It’s as cold as Greenland in here, right now.  My left hand feels like a frozen ham hock.  The t.v. volume is set to Explosive Mode.  Everybody on ESPN is yelling, yelling, yelling about Tom Brady. 

I’m having anxiety.

My scalp is starting to itch.  I feel a Wildness growing in my chest.  Soon, I will be struck with Nervous Body Odor and twitching.

There is ONE spoonful of Sander’s Milk Chocolate Hot Fudge left, in a jar hidden on the bottom door of the refrigerator, laying on its side so the chocolate is readily available for quick excavation.  It is saved for just such an emergency.

I have to think of a distraction to get to the kitchen, because Gary will want to eat half of it, if he finds out it’s there… 

He has a highly evolved sense of Food Radar.  

He’s in his chair, the reading lamp light reflecting off of his hair, totally engrossed in some article about Big Ten Football.  Now, he’s talking to me.  Something to do on his football site…that is INTERACTIVE… 

This is a good time to make my move.

He’s interacting.

My risky scheme:  Our kitchen and family room are all in one, big space, so I’m going to sidle around the BACK WAY.  Keep the lights off.  Maybe move some dirty dishes around.  Hopefully, Emma the Dog won’t follow me, because then the jig is up….

Here I go.…………….

……………..

Well, it half worked.   This is how it went:

I did my whole Sidling Routine to the Kitchen Using the Back Route, around and through the living and dining rooms, wearing soft socks, while lurking about in the dark. 

He heard me anyway, even though it sounds like we are sitting on the floor of Penn State’s Beaver Stadium during a White Out.

“What are you doing?” 

Seriously?  He didn’t even turn his head around.

“Oh, I’m just kinda roamin’ about.”

“Why would you just be roaming around the house?”  His Food Radar Abilities are homing in. 

“Just because I feel like moving things.”   Crap. That was Totally Lame.  I’m not very quick on my feet.

“What are you moving?”   God.  It’s like he’s CIA.

Like a bunny in the middle of a field, right before it gets grabbed by a giant crow, I froze up.  I was in a kind of Lying Mind Meld.  “Oh.  Just some things.  Juust mooovin’ some things.”   

(Yet, in that last moment before the crow grabs the bunny….)  I opened the freezer because I remembered I had a secret weapon stashed away.

“I was thinking about having some ice cream.”

“We have ice cream?”

“Just one scoop.  I’m just going to have this one bite.  Would you like some?”

“SURE!”  He got all excited like a little puppy.

Then, I clanged around a bunch of utensils to hide the sound of the spoon I slid up my sleeve.  I opened and closed a bunch of cupboard doors.   Rattled the bowls.   Lots of distracting activity noises.

I kept thinking, “This will work as long as he doesn’t remember that we still have the Anxiety Fudge.” 

More clattering. I opened both the refrigerator and freezer doors at precisely the exact moments,then, in one deft movement that would rival a Cirque du Soleil performer, I squatted to grab the fudge jar in my left hand while I swiped the carton of ice cream with my left.  After scooping the paltry remnants of Neopolitan into his bowl, I scuffed it across the counter with my elbow.  This gave me the “cover” to stealthily unscrew and remove the lid of the hot fudge jar.

“Here is your ice cream!”  Ta-daaa!  “Yay!”  I held off doing the Happy Snoopy Dance because that might have tipped him off.  Spinning back to the kitchen, the hidden spoon slid into my hand as though it were a shiv.  Then I scooped the fudge out, shoving it into my mouth like I was a cornered drug mule in an airport trying to swallow a balloonful of narcotics…

By the way, all of this was supposed to be out of the house when we started our diet.  This is what happens when you don’t follow your own rules.