Betrayed on a Snackular Level

So last night I was organizing the hell out of some grievances (after going and seeing Pineapple Express again, an experience I "highly" recommend) and I ordered up some South Asian food from the Pony Express Delivery --

-- Digression #1. I am big into ordering food on the internet and having it delivered to me. Two drawbacks, it costs money and food delivered is fattening. Nobody delivers salad. Okay, they do, but who orders salad in? Delivery almost requires that the food be bad for you. The thing is, I can't order from all the places on the menu, because something in my brain tells me that it is "ridiculous" to get delivery from a restaurant within, say, a 15-block radius. Completely arbitrary boundary. Getting delivery from campus, perfectly fine. Getting delivery from South Willamette? Bespeaks laziness. --

I ordered some chicken curry, under the self-impression that chicken curry is better for "me," by which I mean my weight, than, say the lamb curry. But then I also ordered the Keema Nan, which is nan stuffed with spiced ground lamb. For some reason, the nan is listed under "Tandoori Bread" on the Bombay Palace menu. --

-- Digression #2. Is there a world where your average Eugeneian is familiar with the properties of the word "tandoori" but can't handle the word "nan"? Is there someone asking "What the hell is 'nan'?" Only to have it explained to them that it is "tandoori bread," at which point enlightenment occurs? "Ohhhh, tandoori bread. Why didn't they just say so?"

-- Digression #3. Does "Keema Nan" actually exist in India? Or is this something invented for Americans, who love meat stuffed in anything, especially fried bread?

I ordered the curry ★★★ spicy. Two bites made me realize that I never want any part of ★★★★ curry. I'm not a guy who loves the hot stuff, but jeebus, I can't imagine wanting food hotter than this was. I know that eating the spicy is supposed to help in the heat, as it makes you sweat, but it wasn't working. Now I was just hot and sweaty, laying on the couch trying to watch tv without drinking too much water, as I was bloated as all get out from the large quantities of popcorn consumed during the movie and the rice consumed to make my chicken edible. In other words, I was miserable. Only one thing can help a man out in such a situation...ice cream sandwiches.

As it happened, Ginger was leaving the house to go pick up Amber from a friend's house. Now, I am not the kind of guy who is going to ask his wife to go out of her way to get him ice cream sandwiches, especially when I have rendered myself unable to drive to get my own ice cream sandwiches and am trying to avoid having it pointed out that walking to the store could do me no harm. I am not that guy. I am a guy, however, that is perfectly willing to remind his wife, while she is in the car about to pull out of the driveway, that the household is running dangerously low on toilet paper, and, if she felt like it, stopping at the store might be a good idea. I am also not above slipping in the point that she and our daughter use a disproportionately high percentage of the toilet paper in the house, so her getting the toilet paper would only be fair.

Having secured Ginger's agreement that the household needed toilet paper and that stopping at the store on the way home would not be out of the question, I then moved on to the suggestion that maybe, just maybe, since the toilet paper aisle, at Albertson's at least, is not that far from the ice cream section, maybe some ice cream sandwiches might be in order.

By asking, even tentatively, that my wife stop and pick up some ice cream sandwiches for me to consume, I have opened myself up for all kinds of counter-attacks. She could come back with

1. "Ice cream sandwiches are the last thing you need to be eating, you fat pig." Now she might couch this more gently by reminding me that I had consumed a large popcorn already that day. Or that I had eaten fried bread earlier. Stuffed with meat. But the message would be the same. And it would hurt.

2. "How much have you spent on food already today?" What with lunch, the movie, popcorn, a drink, and the the South Asian food, I had spent approximately $46 on food and entertainment that day. Sweet jeebus, could I be more selfish?

3. "Does you getting high actually mean that you are incapable of providing yourself with anything? You've become some sort of baby?" Given that we had already had this conversation that night (in a joking manner), it was just sitting there. Living with a non-smoker is not the easiest thing in the world. There's a delicate balance that must be maintained because at any moment your partner can bring the entire weight of societal condemnation and judgment down up on you.

Anticipating these counter-attacks I offered these pre-emptive disclaimers, "No, don't. I don't need them. Well, maybe. No, we don't need to be spending money on snacks for me. Would be good, though. I guess I could just walk my ass down to the store to get them. But you're going there anyway. Maybe those Lean Cuisine ones you bought that one time. Alright then, see you later."

I returned to the house already savoring the delicious sweetness of American chocolate cookie surrounding even sweeter and possibly even more delicious vanilla ice cream. As Rachel Ray would surely say, yumm-o!

Of course, anticipation only breeds apathy the munchies, so I ventured into the kitchen where the snack bowl is kept to retrieve the Starburst brand fruit snacks I had purchased the previous evening. I bought two packs because they were on discount. I had eaten a half-a-pack the night before while watching the gymnastics, so you can imagine my shock and surprise to find the snack bowl devoid of Starbursts.

