I went through a year of horrendous online dating before I met the man who became my husband. I wasn’t exactly a poster girl for the most eligible bachelorette, but none of my hold-ups were much excuse for the sort of men I met. I was 24 years old and a full time student. I worked part time, lived with my parents, was divorced, and had two children under the age of five. I’m not an unattractive woman, but men weren’t exactly beating down my door to date me. More so, I knew that I needed a companion, not just a boyfriend.
I couldn’t seem to even meet a normal, down to earth man. Things became enough of a joke around the house that my mother would sit up at night and wait for me to get home, collapse on her bed and giggle while sharing all the terrible details of my odd nights out.
Then there was the guy who asked me to hold his belt while in the mall so I wouldn’t get lost.
The man who took the menu out of my hand and ordered food for me like I was three.
The guy who took me to a movie and proceeded to move down to the front row where there was only one open seat to “see better,” leaving me alone.
The man who figured out where I worked and spent an hour walking around the store trying out different women’s lotions before finally admitting he was one of the men I had denied a date request from on an online site.
The guy who took me shopping and then proceeded to tell me how I should dress.
The gentleman who stripped naked in his parent’s living room while I used their restroom.
By the time I got around to talking to Mak, I was pretty wary of dates. A whole year of these kinds of dates will do that to a woman. I had a whole safety set-up – complete with emergency friend phone calls lined up and pepper spray.
Mak invited me over for dinner. I had such a good time that I ended up coming home and looking him up on Google and the case search program to see if he had some shady criminal past hiding. There had to be something wrong, considering my past history with online dating. He had a speeding ticket. That was it. Needless to say, I was impressed.
The next morning we had a quick conversation.
“I’m not really interested in playing around,” he said. “I like you. Let’s make this serious.”
If any other man I’d gone on a date with had said that to me I’d have gone running for the hills.
“Okay,” I said.
I don’t know why. I’d hate to chalk it up to some sort of fate thing, but maybe part of me knew he wasn’t a psycho killer. Maybe there was some deeper connection. Maybe I was just really brave.
Within a few weeks he had met my children and included them in our outings.
A few months later was Easter and I was scrawling ‘I love you’ onto an egg and hiding it in the fridge.
“Go get the orange egg out of the fridge,” I told him.
He got up and I heard the fridge door open. After a moment it closed again and he came back to the couch.
“Well…” I started.
“Well what?” He asked.
“What did you think?” I asked. It was the first time I’d attempted to tell the man I loved him and he was being completely stubborn about the whole thing.
“It’s cute,” he said.
“And…” I lead him.
“I love you, too,” he said. “You know that.”
By the end of the year he had moved in. We were blessed in our relationship. There hadn’t been many of the big challenging moments. His father passed a few weeks before our wedding, but it was expected, and while we mourned it hadn’t surprised us. Their relationship had been so strained, for so long. It was the first time though that I ever saw him cry – a moment that I think is imprinted in my memory. There is something about seeing a strong man mourn, something heartbreaking and frightening and so real it hurts that one simply doesn’t forget it.
I remember standing by his father’s bed. He sat in a chair across the room from me. I went to him, but he didn’t reach for me. I stepped back – gave him space. I didn’t know how to handle his grief. He took a few moments to himself and I watched him. I watched the years, the pain, the neglect from that relationship wash away. For those few moments there was love.
There hadn’t been many of those bring-you-to-your-knees moments. We didn’t even really fight or argue. We were thankful to have found a companion in one another that shared a similar sense of humor. Laughter got us through any time things seemed to be getting dark.
He stepped into the role of father as if it were all he’d ever known. It was never a look-at-me exercise, but came naturally. There was a gaping hole in our little family and he saw it, stepped into it, and never looked back. It was in the quiet way he made that transition that still never fails to amaze me.
He has a silent strength in him. A code of ethics that can’t be argued or even discussed. They simply are.
Perhaps it’s because of his quiet nature that people find him intimidating. Combining that with the sleeves of tattoos and long dark hair, it’s quite understandable. However, anyone watching him drink tea from a tiny porcelain cup with my daughter would realize how wrong they are.
Four years after that first date and I was talking to my brother in California, planning his trip home to visit.
“When is he coming home?” Mak asked.
“The end of June,” I said.
“Good,” he said. “We’ll get married then.”
Proposal. Date set. End of discussion.
I had a month to get everything planned and ready.
I love you, too. You know that.
