I have a few vices. Lots of them, actually. But here are the Big Three. The Trifecta. The ones that are my own personal brand of heroin… (Shout out to you and your amazing, totally articulate literature, Stephanie Meyer! You totally got shafted at last year’s Pulitzers.)
The word “fuck.”
All these things are bad for me. Well, the f-bomb isn’t necessarily bad for me, so much as it is a crappy thing to say in front of my three-year old. I’m trying my best at keeping it out of my vocabulary when he is in earshot. But, then I drop a bowl of raw, cubed chicken breast marinated in olive oil and lemon juice on the floor. FUCK! Out it slips. I can’t help it. It is a bad thing, but so is salmonella festering on the kitchen floor; and unfortunately all you can do is do your best to clean it up and hope it won’t infect your kids.
And here is the thing about Diet Coke… I know I’ll never be able to kick this habit. All it is about is keeping this one under control. I’m sure I could polish off a twelve pack in forty-eight hours if left unchecked.
A few months ago, when we permanently cut white bread off the team of Grocery Store All Stars, I died a little inside. I mourned the loss of my fluffy white friend, but after a few days, I got used to wheat bread. I don’t mind it so much anymore. I don’t eat near as much bread as I did when we were buying white bread. I suppose that was the point, after all.
Today, I fell off the wagon. I had a relapse. I bought frozen bread dough, patiently waited for it to rise, popped it in the oven and sat in the kitchen for twenty minutes while its intoxicating aroma filled the air.
The next thing I knew, I was hoovering the crumbs off Finn’s plate.
Oh. My. God. I just ate an entire loaf of bread.
Good thing that I had that crisp, cold Diet Coke to wash it down.