You'd think I'd have learned by now. It's absolutely useless to send my husband to the store. Not only does he not get what I needed him to purchase in the first place, but he returns home with Oreos, several bags of potato chips, and various flavors of ice cream. And not the cheap stuff, either. He just grabs whatever looks good, whether it's $7 a pint or not.
He recently came home with three boxes of Pop Tarts. I haven't had a Pop Tart since . . . well, since the last time he brought them home. But that was a couple of years ago.
Yesterday, I thought I'd make myself some lunch. But who needs lunch when there are Pop Tarts in the cupboard? The hubster was at work, the older girls were at school, the twins were napping . . . who'd ever know that I, Defender of Healthy Food, had two Pop Tarts for my midday meal? No one, that's who. I could snack away to my heart's content.
I gently placed those bad boys in the toaster and set about selecting a small plate, a napkin, and a nice tall glass of cold milk to go along with my lunch. Finally, after an eternity, the Pop Tarts emerged from their toaster slots. They were literally smoking and black around the edges. What the . . . ? Aargh! Somebody had turned up the dial on the stupid toaster as high as it could go—which meant my Pop Tarts were now burned to a crisp.
I reached in to pull one out and . . . yowsa! I don't know if it was a blob of frosting or escaped "fruit" filling, but some kind of boiling goo adhered itself to my left thumb and burnt me soooooo bad. I couldn't shake it off and had to run to the sink to wash it off.
You're thinking, So what? Your Pop Tarts were a little warm. Grow a pair. I'm telling you, I received a second-degree burn from that evil Pop Tart.
I'm considering entering the world of politics, with the sole mission of enacting legislation that will prohibit any and all males over the age of 18 from stepping foot inside a grocery store.
Dinner last night: tuna noodle casserole, green beans