Jason and I acquired something I've been fantasizing about for years now: a steam cleaner. It's actually a loan from my friend Wendy, but nevertheless, it is in our possession for the entire weekend. I was so excited about the reality of having clean carpets, I mean really stinkin' clean carpets, that I could barely contain myself during church today. People probably thought I was having some sort of Advent-inspired religious experience. I mean, our carpets have gotten so bad that when I apologize in advance to visitors for our messy carpet and they sort of brush me off like, "oh yeah, we have the same issue at home..." and they walk in our door, they actually stare at the various spots under their feet as if being hypnotized by some primitive Rohrschach test. One of my friends, upon seeing the disaster, actually muttered, "Wow... yeah... whoa..." and sort of tripped out on all the spots and stains. So, this steam cleaning we're doing is actually a purification of my renter's soul - I am no longer an Untouchable and can live amongst those who have sparkling, all-white carpets and never ever rub Coke into the carpet with their sneaker, surreptitiously, during dinner with their husbands.
While Jason was steam-cleaning my carpet (and my soul, mind you), I wandered into the kitchen for a snack. I have weigh-in tomorrow and am anticipating a loss, so I don't want to pig out on anything tonight and have to include its remains for the numbers on the scale tomorrow. I'm drinking a LOT of water, needless to say. Anyway, I'm in the kitchen, and I decide to have a bite - yes, just one - of ice cream. Now, Jason's favorite ice cream in the whole world is actually the one I despise: espresso chip. If it was espresso-flavored ice cream with chocolate chips, that would be pretty okay. But the chips themselves have coffee grinds in them (Jason argues they are chips of espresso beans, which is pretty much coffee grind to me) and that's just gross to me. So, having half-gallons of espresso chip in the house doesn't hold much temptation for me. However, there was a sale - a 2-for-1 deal - and since there was only one tub of espresso chip left, I also got him peanut butter cup. He normally eats the generic version of this from our local Publix, and it's not really that great: the fudge tastes too dark, the ice cream isn't that great, and there are maybe 3 miniscule peanut butter cups for the entire tub. Hmph. I'm expecting the same from this new tub I get from Edy's, so I go to have my one little spoonful, just enough to satisfy that cold-creamy-sweet craving and go on with my life.
Holy freakin' cow. It was, quite possibly, the most spiritual experience I've had outside of accepting Jesus and getting married. With the whirr of the steam cleaner in the background and chunks of perfect fudge and peanut butter (and HUGE peanut butter cups) in my mouth, I thought I was being lifted by St. Peter himself to the pearly gates. I had the simultaneous conflicting thoughts of wanting to pledge my not-yet-conceived firstborn to the Edy's corporation and visions of a massive hate-mail campaign against them for being Diet Ruiners and Fat Packer Advocates. It took every last iota of willpower in my body to put the spoon down and not shovel the rest of the tub into my mouth in a last-supper experience.
Damn you, sweet ripples of fudgy, peanut-buttery evil.
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