OK, it’s time for me to tell the truth and completely destroy the image you might have of me. The unvarnished truth. My 11 guilty pleasures.
I love eating peanut butter out of the jar. In my defense, at least I use a teaspoon instead of a tablespoon. Oh, and I don’t care if it’s creamy or chunky. I don’t even care if it’s organic or not. My doctor says it must be organic. OK, I’ll switch to organic. And I’ll stick with a teaspoon. I can exercise some restraint.
Since I started blogging, I’ve been serving my husband frozen dinners on more than a few occasions. Remember when I blogged about our empty refrigerator? I wasn’t kidding. I’ve studied cooking in Italy, New York and Los Angeles. Am I proud of the current state of food affairs in my home? No, but these days I’m more interested in blogging. (I can’t believe I’ve told you that.)
I love reading trashy novels about British royalty. Everybody’s books, from Kitty Kelly, to the palace maid, the Duke’s chauffeur and the Princess’s butler. But, I cannot bring myself to read the expose by Diana’s lover. That is too low. One must draw the line somewhere.
There are entire days when I sit at the computer in my nightgown. Teeth not brushed, hair not brushed, immersed in writing, editing and working on photos– all for the blog. But, no, I do not take my 52 year marriage for granted; I just have a very loving and understanding husband who is delighted that I am enjoying myself so much.
Each morning, I make a beeline to www.dailymail.uk.com for the best trashy gossip. I turn here for my first fix of daily rubbish. I justify this by pretending it’s got some class because it’s British. I have years of practice at world-class rationalizing.
OK, don’t tell anyone, but I’m the friend that watches The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, New Jersey and New York. Those are the only ones I watch, I promise. One must have one’s standards. Whenever my husband catches me watching these shows, he shakes his head and says, “ How can an intelligent woman like you watch this ****?” Fortunately, he loves me anyway. I never had a highbrow image to begin with.
I love listening to sales pitches on QVC and HSN. I don’t buy anything. Well, I did. Three times. But, everything I bought, I returned. So now, I just listen. In fact I’m amazed at the brilliant way they make me think that I really need that “floor, vitamin, eye lash, wiper upper, fake cubic zirconium ring, thingie” which I know I will return. But, they almost get me to pick up the phone. Almost.
I confess, I’m still buying lipsticks. You read it here first. I haven’t stopped. I’m still looking for “the perfect lipstick.” I think I need an intervention. Does looking for the perfect blush also fall into this category? If so, I’m busted. If I tell my friends about this, they look at me aghast, laugh and question my sanity. Don’t even talk about makeup brushes. Is three hundred too many ? Yep, I see an intervention on the horizon.
Does loving Trader Joe’s Charles Shaw Pinot Grigio make me less of a connoisseur? I also used to like gallon-sized Gallo’s Hearty Burgundy. Remember that one? Told you I wasn’t high brow.
A lot of people rhapsodize about Swiss, French and Belgian chocolate. I’ll take chewy, hot spicy cinnamon bears anytime They used to be at the corner Rexall Drugstore, but it’s gone and they’re gone. I used to sheepishly walk to the back of the store and order only one dollar’s worth. I thought that would make it more dietetic.I miss my bears, so I now have to locate a new resource and refill my stash. But, do I have the energy to go on a quest for cinnamon bears? Maybe I’d better stay in my bathrobe and write another blog.
As Popeye would say,