All I want is a spicy tuna roll. Just one little inside-out spicy tuna roll from Iron Chef House, doused in soy sauce with just a dab of wasabi. It’s all I can think about. It’s all I can daydream about.
Fortunately it’s not all I can actually dream about; the most recent unconscious nightly sex romp was with none other than Jay Mohr. So Yvonne, if you’re reading? Tell your buddy Jay he was awesome–maybe even better than Jon Stewart. Also thank him for bringing the red wine.
I insisted on ordering Japanese food for dinner tonight, perhaps to torture myself (or test myself?) since I know that Nate, that scallywag, that scamp, will order my taboo dish for his very own. The eight beautifully composed pieces taunt me from the take-out container, where they nestle cozily against my own pathetically unsatisfying vegetable rolls. They’re already touching, I try justifying. They’re already touching!
I fantasize about pilfering a single piece when Nate’s not looking, distracting him by switching the channel from Aqua Teen Hunger Force to Wife Swap. While he rants and raves and makes a big show of snatching away the remote control, I will swoop in, downing one of his precious rolls in a single bite.
I know he’s onto me. I know he’s keeping count of his pieces, mentally subtracting one each time the chopsticks hit his mouth. The cretin. The bastard.
Today, I turned down chocolate cake. I ate a single Pepperidge Farm Cookie off a cookie tray at work (and Greg will back me up on the difficulty of that). Nate brought home a black and white milkshake for me the other day that is yet untouched and congealing at the bottom of our freezer drawer. I have yet to eat a single Pop Tart since the pee hit the stick that one fateful morning in August. But for some reason, the true forbidden fruit taunts this pregnant woman and her vulnerable immune system above all else.
Why, spicy tuna rolls? Why?