Month: September 2013

Warning: Random ramblings ahead

This post is mostly just an excuse to not do homework. Please enjoy my ramblings, brought to you by the gods of procrastination.

War of the Dip 2

Last week, Eric and I were arguing (again) about The Dip. He had just got back from the store and was making yet another batch. I told him before he left that we already had cream cheese and butter in the fridge (the main ingredients in this super-healthy snack).

He was in the middle of making it when he suddenly exclaimed, “This is mixing like paste!” He tasted it and made a face. “It tastes weird!”

He then accused me of sabotaging his precious dip with substandard butter. “This isn’t the butter I usually use.”

I squinted at it. “I didn’t buy that. I always buy the store brand.”

We then had a long, pointless argument about where this butter came from. He claimed I bought it; I said no way could I have bought it because I always buy the store brand. He always buys the name brand, ergo the gross butter must belong to him. He was about to retort when he looked at butter package and said accusingly, “It’s expired!”

“I don’t know!” I said defensively. “I thought you’d just bought it, I didn’t even look.”

“I DIDN’T BUY THIS BUTTER.”

And around we went again. Of course by this point we descended into ridiculous insults wherein he claimed my baking sucks because I use generic butter.

Sputtering, I responded with, “The only thing that sucks around here is you, because you’re a sucker for wasting money on name brand butter!”

He came to halt and repeated slowly, “‘The only thing that sucks around here is you because you’re a sucker.'”

I had to laugh. “Shut up! It makes sense.”

That’s marriage, folks. No need for a winner, we resolve our debates with laughter. Although clearly I won.

(In case you’re wondering, he ended up making another trip to the store to get his precious name brand butter and declared the next batch of dip as the best one yet. Tastes the same to me.)

P.S. or Why I need meds to get through life

Actual conversation I had with the Starbucks barista in my office (yes, there’s a Starbucks in my office. I know, right?):

It was the end of the day on Friday so the pastry options were slim pickins’. Then I spotted a lone slice of raspberry swirl pound cake. My mouth filled with saliva.

Me: May I have that lonesome little raspberry swirl pound cake?
Her: You sure can.
Me: Yay! It looks so sad and lonely. It needs to be in my mouth.
IT NEEDS TO BE IN MY MOUTH.
I should just not talk to people.

The War of The Dip

Hey, remember how I said I’d try to keep up with my blog? Neither do I, because GRAD SCHOOL IS INSANE, YO. I have no memory of anything anymore, because my brain has exceeded its limit. It’s overflowing with information and if I don’t empty it soon… well.

This.
This.

I really need to make more of an effort to get back to writing non-college-y stuff because clearly I’m losing my mind. The perfect segue to this story…

So my husband just had a birthday. He wanted a quiet birthday weekend because, you know, he’s old now. But then something happened.

Let me tell you the back story first: a few years ago Baby Mama unknowingly started a downward spiral of events in my house when she gave Eric her recipe for a chocolate chip cream cheese dip. I’m not sure of the exact recipe, but it’s mostly made of cream cheese and the Tooth Fairy’s tears. It’s the most fattening, delicious, sugary dip you’ve ever regretted eating.

My husband gets on these weird snack phases, and as I’ve mentioned before, he’s very protective of his food. So he was making this dip for himself, buying chocolate animal crackers to go with the dip (animal crackers are essential to this treat, apparently) and this became his new snack.

For months this went on. I cannot emphasize enough how fattening this dip is. First of all, a batch of it is meant for like, a large gathering of people, not one single, insane man. Because the other thing about it was, he would not share it. He’d give me and the boys a measly little taste every once in a while, but he watched our every bite.

We even caught him hiding it in the very back of the refrigerator, all wrapped in aluminum foil like some ridiculous dessert camouflage, meant to throw us off. But he wasn’t counting on this former reader of Nancy Drew, no sir. I spied the empty cream cheese packaging, the mixing attachments in the dishwasher and the not-quite-cleaned out mixing bowls. I wasn’t born yesterday, Mr. Pingle.

I really want to put an inappropriate joke here, but I'll restrain myself.
I really want to put an inappropriate joke here about Nancy and Ned, but I’ll restrain myself.

“You hid the dip in the back of the refrigerator?” I screeched. Both boys perked their ears and swiveled their heads first toward me, then Eric. We all stared at him, waiting.

“Uhhh…” he protested unconvincingly.

It was a dark day in the Pingle household.

He eventually weaned himself off  (after several interventions), and things settled down.

Well, I hate to tell you but The Dip is back.

It started up again a few weeks ago. The ingredients suddenly appeared in the refrigerator. Animal crackers showed up in the pantry.

The weekend after his birthday a bowl of dip beckoned enticingly from the fridge. I was alone and it was that time of day when it’s too early for dinner but well past lunch. I helped myself to some of the dip to tide me over until dinner.

Later that night Eric opened the refrigerator. “Who ate all my dip?” he roared.

“All your dip? I barely had any!” I said.

“You had a lot.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

Pictured: Marriage.
Pictured: Marriage.

“There is plenty left! For one normal person, anyway. Maybe not enough for one ridiculous man,” I huffed.

Later, he set the empty (empty!) bowl in the sink. “That was disappointing,” he sniffed.

He would not shut up about it for the rest of the night. And there was enough dip for four people in that bowl, you guys. He’s insane. Insane.

And he’s allll mine. Happy Birthday, Mr. Pingle.