After our wedding we decided to have a baby. A few short months later and I was excitedly waving those little pink lines around in the air. We were so excited we told everyone.
We were at his mother’s for a belated Thanksgiving dinner when I started miscarrying. My husband had the kids in the car while I stood white knuckled on the phone with the emergency room and watched my father-in-law toss the kids’ toys into their book bags. Hours and many tests later the doctor gave us the news.
“There’s no heartbeat.”
I’d known when I saw her face. I’d been crying since she came into the room. I looked across the room at my husband. I expected him to get up, to come to me. The doctor left and he still sat there for a few moments. In that space between us I watched him break, hit his emotional knees, mourn, and grieve. I watched him as he cared for himself and then he came to me. He put himself behind and cared for me.
For the following days he held me while I cried and found whatever ways he could to make me smile. We found laughter in the darkest moments. We suffered. We healed.
We spent months talking back and forth about whether or not to try again. The entire process had frightened him so badly. I learned to appreciate what pregnancy can do to a man. It’s a terrifying situation, especially for one who tends to like to be in control of things. There is no control with pregnancy.
He couldn’t see what was happening inside my body.
He couldn’t control what was happening.
He couldn’t stop me from being in pain, from hurting.
All he could do was be there and hope that I would heal.
“I’m not sure we should try again,” Mak said.
We were lying in bed, the lights off and waiting for one or both of us to become too tired to keep talking.
“We’ve got a girl and a boy,” he started. “You know? Maybe that’s enough.”
“You don’t want one of your own?” I asked.
“They are my own,” he said.
A few nights later we were repeating this whole thing again. It was like a record skipping, playing backwards, flinging all over the place. I never knew where we’d end up.
“We could try again,” he said.
“We’re not doing anything to stop it from happening,” I answered.
“If it does, it does,” he’d agree.
Three months of this back and forth indecision plagued us.
Finally he said, “I don’t think we should try again.”
“I’m pregnant,” I said.
We collapsed against one another laughing. For weeks we were quiet. We were so careful not to tell people too early. We went to each appointment with our heart in our throats. Every test was a negative, dangerous thing. Every symptom I had was cause to worry. We struggled to find joy.
Mak kept warning me not to get my hopes up.
I kept countering that he needed to not think so negatively.
We flew past each other, both of us on separate ends of our own emotional roller-coasters.
“Are you happy about the baby?” I finally asked him.
“Of course,” he said. “You know that.”
I love you, too. You know that.
I am five months pregnant today. A few weeks ago we went to the doctor and we got to hear the heartbeat. The tiny whomp whomp whomp sound filled the room. I was laid back on the bed watching my husband. He didn’t stand up and come to me. For a few moments, he sat there and smiled. I watched him in this moment of joy and excitement and relief. I watched him take that moment for himself and then he came to me.
He kisses me every morning before he leaves for work. He tells me he loves me before we fall asleep. He doesn’t have to say that he loves me. I know he does. All I need are those few moments, where there is space between us and I have the chance to really see my husband. It is in those moments that I get to watch him love.
For those of you who have commented/messaged/called me, I am getting back to the Crockpot story soon. It will probably be in weekly installments. Not because I particularly want to draw the story out and torture you, but because let’s face it. . .this was not an easy time in my life and going back to write about it puts me into a dark, dark place.
And I don’t always need to put myself in dark places.
Sometimes, life in all its wonders, puts me there all on its own.
Not sometimes. . .often. . .normally. Entirely too damn much.
Life doesn’t push me one step back; it sends me back to the very beginning of the dance.
I should have know how yesterday was going to go after getting the phone call that told me that we weren’t going to be able to get my uncle into the nursing home. So we are back to the drawing board of trying to find a suitable, safe environment that is capable of taking care of him.
Life likes to make what should be a simple task something that consumes hours of my day.
I should have known after that hectic morning that going to go to a dealership and work on getting a car was a bad idea. I should have known better. Really. Instead, I hauled my butt down there and prepared for what I thought should be simple.
The husband and I had already spoken to our salesman the day before.
We knew exactly what vehicle we were going to look at.
We did not want to look at any other vehicles.
We knew the sale.
We knew our credit scores.
We knew the Blue Book value.
We knew exactly what we would put down and what we could pay.
Easy, right? So while the husband slept, I went down there and got to work with the salesman.
“You can pretend you are hearing my voice, but I am speaking for my husband,” I told him. He brought me back a deal that was not at all what the husband had said.
