Women and their Cheese

Why is it that women love cheese so much? It is just a lump of salted fat from the milk of some mammal... but every woman I know loves cheese! Even the skinny ones! We go out to dinner, and the skinny girls devour goat cheese like it is the last day on earth. As I sit here and type, I have images of my friends eating cheese. They start longingly at it, knowing that they should not, dare not, eat it. Five minutes later, they have maneuvered closer to that tempting chunk and their pupils dilate as they imagine biting into the soft, salty slice of heaven. The next time I look, the cheese is in hand, and they are chewing contentedly while sort of looking lovingly at their little trophy.

The funny thing is... I used to think no one noticed.

I went out to the bar one night and resisted the temptation to soak up my alcohol infused stomach with a late night trip to White Castle. But upon arriving home, my stomach grumbled... I guess a night of dancing like Beyonce will do that to you. As I did the open door fridge scan, my eyes lit upon slices of American cheese in their own wrapper. The heavens opened and angels began to sing. And I went to bed with a satisfied belly.

The next day, I felt proud that I didn't eat an extra value meal and settled on a slice of Kraft. That is, until my friend's older brother was like, "Don't think I didn't see you last night, searching the fridge for cheese." Busted.

I split my pants...

After being at work all day, coming home and eating a shit ton of cookies, my husband convinces me to go to Trader Joe's. So I do and keep it healthy, all the while thinking to myself "This is it, I am going to eat healthy like those skinny bee-otches that proclaim their undying love for salads." Although I did not, in fact, buy anything to use to make a salad... but that is beside the point.

And sidenote... who the F loves salad? It is cold! You can't warm it to make it be comforting!

Ok- enough... back to my point.

So I think to myself "I will start tomorrow" and decide that since I am going to give up cheese for good, I better get myself something cheesy and bid the lump of delectable cow fat farewell (insert sniff, tear). I pull a sneaky ninja move at the checkout and ask for money over with my debit card... this of course enables me to go buy fast food without Jack Sprat noticing the debit (as I suck at actually carrying cash with me). I think to myself, "Personal Pan Pizza from Pizza Hut drive-through" and motor on over, but not before passing the White Castle and deciding I also needed a small order of Mozzarella sticks.

And yes, I eat them... hey- it isn't the elusive tomorrow, in which I will start over... but I don't want Jack to see me snorking down food as if the apocalypse is coming, so I do my snorking in the car, like usual. Then I felt sick to my stomach... this is because I am lactose intolerant, yet I can't seem to keep away from cheese. I of course have a theory on Women with their Cheese, but that will have to come later, as I already have too many side notes going in this post.

Anyway, so I get home and bring in the groceries... give Jack his lean steak- the original reason I went to good 'ole TJ's- and take a detour into the washroom, where I discover...

... that I had split my pants in front, just below the zipper, yet in full view of the crotchal region. Not quite as bad as the evening of Jock's Nuts, but seriously? The blue paisley panties were in full view.

So here we go again... I know I have said this over and over but thought perhaps I could try using writing as an outlet. Yes, I decided to call my blog Jack Sprat's wife... this is because I feel like that wife that could eat no lean. Or, rather, can eat lean, but only for a couple weeks and then falls back into a rut that results in me feeling too full because I ate too much damn cheese.