Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Chocolate Postscript

Yesterday I told you about Beloved Spouse not buying me a candy bar. Here's the rest of the story.

Am I the only one who spent her childhood listening to
Paul Harvey at her grandmother's house?
When I got home from work yesterday, BelSpouse was out. He was giving a lift to our eldest nephew, who's taking a summer course at the community college. Good Uncle BelSpouse. So I started to make dinner.
If you think this is what mac and cheese
looks like, then yes, it looked just like this.
Then BelSpouse called. And this is what he said: "I was on my way to the grocery store to get you something, but all of a sudden I can't see out of my right eye. I think I might be getting a migraine. So I'm coming home. I just wanted you to know that I'm not buying you a candy bar, and it's really hard to drive, and I don't know if I'm going to make it."

I tried. Lord, how I tried.

Wasn't that sweet? He didn't have to let me know that he was failing to buy me a candy bar for the second straight day, but he did it anyway. It's the thought know what? Whatever.

About ten minutes after he got home, his migraine symptoms miraculously cleared up. You see, BelSpouse hasn't actually suffered a migraine in 20 years or so, but every so often he'll feel the tell-tale signs (impaired vision, light sensitivity, queasiness, etc.), which then clear up without developing into a full-fledged migraine. And that's great - migraines are a bad deal. I don't wish them on anyone.

Still, as an excuse to announce that he intended to - but failed to follow through on - buying me a candy bar, it's one part brilliant to two parts now I really want a damn candy bar. No, scratch that. I don't really want a candy bar all that badly. But if he doesn't get his ass into a store and buy me something pretty soon, there's going to be trouble. I don't even care what it is. A lottery ticket. A tabloid. Some Tic Tacs. Something that says "I cared enough to spend a buck and two minutes of my time on you without being distracted by...squirrel!" That's all I want. Get in the car, buy me something, drive home.

Unless it's a damn Charleston Chew. In that case he'd better just keep driving.

For the thrilling conclusion, read "Chocolate Epilogue." And if you missed it, here's Part I, "Chocolate Division." See, it's a trilogy, like Twilight! Without so many sparkles.

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