Life gives me morons like some kind of demented life sprinkles.
I pushed the paper back and again explained, for the last time, that this was the deal we would make. End of story. He asked if I wanted to call my husband and run the deal past him, and I attempted to make sure that he understood that the husband was sleeping and waking him for something I already knew he wasn’t going to agree to was akin to suicide.
He brought me another deal that was not what we wanted and asked me to call my husband.
I sent him back with a barely concealed eyeroll.
Life gives me moments of triumph as a sort of tease.
We got the deal. He handed over a paper that had lower numbers on it then what I had said. I was ecstatic. I was elated. I had conquered the car dealership on my own. . .with no big, bad man support. . .and I got a better deal then my husband had thought possible. I took my time taking that paper from him, as if I were still considering it.
Did I mention life gives me idiots?
After five hours of being there the van was half mine. It wouldn’t officially be mine until we got it home and the husband signed the paperwork. The salesman drove the van, with all the papers in tow, and followed me home. I called the husband and woke him as we were getting ready to pull in the driveway, so he could come out and see my crowning achievement. I was so stinking proud of myself, I couldn’t stand me.
The husband comes outside, in his pajamas and long hair all over the place looking like some metalhead after a long night raging. The kids piled to the doorway, my mom came outside. I pulled in and the van pulled in behind me. I got out of the car and turned around as my mother said:
“The van is smoking.”
The van was smoking. Billowing, spewing smoke from the tires.
The husband was angry. The husband started spewing his own smoke in the form of words I was glad the kids were far enough away to not hear. The man kept saying that there was an issue with the emergency brake. It was sticking. He’d noticed it as we left the dealership, but thought it would get better.
So he drove it 18 miles messed up.
The husband was beyond angry and for my own personal safety, I just backed up.
My crowning achievement was spewing smoke.
My trophy was stinking up a storm.
He thought they’d screwed me over. He thought they had taken advantage of his wife.
They just gave me a moron to work with.
So the van sat there, with the salesman inside while he waited for a tow truck to come get it so they could fix whatever is wrong and then try to sell it to us again.
My dad came home and saw the man in the van.
I told him I bought a salesman today.
He didn’t believe me that this idiot had actually been my salesman.
When he finally was gone, the husband had a long talk with me about the list of demands if they wanted us to consider taking this thing off their lot. It’s a long list. I’m going to tell them again that I am speaking for my husband, except I’ll probably use less profanity. They should consider themselves lucky at this point.
Life kicks my ass.
Herstory Lesson: If it seems like something good is happening, hold on. It may be fine. . .but shit might get real, real fast.
I was sitting here thinking today about all the things I wanted to make sure I tell my daughter at some point. I’m not talking the ooie-gooey things like, “I love you” or “You’re beautiful”. I’m talking the real, down and dirty tricks that I’ve picked up over the years.
This post may be full of generalizations, profanity, and of course sex. We’ll rate it “R” for Ridiculously Awesome.
1. Ignore every commercial you see for those fancy women’s razors. Skip that department completely and go straight for the men’s. Regardless of what they say, men’s razors always work better.
Also, it is perfectly acceptable to go without shaving your legs, as long as you are wearing pants and/or the hair is short enough to not poke through your pantyhose.
2. Speaking of pantyhose…it will never be comfortable. Ever. You can save yourself a bit of pain and buy one size up from what the little box-from-hell says you need. Doing this will not, however, pull in nice and tight all the areas you may be wanting nice and tight. For that, you’re going to need Spanx.
No need to be afraid. Spanx are basically like packing your own sausage.
3. Oh yes, home-made sausage and fresh pasta and God only know what else his mother makes that you never quite manage to get right. Give up. Give up now. He will always compare your cooking to his mother’s, and she will win in almost every category. There is something inside a man’s head that makes him nostalgic for the meals he had growing up (even if his mother could barely manage Kraft in the blue box). There are ways to combat the feelings of anger this will cause you.
– Do not ask for your mother-in-law’s recipes, or to teach you how to make a certain dish. In fact, compliment her always on her food (Wine helps). This will do two things: irritate her and confuse the balance that she expects to be in place.
– Take comfort in knowing that if you have a son, somewhere out there is a woman who will feel exactly like you when your son says, “It’s not like my mother’s makes”.
– Offer to house-sit for your in-laws and have sex with your husband in their kitchen. Then when you are over for dinner, just think back on that experience and smile. (Pass the wine.)
