I made a great chicken dinner with mashed potatoes that was on the table at 5 pm. My workout schedule got changed and I had to run off to a 6 pm boot camp class, figuring my husband would clean up the kitchen.
Fast forward to my sweaty, starving return at 7:30ish, bearing gifts of of ice cream for my loved-ones. Since I gave up sweets for Lent, I settled on a leftover piece of chicken from the fridge while I watched them lick and slurp chocolate chip mint from Baskin Robbins.
Fast forward again to stomach pains and rumblings during American Idol. I tried to go to bed and sleep it off, but had to run to the bathroom for, to put it delicately, a violent rear evacuation.
I crawled back into bed and groaned to my husband, "How long did you leave that chicken out?"
No answer. Just breathing noises.
"HOW LONG DID YOU LEAVE THE CHICKEN OUT?!"
"I don't know. After I got off the phone. An hour?"
"Thanks, you effing poisoned me."
"Sorry, Baby," he mumbled, then returned to weird, annoying breathing/snoring.
Fast forward (last time) to the morning where I woke up craving Pepto Bismol and softer toilet paper. I had to miss my morning workout, texting my trainer that I ate some bad chicken, which I am sure he thinks is total B.S. excuse for being lazy.
I am glad my husband "cleaned up" the kitchen, even though he failed the health department inspection. How did he survive his bachelor years?
Oh, yeah, Top Ramen never goes "bad".