indiscretions

So I bought a bag of Cadbury Mini-Eggs at the drugstore last week. The Easter candy was out and they called my name. They're almost all gone. All right, it was Friday afternoon, satisfied? I've kept them hidden in my underwear drawer and I find many, many excuses to dig around in there until I find them in their sweet-chalky delight covering that satisfying little knob of chocolate. Baby's crying, well, for God's sake I need a handful. Finished with lunch? Well, just a few for dessert, of course. Have to make a phone call? What better way to calm my nerves? I'm not entirely sure why I'm hiding them either. It's not like M's a food Nazi. If anything, I'm hiding them FROM him. Oh.
Since I've been nursing I've refined my sweet tooth -- and by refined I mean given into it utterly. While pregnant, anything salty was delightful but now I eat cookies and candies hand over fist. Now there's a lovely image. Happy little nursing mother gorging herself on sweets all day long. Taking her head out of the sugar rimmed trough just long enough to breastfeed her baby. If I keep this up, though, I'm afraid I'll have to go to the dentist. I should go anyway, I know, but I've recently developed an aversion. My last dental visit was while I was about 7 month pregnant and the idiot dentist kept me tipped backwards in the chair until I thought I was going to pass out. I know I should have said something, but I have this unhelpful endurance reflex that kicks in in these situations. I tell myself, I can handle this, and this, and this, and now I'm blacking out. I didn't pass out, but I felt so crappy afterward that I am in no rush to go back. So really it's my fault, even though even a dentist know that pregnant ladies hate being upside down when you torture them with the ultrasonic tartar remover. Here's another reason I don't want to go back. My dentist dedicates a corner of his waiting room to Christian propaganda. I only noticed this last time, as I staggered out with my big belly. Or perhaps I hallucinated it, but then I thought back and he had asked me if I go to church. I hate that. I have no problem with religion. I think it's great, but PLEASE do not try to get me to join your club. I will resist to my dying breath (ha ha). It takes me right back to the 4-H functions at the Grange hall when I was eight or nine years old (small town on the Eastern Plains in CO). I was there, dressed in my skirt and sneakers with knee socks, hair braided, running around screaming like a banshee with the rest of the kids until I got cornered by an old lady who asked me whether I was saved, if I had accepted Jesus, if I went to church. I think this happened more than once, because I know once I was confused about being saved... like, from drowning, and once I lied and said that we go to that other church.... hee hee, the church of Satan. I would have more fun with it now, I think. At the time I was perplexed and embarassed and a little ashamed, which was stupid, but there's nothing like a little old lady serving pancakes to instill in you the sense that you're doing something wrong, bad and stupid. Who needs it? I think I need a little chocolate now...