But, here's the deal. I may have a sweet tooth, but I'm frickin spoiled as hell when it comes to my sweets. Plain ice cream, get that shit away from me. I've got to have bits. I even coined the phrase to Zak, I gotta have my bits. Hell, even McD's knows I want bits. It says something about bits on the side of the McFlurry. It's all like, regular ice cream is shit, where 'da bits at?! I should work in marketing.
I'm like this with everything. I'm a picky bastard. Seriously, Z hates going to get stuff for me at fast food places because I'm annoyingly weird and picky. I'm all about customizing shit. And if it gets f'd up then the conversation goes like this, "Oh, you got bacon on my bacon cheddar potato wedges that I specifically requested no bacon on and you forgot the sour cream" "Sorry" "Oh, it's fiiiiinnnneee." <---- When I say fine like that, it's not fine. I'm not going to eat that shit. My husband is used to my craziness and he acts awesome about it. One time when I was a million months pregnant and really crazy and he was doing one of my weird no ground beef substitute beans add cheese type of orders he actually like pleaded with the person taking the order, "Please god, do me a solid, and don't screw this up, my wife is a million months pregnant and will kill us both." God, what a poor, poor bastard to deal with me when I was pregnant. That Taco Bell guy probably really, really felt sorry for my husband. They didn't screw it up, though which means they were probably afraid something like this was going to happen:
I was soooo crazy when pregnant. This post is getting too long, so I'll have to spare you some of the crazy for another day. But, I'll end with a funny kid story, my nephew was playing with Matchboxes and was all like, "LOOK AT THIS I GOT A HOOKER CAR! IT'S A HOOKER CAR! HOOKER CAR! HOOKER CAR!" which upon further inspection is not an 84 Chevy Impala, it's actually a tow truck.