--Digression #4. While it should probably be said that beef jerky is my go-to snack of choice, it has many draw backs, most notably the price. Trying to avoid the preservatives, I tend to go for the Market of Choice house-brand jerky, and it runs $20 a pound. Which is not out-of-line with regular jerky, but it is so much more palatable at $5 for 4 oz than $20 a pound. I mean, that's some freaking expensive meat. Market of Choice has, however, been featuring their "Teriyaki" flavor pretty exclusively and that's a flavor I just can't seem to get down with. As a back up choice, Starbursts, while completely different flavor-wise, also bring the chewiness to the table and have a decently low calorie and fat count. If I can't go salty, I am happy to go citrusy.

Having a tweener in the house, I figured it was good bet that AB had consumed a lunch made up exclusively of a pack-and-a-half of Starbursts. And who could blame her, really? They are tasty and there really is no way to explain to her how imperative it is that she not eat the snackables I have purchased. How do you explain to her that at times, one certain nights, her father will have a need to snack that amounts to a physical imperative and she must not consume the snacks he has purchased, as their sudden disappearance can actually do him harm. You can't. These are the things that I have to put up with.

-- Digression #5. I'm not saying that I deserve any kind of father-of-the-year award or anything.

So I get on the horn to call Ginger. I'm thinking maybe she can give AB some grief for her poor food choices. But, not being the kind of guy who hurls wild accusations, I open the conversation with "You didn't happen to eat any of the Starbursts I bought last night, did you?" If you guessed that Ginger did, in fact, eat my Starbursts, then you are still reading this.

I hurled the accusation that she had betrayed me on the snackular level. Not so much an accusation as an observation, as she had already admitted to the foul deed. I must admit, she handled my (faux) outrage with a nonchalance that secretly impressed me as much as it outwardly (faux) devastated me.

-- Digression #6. I decided long a ago that my wife was more important to me than snacks. I love her way too much to be really upset with her for eating my snacks, whatever form they take. I'm not saying I deserve any kind of husband-of-the-year award or anything.

-- Digression #7. I was reading a crime novel recently that was a bit of a whodunit, but the author used the power of the foreshadowing a bit too casually and I was able to deduce the culprit in the first 50 pages. Foreshadowing is a tricky bit of business that must be done carefully, so as heighten the suspense, but not give the entire game away.

But this would not be the biggest betrayal of the evening!

So there I was, watching the Olympics snack-free, in anticipation of ice cream sandwiches. Every car that passed by the house was torture and I live on a busy street. Every time the dog moved at all was a signal that Ging was in the driveway. Every commercial break brought me one moment closer to those sandwiches. I sat pondering which would be sweeter, the ice cream or the delicious anticipation.

When Ginger and Amber finally did get home, I bound off the couch and ran to the door. But wait! Let's play it cool. Back to the couch, casually throw the foot over the back of the couch. "Oh, hey girlies" when they come through the door? No wait, excitement over seeing AB for the first time that day! AB is more important than ice cream sandwiches! "Hey baby AB, how's it going?" I asked in my best cool dad voice. I'm not sure what her response was, I'm sure she was fine, look at her, she's fine. My focus had, of course, shifted to whether I was going to be required to get off the couch to get my (first) ice cream sandwich or whether Ginger would bring it to me. That's when Ginger said something I did not expect, "I got you some Starbursts."

Starbursts? What good were Starbursts to me now? Were Starbursts cold and chocolaty and ice creamy and delicious? I ventured tentatively, "Um, what about the ice cream sandwiches?" "They didn't look good." They didn't look good, she said. Now, I know my wife and I don't see eye-to-eye on everything, I'm not even sure that we live on the same planet some times, as I sure as heck do not live on a planet where it is possible for ice cream sandwiches to exist, but not look good. "What do you mean, 'they didn't look good,'" I asked, quite reasonably. "They just didn't look very good," she replied.

Now, I recognized that I was the altered one here and I know that Ginger is a sharp cookie, but I literally could not comprehend how ice cream sandwiches could "not look good." Were they all smashed up? Covered in freezer frost? Neither of these seemed like reasonable explanations. As I was pondering, AB offered up that "They were really expensive." How expensive? I inquired, while trying to come up with a sum of money that would plausibly require passing the sandwiches up. Twenty dollars? Twenty-five? That's not how much they cost. Ridiculous. AB says, "They were five dollars!" My brain is unable to process this information any more than it was able to grasp the idea that they might not "look good."

"Five dollars?"

"Yeah, we thought that was too just too much for ice cream sandwiches."

"I would pay $40 for someone to hand me an ice cream sandwich, right now."

"Really? 'Cause I'd go get you some, if you'd really pay that much."

"Nevermind."

I was pretty devastated. Ginger wasn't having any of it, though. "You said not to get them." She was right, I had said that, but I thought I had said it in a way that made it clear that I wanted them, but couldn't be seen to be actually asking for them, but that she was supposed to get them because she loves me and she'd be giving me permission to eat ice cream even though I'm a fatty, had already spent too much money that day, and/or am a baby. I tried not to mention how disappointed I was, but I did let on a little. It was quickly made clear to me that any further discussion of ice cream sandwiches or disappointment regarding the lack thereof would result in a discussion of my shortcomings listed above. So I dropped it, put on a happy face, and ate my Starbursts. Because I love my wife way more than snacks. Even ice cream sandwiches.

-- Digression #8. I, again, am not trying to say I should win husband-of-the-year or anything.