4. Instead of worrying about his mother’s cooking, focus on learning one meal really well. I’m talking entree, at least two sides, salad, soup, bread, and desert. Master that meal. Work at it until it is perfect. This will be your go-to meal. Your company is coming over meal. Your his mother is visiting meal. Your time to give the husband the credit card statement meal.
5. Learn to walk in heels. Go out and buy six inch stiletto platform hooker shoes. Put them on and walk on them until you have nailed those monsters. This way you will be prepared for whenever the husband (or anyone else) gives you a pair of heels. If you can master those, you can handle any, and are therefore less likely to spend weeks walking around in your new gift like a drunken flamingo.
6. Your children will hit an age where they practically become a parrot. And like any wild animal, you either muzzle them or toss food bits at them until they shut up.
7. Your body is your own, guard it. Until you have children, then anything you might be delirious enough to believe is still yours, isn’t.
8. At some point, someone in your life is going to offer you drugs. There are certain steps I want you to take before you accept them.
– Look at the person giving them to you…very carefully. Pay attention to detail here.
– Imagine yourself having sex with them in the next hour.
– Imagine your having sex with them without protection.
– Imagine getting pregnant with them.
– Imagine them 50, balding, and changing the diaper of your sixth child on the ripped couch in your trailer, while the rest of your kids are in the backyard shooting BB guns and attempting to tie each other up with duct tape. Oh, and you’re in a floral moo-moo.
– Turn around and walk away very quickly.
* The same applies to alcohol in excess. Except when you grow up. Then flip the image and imagine all your housework. Drink wine until the image disappears.
9. Finally, before you ever consider some life-long venture with a man, consider these things:
– Sex sucks the first time.
– Sex sometimes sucks the first couple of times. There’s a reason one-night stands normally stay that way. It takes a bit of time to actually learn one another well enough to have amazing sex.
– That didn’t apply to your father and I…and yes, we were a one-night stand turned marriage.
– Your father and I are NOT the role model in this situation.
– All the sex stuff aside, if they aren’t the kind of man you’d want to introduce to your father…best to just let that one go.
– If they don’t treat you the way you see your father treat me, run.
– If they put their hands on you, experience tells me crock-pots can be dangerous as hell. Make your way to a kitchen and it’ll be like running into the Matrix armory.
– If they cheat on you, they will do it again. If you’re the girl they cheated on someone with, they’ll cheat on you, too.
– If their pants sag, I WILL make them a soprano for life. You’ve been warned.
– If you can’t laugh with them, lose them.
– If you can’t laugh at them, trip them 😀
And finally, let me just say…
You are not allowed to look at your body and say, “I don’t like -insert body part here-“.
– And my favorite up and coming event: The New Year’s Resolutions
So I’m doing something different for that last one and I’d like to see how many people I can get to join in with me.
This year I’m saying “Screw You” to the resolutions (not like I ever keep them any way) and pouring my energy into the Love My Body campaign.
C’mon…you know you wanna join in.
Come New Year’s Day check in here to see an awesome photo of me along with a nice long list of things I need to remember throughout the year that I love about my body.
I mean, today I walked into Walmart and all the Christmas junk was hidden off in some obscure corner, while the Slim Fast, work-out gear, and dumbbells were front and center. It was like a walk of shame down the main aisle, while I stared at my arch enemy, Special K. I swear, those red K’s were tossing up gang signs and holding the ‘L’ up on their foreheads to accompany me.
And eff that.
Eff that walk of shame.
Eff these stores and commercials and propaganda to make us think that only once a year we should be striving to better ourselves.
Eff everything that takes a huge after Christmas dump on our self-esteem.
Eff these resolutions that end up being just one more sense of pressure in our rush-rush-rush lives.
And eff Special K.
So, what about you? Want to join me for the Love Your Body campaign? If so, send me a link to your version of it come New Year’s! I’ll be featuring an entire blog devoted to the awesome ladies and gents who join me in this little endeavor.
A few months ago, the husband and I went through a terrible loss. After multiple trips to the doctor and finally getting the green light for some quality time of the midnight-everyone-is-sleeping-we-still-have-to-be-quiet variety, I took the doc’s advice and went out and bought spermicide.
Let me just interject here and say that we are obviously two people who are simply not meant to use any form of contraceptive except implanted birth controls. Truly, our brains are simply not wired for this stuff.
