Home Alone

There are dangers, my friends, in being home alone. 

Dangers. 

You can lock the doors, fasten the windows, block the cracks, strap the phone to your side with "911" on speedial 5 (I've had a session with our phone keypad and found that it's the button my finger will go to with the most reliability in response to an emergency. I'd advise a similar session with your handiest calling device), even sit in the bathroom with the door locked on the inside, but the danger is still present. 

It's not always a man in a mask or a convict in stripes (though I think we've updated to orange now...). It's not always a raging beast clawing at the door. Sometimes, the danger is much, much closer to home. 

And sometimes it's much, much more disguised.

And then, of course, sometimes it's in a mustard yellow, microwave safe bowl with sprays of white flowers on the side, guarded only by a singularly defenseless strip of plastic wrap that's already been tampered with.

Twice. 

Ladies, it's puppy chow. 

Muddy buddies. 

Whatever you call them - I've heard differing interpretations - they're rice Chex coated in peanut butter and chocolate and shaken in a bag with powdered sugar. And...they're...delicious. 

I think you now understand - if you didn't before - my desperate plight. 

I've already eaten the ones obviously endowed with extra chocolate. I've already had several samples of the crumbles at the bottom, complete with extra sugar that didn't adhere to the mixture, and the plastic wrap's defenses are starting to wear down.

I can feel its presence in the other room, though I have wisely removed myself from the near premises. 

But I know it will only be a matter of time.

A matter of time before I am the person who managed to finish off a third of a bowl of muddy buddies singlehandedly. 

I will hold out as long as I can, but reinforcements must come.

Preferably someone who will share them with me or eat the rest.

Or I am, and forever will be (until tomorrow, at least), sunk. 

Completely and totally sunk.