Hello. My name is Rosemary. And I'm an addict.
Okay, so my name isn't really Rosemary - that's the name of my blog, or part of it anyway. Meant it to refer to an herb, but it could just as easily mean me. Right?
But I am an addict. An ice cream addict.
It's appalling, actually.
For the last four or five months I have been very capably managing my addiction. I successfully removed from my house any ice cream that is even remotely appealing to me. I have kid-friendly popsicles in a variety of neon colors and some artificially-greened up mint choco-chip - see, it's not even real chocolate! Who would eat that? Not me! No one over the age of reason, really.
I very consciously bought the Weight Watchers Giant Cookies & Cream Bars to deal with the occasional craving. They're like the patch. Not really ice cream, but I could make myself eat them because I felt fairly virtuous trying to stave off my craving for sweet and frozen with something so full of FIBER. I'd eat one. And stop. Perfect!
Then, two weeks ago, with company coming, I did the unthinkable. Breyers was on sale. And I bought one. Well, I paid for one. Really, I bought two. That's the problem with a buy-one, get-one sale. You buy two.
I know - most of you have more refined tastes. You want the Ben & Jerry's or the Hagen Dazs. Not me. I'm a Breyers girl, through and through. Love their mint chocolate chip. Real mint. No green. And their rocky road? Oooooh. They dip the almonds in chocolate. Really, need I say more?
I bought one of each.
I wish I could say I controlled myself. I wish I could say I put a single scoop in a demure bowl and ate it delicately from a demitasse spoon with my pinky extended.
That is not what I did. I took the whole carton, pried it open, plopped it next to me on the sofa as if it were my best friend, grabbed the biggest soup spoon I could find, and dug in while I watched American Idol (yes, I watch American Idol, too). I ate half of it.
The other half went during the results show.
And once that one was gone? I waited a few days. Tried to fool myself that I was back in charge. Clean and sober.
Then I ate the other one. And I baked a nice batch of brownies for my guests.
So yes, I'm an addict. And I have just fallen off the wagon. Hard.
I blame my dad for this. I love my dad. Smart man. Good man. And a good and loving dad. And when my folks divorced and he was trying to find a way to stay connected to his kids, he did a good and loving thing. He introduced the concept of Ice Cream Mondays. Every Monday, he'd pick me and my sister up at school, and we'd head off to the local deluxe ice cream shop for a decadent cone of whatever the heck we wanted. My favorite was the bubble gum ice cream. Pink and sweet and gummy. Yes, gummy, because there was real gum in it. I'd pair it with chocolate. Chocolate goes with everything.
Ice Cream Mondays were the highlight of my week. I lived for Ice Cream Mondays. Got to see my dad and feed my burgeoning addiction. I was eight. I couldn't possibly know that ice cream, for me, might as well be nicotine, Jack Daniels and crystal meth all rolled into one.
I did outgrow the bubble gum. But the chocolate ... oh the chocolate! I gave up three whole years of my life to chocolate ice cream.
That happened in college. At the start of my sophomore year, my friend Gabe had joined the student newspaper staff. I should come too, she said. No no! It was not for me. No time. But she'd been asked to do a story on the local Baskin Robbins. They were introducing 10 new flavors. And not just any 10 flavors. All 10 were variations on a single, luscious, irresistible theme. Oh, I can barely say it! They were chocolate. All 10 of them. I could not let Gabe go in there alone. So I went with her ... and spent the next three years sacrificing every one of my Wednesday and Thursday nights - and any other free time I might have - to the paper. They suckered me in with ice cream.
I have yet to forgive Gabe for that. Though I'm not sure she knows that.
Which brings me to the Breyers. I finished the second carton yesterday. I have now been clean for 24 hours. I can do this. One day at a time, right?
So, there is no more Breyers in the house. There will be no more Breyers in this house.
There are, however, Milanos.