But the doc said no baby making for two months, so we wanted to get in some practice before we catch that next green light. It was sort of like a Christmas present. Insert spermicide.
I read the instructions and proceeded to remove the applicator and try to fill that thing with the gel stuff. It was like packing my own tampon. I finally called in the reinforcements, which is when we realized that the applicator doesn’t come together in the way it is supposed to be used. You have to take it apart. Switch it around.
After I’d already filled the plunger part halfway with gel.
Yay. Let’s make a mess.
Finally, between the two of us, we managed to get the thing filled and then I continued with my instruction reading:
It is best to lay on your back, with your knees bent to insert.
Of course I read this out loud. Which is about when I get laughter and this from the husband:
Head down. Arms in. Knees apart.
I mean, as if the romance wasn’t already flowing at this point, now we were collapsed into fits of laughter that made it impossible for me to even attempt to insert this thing. There’s nothing so hot as watching a chick on her back, knees apart, clutching a syringe-looking thing of spermicide while she is laughing uncontrollably, eyes-watering and make-up running.
Insert as far as is comfortable.
Gotcha. So I did, let out a loud ouch, and got:
That’s not comfortable. Back ‘er up.
At this point I was giving serious consideration to slapping him into the moment. I mean, as if this whole thing weren’t stressful hilarious enough, he has to jump in with his little comments. I kept thinking about my mother telling me her horror stories using this stuff. She and my father tried it one time…
By the way, these are the kinds of conversations that put your children in need of therapy. Just saying.
…and my father had some sort of reaction. He supposedly jumped up and ran off with his necessary love-making parts on fire. They obviously didn’t use spermicide again, and we were left with an ungodly amount of fear.
Yes. Let’s add liquid fire in here. Not like it’s sensitive or anything. This should be fun.
So, we finally get everything in where it is supposed to be and I read the rest of the instructions.
Product is active immediately after use and for up to one hour.
Crap, we only got an hour! We gotta go! Hurry up! C’mon! -Me
That’s really romantic.
I won’t fill you in on the rest of the messy details…except to say that at the end of the this tale, we didn’t get our happily ever after.
We got towels and attempted to wipe clean every surface of our bodies.
It’s that time of year…the one where I spend way too much time in a store that doesn’t involve aisle after aisle of food products. I mean, I go to the grocery store almost once a day, but as excited as I was to have Walmart come to town last year (you’d have to understand where I live), I find myself steering clear of that place unless I have to.
Or it’s December and I have to do Christmas shopping. I still haven’t figured out their grocery aisles yet.
So, before the big day gets here and I get to go back and review all the stuff the monsters seemed to pick as their favorites, I want to make my guesses. I’m rarely right at these things. I was convinced the year I bought them these ride-able Harley Davidson toys that it would be the big hit of the year. I made this whole production of wheeling them out into the living room and…they stared at them. Eventually I convinced them to get on, where one screamed in fear, and the other was too tiny to have enough strength to push the pedal down to get it to move. Then I realized, it wasn’t tiny that was the problem…the pedals were so hard, I had trouble pushing it down. So I was wrong. Cone of Shame me, already.
Do I expect this year to be different? Not likely. I always pick things I think are awesome. I wrap them up with these shaky fingers and imagine their little faces when they open it and I pretend like it won’t be one of those, ‘That’s cool’ as they toss it aside and dive in for the next glittery, sparkling, box/bag/thing.
Well, this is getting depressing. Let’s review some products, hmmm?
1. The daughter is getting the Ultimate Easy Bake Oven.
Now, I haven’t yet figured out what is so different between this ultimateversion and the regular one that I assume is out there somewhere, but I haven’t seen it anywhere. I think the daughter will like this. I mean, it provides a certain sense of ease when it comes to baking in the whole she-doesn’t-have-to-bug-me-to-cook thing. And I have to say, the people at Hasbro did an AWESOME job making one of these for boys. I mean, I’m not one for dictating colors, but let’s face it…kids do that crap. So the boy design is fantastic, and I highly approve of the message that, ‘Hey, kids…real boys cook, too.’
Oh, and we’re skipping out on the super expensive packs of food stuffs to make for this and going straight to some website my awesome mother found with like 68 homemade Easy Bake recipes. Here’s the site in case you are getting your monster an Easy Bake this year: Easy Bake Oven Recipes. Sorry Hasbro, but nobody wants to pay $14 for a pack of pretzel mix. I can get Aunt Annie’s mix for $8 at my local gas station.
