This is a cautionary tale, and by that I mean, I must give you a word of caution.
I have been dieting like a fiend for the past week. I picked the most ridiculous, non-sustainable diet in the world, crazier than paleo and grapefruit combined: counting calories and exercising. This has turned me into less of a pal than I would like to otherwise see myself.
It’s Father’s Day and dear old dad (Erma’s and Sigourney’s, not mine; my dad was sitting in the lap of luxury eating corn on the cob while watching his grandson [also not mine] destroy his living room as if destruction was his own personal superpower [but could have been mine; they do that, too]) wanted to take a Sunday drive.
We embarked at the height of 10 a.m. I brought with me a bottle of water and two granny smith apples. The second we were all buckled in, two voices in the backseat starting chanting, “ap-pull ap-pull” and “I want an apple. When can I have an apple? whinewhinewhinewhinewhine.”
“I only had a 200-calorie bowl of cereal for breakfast and I’m starving!” I said with my eyebrows all flattened in a ready-to-scowl-and-scold mentality. “I brought two apples. You can share one. I am going to eat the other.”
Flathead was laughing. He says that I now precede the names of foods with their calorie counts and he finds it hilarious.
“No, it’s MY turn for the apple!” whined the back seat. “MY TURN MY TURN!” whined the other side of the backseat.
I sighed in defeat and scrunched up eyebrows some more.
We arrived home later in the afternoon after a scenic drive through lakes country, a happy trip to the playground, and several more food misadventures. The kids played on the slip n’ slide, and I slipped inside for a snack.
Unfortunately for me, when I crash off a diet, I crash pretty hard.
Unfortunately for me, I crashed onto an unbelievably delicious jar of garlic olives.
When Flathead and the girls came into the house, I was on the sofa. “What’s wrong?” Flathead asked. “I have a 240-calorie olive hangover,” I told him. “I have a headache. And my back hurts.”
Flathead massaged my back. I fell asleep into a post-olive coma.
I woke up to the sound of hysterical and not-so-distant sobbing.
The crying was coming from a four-year-old with bad aim. The girls were rolling golf balls in the basement and Erma was missing the target. I guess it made her sad. Very, very sad.
“Whazzat?” Sigourney said, pointing toward the basement window.
We all looked. Sigourney says “whazzat” about 17 gazillion times a day. We do our best to explain the world to her, but a lot of times, we can’t even figure out what zat is. “Window?” we guessed. “Wall?” “Leaves?”
Erma threw a few more rounds of golf balls. She was starting to feel better.
That’s when we all saw what zat was. In the window.
“It’s a field vole,” Flathead said. “And it’s trapped.” While he spent the next ten minutes devising a way to help the poor widdle field vole escape from our window well, I translated this to “icky mouse in my house” and you should have seen the length of its tale.
It tried to look cute with its fuzzy little nose pointed at me, but I knew. I knew what it was up to. It was trying to get in. It was trying to get me and my garlic olives.
Flathead says he was successful in helping the “field vole” to escape (hopefully out, not in?). I am recovered now. I am eating a Skinny Cow mint ice cream sandwich and drinking a Theraflu, watching an episode of Seinfeld. I’m back on the horse.
Happy Father’s Day, Flathead!