The labs came back Monday. I’ve got celiac disease. It’s not the end of the world, but going gluten free is going to be quite an adjustment.
Last night, I was bemoaning the fact that everything I was cooking for dinner had been infected with gluten cooties. So my loving husband hugged me and said, “I’m sorry you’re having a rough time. Here, have a cupcake. I know they’re your favorite.” And they are! You know, the cream filled ones topped with the chocolate ganache and finished off with the trademark white swirls.
While my deepest desire was to respond like this:
My oozie brassiere was in the wash. Meh, I don’t really have the figure to do the move justice anyway.
The rest of my
week night went more like this:
Nevertheless, I have come to value my colon, and as the old saying goes, I’m sick and tired of being… well, you get the idea. So I will suck it up, mourn my unrestricted diet, and try to brave this new world where everything is contaminated with the glutes. I swear, it’s horrifying! Like the first time I saw a hotel room under a black light…
But I digress.
Farewell, sweet Taco Bell. I shall miss your chalupas and nacho bellgrandes and cinnamon twisties. To be fair, I can partake of their sour cream, salsa, and most of their fountain drinks, so not all is lost.
I’m going to go watch Dirty Dancing and have a good cry now.