2. She’s also getting an mp3 player. We went with the Eclipse 4gb version in this reddish pink tone that I think she’ll like. Not because we thought it was a better brand, but because it is the only brand Walmart in our area had and I wasn’t going anywhere else. Lazy…maybe. But this is her first ever mp3 player, and more than that, she’s only eight. She doesn’t need something super fancy. I didn’t realize this had all the cool attachments it did though.
This thing comes with a camera and this super easy to use program to fix all the songs up so I could organize all her music on it in a way that an eight year old brain will be able to find it easily. Best part? It’s about $25 at Walmart. I mean, for an eight year old this is the perfect thing. Not some expensive thing you have to freak over when they lose it/step on it/drop it into the toilet/lend it to that kid who never gives stuff back…you know? Kid stuff.
3. The son is getting something like this:
Except his is blue and massive. I can’t even remember the name right now, but I’ll post it eventually, along with timed proof of how long this thing survives a five year old. I will give you one guess who picked this out…the same one who said, “He can’t break it”. Please let me pass on the Cone for this one.
Kidding. The boy is going to love this, so I would really rather it didn’t fall apart into little pieces the first time he rams it into the tree/hot tub/my car. I do like that there is a setting to turn it to 50% power, so younger kids can learn to use it. I mean, this is a strictly outside use toy. He’s going to love it. I just hope it holds up for him. Five year old boys aren’t known for their grace and gentleness.
4. Toothless the Fire Breathing Dragon toy is my favorite so far. I had no clue how big this thing was until I ordered it off Amazon. Granted…my fault for not reading the giant print where it said 22 inch long wingspan, but hey…who reads anymore?!
Supposedly you can add cool water to this thing and it shoots out a bright blue mist that looks like fire. If it works…most awesome toy ever award. I’m still waiting for the proof that it works, but until then, I’m going to keep staring at the box in some kind of envy. I love Toothless.
Knowing my luck, we’re going to put water in this thing and it’ll just be one…really cute…big squirt gun.
We’ll see how my top choices pan out for the kiddos come Christmas day. In the meantime, let me give you my one definite WINNER and these two loooosers.
Despicable Me 2 was by far the best kid’s movie I’ve seen recently. I mean, The Croods was a close one, but I just can’t help myself with the lipstick taser. I want one dammit. I want one so I can kick my heel up, fling an arm back, and sing to the sky as I shock the heck out of…I’m sure I have a list somewhere of people I want to shock. The movie really was great. It was one of the few that kept the son’s attention, so he made it through the entire thing. Wow. We all loved it. The monsters spent entirely too long running around going, “Bee-do, bee-do, bee-do”, but it’s okay. I was singing “lipstick taser” in my head, so I can’t get too upset with them.
But that’s the winner. Here’s the losers. Beware the losers.
Cuddles. The fifty dollar robot monkey. This is a hot seller this year, and the daughter wanted it bad. Every time the commercial came on she squealed in a way that battled the One-Direction-is-on-TV squeal. I thought she liked this thing. I thought she did. I asked her today why she doesn’t get it down to play and I got the answer I’d been thinking since day one of turning this sucker on: “Cuddles just makes the same sounds again and again and again. She should grow up and talk some.”
So unless you are prepared for the fifty dollar robot monkey that only giggles in a monkey sound again…and again…and again…and AGAIN…Don’t get Cuddles. Skip out on this little fad and get a Furbie or something. They don’t even speak English and you still get more conversation.
The other loser…these things:
In the last month my grocery store has been featuring Lay’s new winner bag of chips all over the place. I’ve been staring at it like some kind of lustful slut puppy. But I’m a big chicken when it comes to trying new foods. I get all panicky, because I’m picky and my taste buds have a maturity level of a 8 year old boy, pre-hormones that make them eat everything and post I’ll-trust-mom-when-she-says-it-is-good.
But these…I mean…chips…cheese…garlic bread. This is some sort of witchcraft, right? No one should be able to combine such yummy flavors into one snack that I’m probably going to hate myself for eating when I reach the bottom of the bag in one setting…
No, these were the most horrendous, disgusting things I have tasted in a long time. So much garlic, this weird cheese that left an aftertaste, and this like fake bread flavoring. I didn’t even know such a flavor existed. Fake bread.
I had to wash the taste out with the cheap $4 bottle of gas station wine the husband bought me last night.