You know that feeling you get when you can't go another minute without eating a salty snack? You tiptoe into the kitchen while wiping the drool from your chin as you reach into the pantry to grab that last bag of chips; but then you realize that there is only one left–and by one, I mean chip. So you end up pawing the bottom of the bag with your bony little fingers just so you can get a tiny lick of salt residue off of them before tossing it into the trash. That's when you realize that you will never have the opportunity to enjoy another midnight snack of your choosing again... Unless youhide them from the likes of him!
For some reason, men just aren't equipped to handle the thought of anything other
than their stomachs. And when the chips are down, you had better believe that they would be there to pick up every last kernel–even if it's the last chip in the house.
I'd like to think that my husband is aware that he no longer lives in a frat house; and when I find myself leaving notes taped to the side of every snack box in the house stating that "these are for everyone, not just you!"
I imagine that he will actually read them. But much like my dream of waking up twenty years younger in a mansion on the French Riviera, it never seems to happen.
I had a dream once that I was dining on my balcony, overlooking a tiny village near the Mediterranean Sea. The sun was glistening on the water and the gentle, warm breeze was combing through my hair as I smiled over a small crowd of women below. They were chanting, with their arms waving high above their heads. And as I leaned in closer to hear what they were saying, their voices grew louder and more defined, "Sei fortunato! Sei fortunato! Se solo fossimo singolo!"
And that was the only time I ever got to finish the bag first!
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