The Chocolate Wars

Left to my own devices, I would be one of those people featured on TLC’s “My Six Hundred Pound Life”, I’d also have gestational diabetes and my tiny fetus would be a peep.

"Congratulations, it's a .....yellow chick?" (Photo Credit : www.dailymail.co.uk)

“Congratulations, it’s a …..yellow chick?” (Photo Credit : http://www.dailymail.co.uk)

This is how dangerous my sweet tooth is. It’s so deadly that it’s less a sweet tooth and more of a glucose-hungry, sweet fang.

To combat this need for all things made of high fructose corn syrup, I used to eschew all yummy items at the grocery store. If it tasted good, it couldn’t be found in my pantry because then I would eat it. All of it. I may be small but don’t doubt my ability to consume a 140 piece sampler palate of Russell Stover’s finest by myself in one sitting.

Who am I kidding? I wouldn't even need to sit down to finish this box. (Photo Credit : bostonmagazine,com)

Who am I kidding? I wouldn’t even need to sit down to finish this box. (Photo Credit : bostonmagazine,com)

This system worked well until I moved in with my husband.

Tex is blessed with the kind of metabolism that allows him to eat an entire pizza, a family size bag of Oreos and still have room for supper while still fitting into his Wrangler jeans. Thus my habit of not having junk at home quickly fell by the wayside. At the same time, Tex discovered that while I would happily hand over seven eighths of a pizza to him, if he turned his back for even one moment, all his cookies would have mysteriously disappeared.

So began the chocolate and cookie wars. The last battle ended with the key to the gun cabinet, where the cookies and all delicious goods have been stored for months, being locked in its own lock box after there was an Unwashed break-in to the gun cabinet during a frantic, late-night search for Mr. Christie’s best.

Not surprisingly, Tex was concerned about Halloween. Being an engineer, he likes to be prepared, so we had purchased the necessary candy a couple of days in advance.

Tex “I’m keeping the candy in the car, there isn’t enough room in the gun cabinet for all of it. Is it going to be safe here?”

Unwashed “Mmmphes?”

Tex “How did you manage to open one of the boxes and eat some already?”

The answer- I’m a chocolate ninja. I further proved this the next day when I got up early and decided to have Snickers for breakfast, so I grabbed my car keys and trundled outside. Tex figured out something was up because the door was unlocked when he woke up. This led to my car keys being confiscated until after Halloween.

The next morning I got up, again hankering for a sugary hit, but without car keys. Tex is both intelligent and devious; there were any number of places he could have put my car keys, however he is also an engineer which means there is exactly one place where he would have put his keys.

At ten to six on Saturday morning, I snuck silently into the bedroom and stole Tex’s keys out of his jean pockets. Then I quickly made my way out to the car and snaffled chocolate to my heart’s content. After sneaking his keys back into his jeans, I locked the door to cover my tracks, but was later busted when Tex spotted the wrappers in the trash.

Regardless, I believe I won this particular battle.

My House is Haunted and Ripe For Thieves

My home is filled with poltergeists and thieves attempt to break in constantly. This kind of living situation would cramp my style but it is limited to when Roscoe is not home. I live in an 85 year old house in the student ghetto, this fact rarely bothers me. But the moment that Roscoe leaves something changes, shadows grow to enormous sizes, the hallways become endless and the ghosts emerge from the woodwork. Suddenly every passerby on the street below is a convicted felon, hell bent on stealing my toaster oven and collection of jigsaw puzzles.

I do my best to deal with the unwelcome spirits and burglars on my own. And by on my own, what I mean is I call my parents, grandparents, friends, sister, the Coca Cola 1-800 number, anyone who will pick up their phone. “The house is haunted ! And there are armed bandits outside the door.! ” I’ll wail into the phone. My parents, having lived with me for twenty some odd years are rarely fazed. They will say “The strange thing is, our house stopped being haunted the day you moved out. Just lock the door- you’ll be fine”. Not a helpful observation when one hears a ninja with a baseball bat lurking near the kitchen window.

The ninja I picture outside of my house looks just like this but with a bat. Obviously he wasn't terrifying enough with only a sword thing and handcuffs alone. (Photo Credit : theadminzone.com)

The ninja I picture outside of my house looks just like this but with a bat. Obviously he wasn’t terrifying enough with only a sword thing and handcuffs alone. (Photo Credit : theadminzone.com)

My best friend Chastity, who is a PhD candidate and a first rate problem solver immediately starts looking up natural remedies “A ghost? Did you try burning sweet grass? You’ll need a match, and some sage too.”

My sister, after seeing I’ve posted strange things on her Facebook twice that evening; “Diana, my house tripled in size, I got lost walking to the pantry, please call me” and “Diana, I’m becoming strange because Roscoe isn’t home, please call me” won’t even pick up her phone.

The people at the 1-800 Coca Cola number quickly tire of talking with me. “My house is filled with ghosts! Cannibalistic ghosts! And robbers!” I say in a high pitched voice that my parents endearingly named my “hysterical chipmunk” tone. “Thank you for calling ma’am but what does this have to do with your Sprite beverage?” the kindly operator will say. “Oh, I don’t consume soft drinks but I thought a multimillion dollar corporation might have some suggestions for how to deal with a paranormal infestation and burglary” I’ll reply. Funny enough my calls to 1-800 numbers seem to disconnect a lot.

After exhausting my conversational skills, I’ll retire to bed. This is a whole process in and of itself. In order for me to sleep when I’m home alone, the chest of drawers must be pushed up against the bedroom door. However last night this was impossible because Roscoe had moved the chest of drawers upstairs. Lacking any other option, I began to move the giant, dirty laundry mountain in front of the door. It is widely known that ghosts hate the scent of old socks. Also any potential intruders would be caught in the many arms of the clothes-spider  I created using Roscoe’s dress shirts.

With all of my ghost busting and crime protection measures in place I am able to climb into bed. Just before I nod off to sleep, many hours past my standard eight thirty pm bedtime I send off a text to Roscoe. “Stop treating all the car accident victims and come home. House has become a den of thieves and Mecca for the afterlife.”

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of the brilliant. However for once I actually let the person in question choose their written name. When she was three, after emigrating to Canada from China, not only did Chastity get to choose her English name but she also chose her little brother’s English name when he was born. I don’t even know if I could have shouldered that level of responsibility now as a fully functional adult let alone as a toddler. If given the choice, three year old me probably would have called Diana “Dry Goods”. She would have been easier to sell that way.

My brilliant and somewhat conservative friend chose the name “Chastity”, because she wanted to keep with the stripper nom de plume theme The Great Unwashed has going.