course. But, it diffused quickly as we power walked away from bad carbs and sugar.
Look, I GET moderation. I moderate every day. Like, when I drink a mini 7.5 ounce can of Pepsi rather than a 16 ounce bottle.
I eat 12 baked Cheetos rather than half of the bag, or a small bag of movie popcorn with no extra butter rather than a large bucket with extra butter. Or when I eat two squares of dark chocolate as opposed to the entire bar.
I know moderation, kids. It's the life I now lead.
But, half a donut. I'd rather go without, thanks.
It's just not worth it. I'd walk away wanting the other half-and would enthusiastically Waterboy tackle and wrestle my husbands half right out of his sweaty hand. Trust me.
I love donuts that much. Like Pizza. Donuts are crack for chubby basic bitches like me, and pizza is Meth.
And my love for these things (the food...not meth and crack-to be clear)...are why I am large to begin with. I make no excuses or lame subterfuge about it. I can eat a half dozen in one setting by myself. It's a problem.
And wait a second...what's the deal with comparing delicious fattening food to meth and crack? Who started that shit? I mean, I am pretty sure that I have never seen a fat crackhead or obese meth barbie.
That's a skewed comparison, really.
So when husband asks if I want half of a donut, it's kinda like asking a man walking through the Sahara if he wants half of a teaspoon of water. I mean, It's already too fucking small...and you offer me half? Yeah.
No...I'll just die here of dehydration, thanks.
So, we left our bangin' party night behind after self scanning our veggies and diet soda and headed home. I practically slammed a whole bottle of water and am still craving a donut.
But, because I am 16 GODDAMNED pounds thinner (seriously) I will shut up and eat a bowl of Special K with skim milk and like it.
Because, it's worth it.
All things in moderation.
But, I draw the line at donuts.
Crack is wack.
XOXO,
Donutgirl.
So, the husband doesn't understand about moderation. Or, my lack of it.
Meaning this.
I can't eat half a fucking donut.
Said in my best Veruca Salt voice: "I want the whole donut, daddy...you must give me the whole chocolate frosted ring, or I shall scream!"
Donuts are like the worst possible thing you can eat-ever.
Imagine if you will: Deep fat fried dough, dipped in sugar, and coated in chocolate frosting or glaze.
Typical fat content: 1 million times infinity. (This would make a cool wrist tattoo, conversely...a donut with an infinity symbol in the hole...I'd totally do that, just sayin...)
Calories: 280 EACH.
That's like an entire meal for me, these days.
No, I'm not even close to kidding.
So, while hubs and I are walking through the grocery store this evening (you know how we do on a Saturday night in oldsville...we hit the
Anyway, on our "turnt" Saturday night-we are perusing the produce and specifically the jicama selection when the the smell wafts over like a golden fog. (no, not the husband's dinner flatulence) the actual good smell of freshly baked donuts being transferred into the case from a metal cart.
Chocolate frosted with sprinkles, glazed, blueberry cake, cinnamon bear claws, strawberry frosted long johns.............
(**I cannot confirm it, but I may have had a small orgasm standing there. That, or a stroke.
At 47, who can tell the difference?**)
Oy.
The sweet smell of fat and sugar in an enticing perfume wrapping its deadly fingers around my throat and into my nostrils and taste buds making me look like a sad example of Pavlov's Dog.
Not cool, Wal-Mart. So not cool.
I think I might have even seen the embodiment of Cruella DeVille behind the bakery counter wringing her hands in a malevolent way.
It's my story, and I am sticking to it.
So, when I mentioned the smell and was staring intently at the case...husband speaks into his phone and asks-"calories of one chocolate frosted ring donut."
Ok Google replies: "Sure! Calorie content of one chocolate frosted donut: 280."
I cringe and shake loose my salivating revelry and bitterly throw a bag of sweet potatoes into my cart full of healthy vegetables and diet soda.
Husband then says to me..."You know...it's all about moderation...why don't we get one donut and take small bites and enjoy it together? We can split it in half."
Me: **blank stare**
Him: "What??"
Me: "No. A half of a donut? What is the point of that?"
Veruca Salt: "I SAID I WANT THE WHOLE DONUT, DADDY!"
I punched Veruca in the face and left her bleeding by the cucumbers. She might be eating the whole fuckin donut, but she's going to be drinking it through a straw for the time being.
Husband was frustrated with this response, of course. But, it diffused quickly as we power walked away from bad carbs and sugar.
Look, I GET moderation. I moderate every day. Like, when I drink a mini 7.5 ounce can of Pepsi rather than a 16 ounce bottle.
I eat 12 baked Cheetos rather than half of the bag, or a small bag of movie popcorn with no extra butter rather than a large bucket with extra butter. Or when I eat two squares of dark chocolate as opposed to the entire bar.
I know moderation, kids. It's the life I now lead.
But, half a donut. I'd rather go without, thanks.
It's just not worth it. I'd walk away wanting the other half-and would enthusiastically Waterboy tackle and wrestle my husbands half right out of his sweaty hand. Trust me.
I love donuts that much. Like Pizza. Donuts are crack for chubby basic bitches like me, and pizza is Meth.
And my love for these things (the food...not meth and crack-to be clear)...are why I am large to begin with. I make no excuses or lame subterfuge about it. I can eat a half dozen in one setting by myself. It's a problem.
And wait a second...what's the deal with comparing delicious fattening food to meth and crack? Who started that shit? I mean, I am pretty sure that I have never seen a fat crackhead or obese meth barbie.
That's a skewed comparison, really.
So when husband asks if I want half of a donut, it's kinda like asking a man walking through the Sahara if he wants half of a teaspoon of water. I mean, It's already too fucking small...and you offer me half? Yeah.
No...I'll just die here of dehydration, thanks.
So, we left our bangin' party night behind after self scanning our veggies and diet soda and headed home. I practically slammed a whole bottle of water and am still craving a donut.
But, because I am 16 GODDAMNED pounds thinner (seriously) I will shut up and eat a bowl of Special K with skim milk and like it.
Because, it's worth it.
All things in moderation.
But, I draw the line at donuts.
Crack is wack.
XOXO,
Donutgirl.
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