Imagine, if you will, yourself, at home alone on boys' night out. (If you are a boy, please either imagine yourself as a girl or change "boys' night out" to "girls' night out.") You're having a grand ol' time watching reruns of the Big Bang Theory, pretending it is research for new class material.
An onion ring makes an appearance. Your mouth waters. Your loins quiver. You try not to remember that you can make awesome onion rings.
You continue watching for a reasonable time, until transition to sleepytime is practical, but you can hold back the truth no further. You bought an onion two days ago, right before Peter called and announced you were going out to eat. It sits in the icebox, awaiting you. (Yes, I know onions don't live in the icebox. I like to think outside the box. Or in it.) You have the flour--you always have flour, Betty Crocker. The bodega downstairs doesn't close for another 15 minutes.
It's meant to be.
Off you trot in your PJ's (people stare no matter what, might as well be comfortable) and return with a bottle of Xi'an's cheapest. The pile of dirty dishes in the sink only slightly dampens the mood. You're whistling (well, you would be if you could whistle) as you forage for cleanish dishes and line seasonings up in a row. Down, down to the deepest depths of the cabinet you delve for that all-essential but rarely used flour.
You remember the flour clearly. You remember insisting on buying it about nine months ago, the flour and an airtight plastic tub (ridonkulously expensive in China) to keep it in. After using about nine tablespoons of it, you decided on a new organizational system. You wrapped it and a bag of rice up in a cleverly arranged network of zipper bags, then filled the tub with cleaning supplies. Tub and flour parted company.
A phone call to your husband establishes that he doesn't remember what he did. More talking establishes that he remembers taking the rice, and only the rice, to use in his noodle shop. (No, that's not supposed to make sense.) The karaoke music in the background is getting distracting, but even more talking establishes that he is sincerely repentant for an offense he does not fully understand. He holds firm on the fact that the rice and rice only left the house with him, and quickly follows up with a promise of piles of golden-brown onion rings at his shop tomorrow (presumably made from rice...?).
It is tempting. His onion rings are better than yours. So much better, you're not even jealous. And he's truly sorry. Yep, he's a keeper.
Nevertheless, it won't help you tonight. You let him off the hook and ask him to sing Poker Face for you (again).
Plan second is the world's most awesome smoothie: pineapple-mango, FTW! There's just enough stuff left to make a really good one. The mangoes are wrinkly...which means they're in perfect ripeness. Their smell is intoxicating. Funny, I've never seen pineapple like that before. I wonder what it tastes--oh. Where's the trash can?
So, to recap, you've got no onion rings, no delicious smoothie, and the taste of overripe-and-not-in-a-good-way pineapple in your mouth. Sigh.
But! You've still got your Big Bang Theory research to do (that would be a lot more auspicious if it wasn't capitalized) and you do, after all, have the beer!
Which is warm.