Day 15: Eggs with a side of Chronic Depression

I am a spoiled American. There are children suffering in China and Sudan, there are millions that are going hungry here on our very turf; and yet when my husband told me that we couldn't go to a nice dinner with our favorite friends last weekend, I literally cried. Like, with real tears. And then I pouted for a solid hour while I gave him incriminating looks meant to make him feel like the horrible food nazi that he is. Naturally, he hardly noticed. Maybe he was punishing me for my fabulous hair (see previous post), or maybe he was trying to follow through on the goal that we set out to accomplish (such a goody goody) but either way I ended up crying over my egg sandwich and stale potato chips. When I got over it (3 days later) I realized that it was the right decision because we didn't have the cash allotted for it and I would have felt bad about it the next day. Plus I saved a load of calories, so there's that. I'm bitter, 2 pounds lighter, and have no friends; but by God we are right on track.

Make no mistake, I hate budgeting. As I hate Hell, and all Montegue.

As this budget is slowly turning me into a sulking, pouty Crank; it is affecting Ashley in a totally different way.

Let me explain.

We are on our way back from the market this past weekend when Ashley looks at me and says, "I need to tell you something. But I need you not to get mad." Side note to all men: When you say, "don't be mad" before your next statement you are essentially providing the springboard to our rage, to which we then just have to decide at what level of rage the statement deserves. So of course I immediately get mad because I automatically assume he is having an illicit affair with... with who? That slutbag red head that helped bag our groceries (and apparently alot more)? She gave him double coupon points when it clearly wasn't allowed. I should have known. As I start mentally clawing those freckles off of her smug little face, Ashley goes on. "Since we have started this budget and have stopped eating out, I have lost 10 pounds." Suddenly it's not the redhead's face I am mentally clawing at (my apologies for the slutbag comment, I am sure you are a nice girl). I look at his sheepish expression. "And your point is?" I ask. "Well, my pants are not fitting anymore and I need to get a little more fat in my diet so I can keep some weight on." Of course. Why wouldn't he accidentally lose the weight that I literally devoted an entire challenge to last month just by cutting out a taco bell meal? Because he is a man, and that is precisely the reason that I should have been a lesbian... or a man.

Meanwhile, this is what my lunch is looking like these days... I wonder how much cash I need to allocate for a Prozac prescription?