I wanted Macaroni and Cheese for dinner last night. That was it. That's what I wanted and I thought, stupidly, that as long as I used low-fat cheese and other ingredients it would turn out fine. JUST fine...
Nope - turns out if you bake up a vat of noodles mixed with Light Sour Cream, Butter and Low-fat cheese - you get a vat of noodles with crusty, metallic tasting, half-melted goo all over it.
It was - GROSS.
So I ate an illegal salad with lots of tomatoes and lettuce. I'm a rebel.
I then went downstairs to watch a movie and do laundry. I decided on a happy go-lucky teenagery movie which I seem to often enjoy due to their fun and uncomplicated plot-lines. I popped in "The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants" and settled down for a good laugh.
I cried like a two-year old lacking a blankie and binky.
I was sobbing. Tears were streaming down my face and I was sniffing and - I was just a mess. That movie is heart-wrenching. They need to put warnings on the outside of dvd boxes: This movie may make you snivel to the point that your eyes well shut and your nose resembles that of a pickled beet. This would also work on bad movies: This movie is horrible, however, men will like that Halle Berry shows her boobs. And complicated movies: You will not understand this movie, but will pretend that it was "brilliant" just like Ebert did.
After the movie I decided to tackle the treadmill again. I would push myself to get to fifteen minutes - that was my goal. At 3mph, too.
Everybody now: "Oooohhhhhhhhhhh!"
I got caught up watching "One Tree Hill" (James Lafferty is an absolute cutiepie and - oddly - even has cute armpits - but I digress..) and didn't notice that I had made it to a whole twenty minutes! I celebrated a bit - almost flew off the darned thing and pushed onward for another three minutes.
Feeling proud of myself I wobbled on my shaky legs over to the couch where I noticed something odd.
"Is that door unlocked?" I asked Phoebe. She purred louder in response and turned upside down, baring her fluffy belly and seventh nipple.
"Is it? Is THAT door REALLY unlocked?" I was getting louder.
I pulled on the handle. It opened with a soft swish.
I had been sleeping. Alone. In a big ol' house. By myself. With the door - unlocked.
I slammed it and locked it with a flourish. Phoebe snorted in protest.
I gathered up all the laundry I had done: more Hanes shirts, more polo undies, more khakis with "EZRA" emblazoned on them and jeans from Express. Not mine. Nope. None of it was mine. It was all for my dear hubby - so far away in Texas that I couldn't wring his neck for leaving me. Alone. In a big ol' house. By myself. With the door - UNLOCKED.
I call him: "Hey. Are you TRYING to get me raped and pillaged?"
"Uh - no. ?" He said/asked.
"You left the door unlocked downstairs."
"Oh - uh - sorry. ?"
"I could've been killed! Raped! Phoebe, too!"
"I'm sorry. ?" he responded/questioned.
"Fine." I flopped on the bed. Phoebe joined me. And licked my hair. Gross.
"I really don't want you to die." He offered a truce.
"Fine." I sighed heavily. "But you are no longer allowed to use any door in this house without consulting me first. Got it?"
"Yes, ?" he said/asked.
Must not kill thy hubby... Must not kill thy hubby.... Must not...
I got off the phone and took a shower. Went to bed with wet hair and woke up this morning with Medusa tresses with less body. I slept horrible. I kept thinking about that Lifetime Movie of the Week: "Stranger in the Attic." I was convinced that some creep had set up shop in the rafters and would now be documenting my every move and selling it on the net for $3.95 per minute...
Lifetime should be banned from cable television just for their fear-inspiring tales. And for using Tori Spelling in so many of their "flicks." Yeeeesh.