Today is my first day at home since...a week ago last Friday.
To Hub's credit the house looks great. There is a stack of dishes in the sink that a miniature Jean Claude Killy could race down, but that's better than finding a towering helix of pizza boxes in the corner.
Got up this morning to make Hub a nice breakfast, opened the fridge...and heard an echo. Not good. Mother Hubbard's Amana was bare, baby. Ran out, on an empty stomach, at lunchtime, to buy groceries. Several hundred dollars worth of cans, bags and boxes later I was strangely still hungry.
So WHAT did I do? I drove through McDonalds. That's right. After a month of not eating fast food, months of not eating french fries and over a week of eating actual, real FOOD, Dummy consumes a Filet-o-Fish, fries and a Diet Coke.
I honestly thought I wouldn't make it home before I puked. I know, that's gross, but believe me - it WAS gross.
Nearly two hours and two tooth-brushings later I still feel like I've consumed a rancid cannon ball: My tongue burns from the sodium, I have a weird greasy film in my mouth that CANNOT be brushed away and I feel like my stomach is going to rip open a la Sigourney Weaver in Alien.
I'm done, kids. No more McDonalds for me. After a similar experience a decade ago, I swore off Taco Bell and have only been back a half-dozen times in all those years. This was just the experience I needed to divorce myself from Ronald and the Hamburglar.
Hey, Burger King, consider yourself warned, Buddy. I'm watching you.