Nabisco! Damn you! What have you done to me? These Oreo Cakesters - little chocolaty cakes filled with oozing cream that I swear must be laced with crack or the love of a million elfin bakers who want me to have the ass of a sedentary soul - demand a level of love and commitment from me that, quite frankly, scares me. One taste. That's all it took. One simple, nonchalant taste and I was coming back for more as soon as it seemed reasonable. Like within 12 minutes. I mean, that's reasonable, right?
Since bringing this crazy lover into my home a week ago, I've found myself pacing my kitchen, my heart brimming with lust that has transpired into something deeper. Entranced in a love affair I know is going to end up making me feel really bad about myself and require an extra 30 minutes of kick boxing to break free of. Hanging my head in passion riddled defeat, I open and close the pantry about 20 times every night. Look at the box with longing. Tell myself to walk away, give them to my sons. Anything to break myself of this burgeoning addiction. But, because the sugar is stronger than me sometimes, because the sweet can be so sweet, before I realize it, I have Oreo Cakesters (god, what you do to me, original flavor...) out again. My fingers trace the shiny blue and red package and I feel the outline of their soft and springy roundness through the foil of their individually wrapped love. Their creamy centers are in there, wanting me as much as I want them.
I told them I loved them fast. Within two bites. If you've tasted them then can you blame me? Note that angelic light and cloud of deliciousness that surrounds the Cakesters on the box and tell me you'd not not spill your love to them the moment they asked if you cared for them like they did you. As the crumbs dropped from the corner of my mouth and landed atop my left breast, I knew I was taking the Whoreville Express to Snack Land. Oh, my love was a muffled confession, sure, what with my mouth full of the goodness and all, but when I looked down at the cake and saw that my delicate bite had transformed the once round snack into the sweet crescent shape of a smile, I should've realized that smile was its way of sinking deeper into me, knowing I'd be back.
And that it would have the potential for evil, as it seems all good things eventually do.
"O R U our whore?" they repeat, and this time it seems they are more intense in their inquiry.
"O R I ever, dammit" I cry. Caving. I've a history of being a caver. Tossing aside the bag of baby carrots I pull out of the fridge every time we play this silly game of "cake versus girl," I admit it. Again. Like I always do. This time I nearly tripped over myself to get to the pantry cabinet and free my sugary lover from its dark confines.
That's when I hear another voice.
"O R U sure about that? What about us? Don't you want us? Taste us. Now! DO IT NOW!"
Oreo Chocolate Creme Cakesters! With creamy chocolate deliciousness oozing between its deep, dark cakey orbs. Sigh...
"O U know what they say, right?" they ask, a collective voice much more forceful than the whispered commands of my original fat-laden lover. I'll admit it. The control behind them is a turn on.
"Tell me..." I command back.
"Once you go Oreo Chocolate Creme Cakesters, you don't go back..." the twelve of them, conveniently twin wrapped into six tidy packages, say in husky unison. "So I hear..." I growl, and dive in, willing to let my once dominant vanilla lover watch as I put the chocolate Cakester's theory to the test. God. Sold. Sold hard. What's that? I have a little smidgen of the chocolate filling at the corner of my smirk? Impossible. I took that cake hard. There's no way there's a crumb left anywhere.
Yeah. I'm Nabisco's little snack cake whore. So what. Sometimes things that are bad for you are good for a time. I'm willing to accept that. I'm even willing to have a threesome with both flavors and myself. OK, fine, I must add that in the spirit of full confession I have indeed had a threesome with them. When a glass of icy cold skim milk comes sniffing around at the same time, I may have reached for it without once looking up from what I was doing in devouring the two delicious flavors and sucked it down, too. If that makes me a snack whore, so be it.
And the answer is yes. Yes, I'm prepared for the bad. The sugar headaches. The extra time with the Turbo Jam DVD. The guilt. God. The guilt. The lingering, festering guilt...
But when they're gone, they're gone. No more. Oh, I hear them asking "O R U doubtful?" The answer is no. No, I am not doubtful. Whether they like it or not, I control them.
O R I just kidding myself...