Slug, no slime
This morning I feel like a slug with plugged slime glands. I blame Haagen-Dazs chocolate peanut butter ice cream.
Last night I had a satisfying dinner: roast beef sandwich with all my favorite ingredient qualities, courtesy of Trader Joe's and Safeway: no preservatives in the meat, beautiful fresh lettuce, onion very thinly sliced, mayonnaise mixed with dijon mustard, 100% whole wheat bread. It was accompanied by a large serving of Safeway's fruit salad and a glass of blueberry pomegranate juice.
I never eat at a regular eating table. My (inherited) dining room table is beautiful, expensive, and uncomfortably tall for a short person in its fragile matching chair. I almost always either read or watch something while eating, so I'm in bed or in my (inherited) blue leather recliner chair. I watched "House," and the last disc of season three of "The Shield." For the final episode, I decided to break out the new ice cream flavor.
Reese's peanut butter cups are my idea of heaven, but chocolate peanut butter ice cream is gross. I couldn't stop eating it. I killed the pint and went to bed about 2 am. I was very sleepy. Finally somewhere around 5am I was able to sleep. Without a doubt it was the fault of my bedtime loaf of chocolate peanut butter, sitting there, heavy, its yucky flavor an insistent memory, enlarging my belly and refusing to move or even flatten a little. I imagined digestive enzymes as little e's with cartoon hands turning away in disgust, marching with little signs, striking for improvements in working conditions.
My fattened eyelids struggled apart about noon. In another hour I was able to slide out of bed. I had to move somewhere, if only to my computer, where solitaire and NPR gently rubbed me awake. Coffee. Feed the dog. Omigod it's 3pm.
Never again.
Last night I had a satisfying dinner: roast beef sandwich with all my favorite ingredient qualities, courtesy of Trader Joe's and Safeway: no preservatives in the meat, beautiful fresh lettuce, onion very thinly sliced, mayonnaise mixed with dijon mustard, 100% whole wheat bread. It was accompanied by a large serving of Safeway's fruit salad and a glass of blueberry pomegranate juice.
I never eat at a regular eating table. My (inherited) dining room table is beautiful, expensive, and uncomfortably tall for a short person in its fragile matching chair. I almost always either read or watch something while eating, so I'm in bed or in my (inherited) blue leather recliner chair. I watched "House," and the last disc of season three of "The Shield." For the final episode, I decided to break out the new ice cream flavor.
Reese's peanut butter cups are my idea of heaven, but chocolate peanut butter ice cream is gross. I couldn't stop eating it. I killed the pint and went to bed about 2 am. I was very sleepy. Finally somewhere around 5am I was able to sleep. Without a doubt it was the fault of my bedtime loaf of chocolate peanut butter, sitting there, heavy, its yucky flavor an insistent memory, enlarging my belly and refusing to move or even flatten a little. I imagined digestive enzymes as little e's with cartoon hands turning away in disgust, marching with little signs, striking for improvements in working conditions.
My fattened eyelids struggled apart about noon. In another hour I was able to slide out of bed. I had to move somewhere, if only to my computer, where solitaire and NPR gently rubbed me awake. Coffee. Feed the dog. Omigod it's 3pm.
Never again.
posted by Cranky Ol' Lady at 2:27 PM
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