All the Small Things

I hit the "bad weight" on the doctor's scale today, the "bad weight" being exactly two pounds fewer than my heaviest weight ever. So I sprang into action. I bought a salad for lunch. Hit the elliptical trainer and the free weights after work. And I topped everything off with a homemade chicken scallopini dinner courtesy of the Boyf, half a loaf of french bread, and a hot fudge sundae while watching two hours of "The Apprentice." Like they said in BTTF: Progress is my middle name. (But memo to "Apprentice" cast members Andrea and Tammy: You'll get your comeuppance, you prissy backstabbers. Oh, yes. Yes, you will.)

The great thing about tonight, though, wasn't the Donald. (Imagine that.) The Boyf is lactose intolerant and has to take pills with any dairy, while my love for ice cream is pretty much unequaled.* I half-mentioned to the Boyf that I might want some ice cream, and after I tore myself away from the first episode of "The Apprentice," I went into his kitchen to find him slicing bananas over two bowls, each with a small mountain vanilla ice cream, complete with rivers of hot fudge. In my years-old relationship, there was something extraordinarily nurturing about seeing him prepare the devil's candy for me, just because he knew I liked it. And that was a sinful turn-on.

*(Special Hint for New Yorkers (and Bostonians): Emack and Bolio's has the best ice cream in the city. Oh, and never, ever fall victim to Tasti-D-Lite. That's just ice cream blasphemy.)