Eventually this will have to stop. But not tonight.

It came while I was in the kitchen making Double Chocolate Mousse.

It came while I was wondering if the peaks of my egg whites were "stiff, but not dry."

It came while I was totally unprepared.

The commercial. THE. COMMERCIAL.


{Good God, I've waited a long time for you.}

The Husband, while in the den watching (what else?) sports, called to me.

Him: Honey?
Me: Mmmm... (licking spoon)... what?
Him: I think you might want to come see this.
Me: (a pause, frozen mid-lick) What is it?
Him: It's... The Commercial.
Me: (another pause, heart stops) Are you freaking kidding me?!

I didn't wait for a response. I bounded over the kitchen counter, cartwheeled down the stairs and nearly gave the cats heart failure as I sprinted into the den where my saintly husband had rewound (is it technically considered "rewinding" on a DVR?) to the start of The Commercial.

Then I may have squealed, but it was totally sweet and song-like. As was my "Oh, my God. Oh. My. God. OH, MY GOD!" as he pressed play.

I may have jumped up and down once or twice or three hundred times.

I may have pressed my hands to my heart and smacked The Husband in the arm repeatedly while I watched.

When it was over, thirty incredibly short seconds later, I turned to The Husband.

Me: Give me the remote.
Him: Why?
Me: So I can record it!
Him: (holding the remote out of reach) No. That's stupid. You'll see it again.
Me: Honey. I'm not kidding. Give me. The remote. Now.
Him: Steph, seriously--

And that's when I tackled him. Sweating and panting for breath, I came up the victor and hit the button to record. It meant I had to record the entire Angels game, but some things are worth searching for through three hours of sports. Then it occurred to me. YouTube. Thank God for YouTube. Clearly He created it just for me. Just for this moment. Just so I could watch The Commercial over and over and over again.

So, apparently, I'm blessed.

(And clearly psychotic. It's okay. I've accepted it.)