Tuesday, January 4, 2011

The Guac Strikes Again

We had tacos last night.

Piggy and I ran to the grocery store to pick up some ingredients.  I bought two avocados so that I could make my own guacamole.  Well, that would be a baby fib-let.  I really just scoop out the two avocados, mash them up and add the spice packet labeled, "Guacamole Mix".

I know. I know.

But to my untrained palate it tastes amazing, resulting in the incredibly sexy (and previously thought to be impossible by most scientists) gullet stuffing that Michael had to witness.  The taco was really just a vehicle for the guac.  And sour cream.  And salsa.  And cheese.

Did I mention I'm going to start a new diet.  Next Monday. 

Have I told you that one of the primary reasons I selected Michael to be my life partner is that he does not like guacamole.  I found this out and I realized I had a life time of never having to share the green stuff. 

Done. Deal. 

In my great excitement, I didn't realize that I would always then be forced to finish the guacamole.  (I know what you're thinking.  You don't have to finish it all in one day!  Or in this case a day and a half).

Well, yes, I would tend to agree with you.  But my guacamole addiction has a life of its own.  I need a Guac 12 Step Program.  I can't have it sitting in the refrigerator.  Just leering at me whenever I open the door.

EAT ME. I AM DELICIOUS.  EVEN FOR BREAKFAST.  EAT ME. YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO.

The stuff is pure evil goodness.

I am now 100% positive that the devil lures people to the dark side using guacamole...and promises of uninterrupted sleep.

Now, after finishing it.  I feel like a fat failure.  Not wanting to wear the new dress I got for Henry's baptism this Sunday.  Worrying that everyone will look at me and know that I eat guacamole for breakfast and if you slap my thigh the resulting fat tremor may knock me, and you, unconscious.

I went out last night to find said dress.  I ended up finding it at Target on the clearance rack.  I know, I'm a cheap ass.  If I actually had a job where I wore real outfits, I may invest more in dressy clothes.  Maybe.

My selection


Meh.  I'm on the fence, but I can't just show up in my undies.

When I got home at 8:30, I found Henry passed out on Michael's chest.  Top half in pajamas, bottom half swinging in the wind. 

Michael had the most traumatized look on his face I had ever seen.  Had I not known better I would have thought he had just witnessed the previously mentioned thigh slap and been rendered speechless.

Henry had the melt-down to end all melt-downs.  Michael said he was eating and then just completely lost it.  Came. Un. Glued.

His shots finally caught up with him and he was over it.   I guess Michael was frantically searching for things that might have been causing him to be so upset.  So he ripped off the bottom of the jammies and set his little sausage legs free.  He thought maybe the jams were too tight/short.  He was grasping at straws at that point.  Don't we all, when faced with the purple-faced screaming baby. 

Anyway, we layed him down in his crib.  Zipped him up in the sleep sack.  Bottom half still hanging out of the jammies. 

Didn't want to risk wakening the beast by getting him all snapped up again.

P.S. Who invented PJs with snaps.  I'd like to kick them in the nards.

I guess the moral of the story is...I'm a fat-guacamole sucking beast.  And don't buy snap pajamas.

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