I'm completely sane. Until you put me in the kitchen.

I hate cooking.  Truly.  I could live on sandwiches every day for the rest of my life.  I AM an absolute wizard on sammiches. It seems, though, that children and other family members like their food cooked from time to time.  Also, they enjoy baked goods.  As much of a disaster as I am COOKING I can actually bake quite well.  I guess it bears mentioning that I can follow the hell out of a cook book and I have lots of measuring utensils. Which means, of course, that I can get a recipe right 9 times out of 10.

The other night my daughter wanted to make a chocolate cake.  Perfect! All she needs is eggs, applesauce (we use applesauce instead of cooking oil or butter) and water.  THANK YOU BETTY CROCKER! So, she does a lovely job mixing and greasing pans - she's making a 2-layer cake. NOM NOM! As the cake is happily baking, she takes the icing out of the pantry so she can sniff it and look at it and love on it before spreading the chocolate love all over that warm cake. WHAT THE WHAT??  She brings me the icing container - the one we just bought the day before. There was a big nasty hole in the "protective" aluminum cover under the plastic lid.  We immediately blamed my son because he's the type of kid to go sticking his fingers where they don't belong. I charged upstairs to his cave to accuse him of fingering the icing. He vehemently denied having touched it.  Usually he also lies, so I berated him until he almost cried.  Which means he wasn't lying so I let him go back to sleep. Knowing that some strange supermarket kid (we hope it was a supermarket kid) had violated our icing, we trashed it. None of us wanted to risk the likely hepatitis or typhoid.

Baby said, "well, why don't you just MAKE some icing?"

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And that's where my mind went dark and I felt very stabby towards him. I suddenly lost any sense I had while he explained how to reduce the chocolate chips, blah blah blah. FUCK ME! My daughter is standing there with that Puss In Boots eye thing, like she might drop a tear at any moment if I don't woman-up and make some goddamn icing. FINE! I stomp over to the fridge and break out the whipping cream.  EXPIRED?! Sonofabitch! Can we use half and half?  Who cares. We're using half and half. I get the cream warming on the stove and I flail over to the pantry in high dramatic fashion and snatch out the stupid chocolate chips.  I'm whisking the chocolate chips in the warm cream and while they're melting, Baby is tossing suggestions out, like, "Hey BAY-BAY! I think you should put some sugar in there. Do we have any powdered sugar?  No? I guess regular sugar's okay.....hey you know what? Throw it all in the mixer, baby."  I could have died right there and taken everyone with me.  Not only do I not WANT to be standing here attempting to make something I've never made and don't even like to eat, but now you're throwing suggestions at me from the couch?! I FARKING KEEEEEL YOU!!!!!! First of all, there's not enough stuff to even make the mixer bowl full enough, and no I'm NOT going to use the hand mixer. I am WHISKING, goddammit.

As my blood pressure continues to rise and my brain is devising various ways to murder my family using sugar and egg whites, I realize it's my daughter's bed time. She is very dejected about not being able to ice her cake , however she is moreso, thrilled to be getting away from me and my kitchen rage. After tucking my daughter in, I returned to the kitchen to continue my torture...except, wait.  The kid has gone to bed.  I don't have to pretend I'm TRYING to make some icing. I take the pot off the stove, grab some wine, light a smoke and sit my happy ass down on the couch.  Baby takes one look at me and decides that if anyone is going to finish the icing experiment, it AIN'T gonna be me.  I just spent a week's worth of angst in 45 minutes in that stupid kitchen.  I. Am. Done.

On the way home through a thunderstorm yesterday, my daughter and I stopped to get icing. Before we paid for it, she looked at me and then took the lid off the container.  Thankfully, there was no finger hole in the aluminum. Total and absolute mom melt-down #2 averted. Thank you, Carmen.

Cheese and RICE! I've gone and done it now...

Last week during the Fest-o-Spite, I was messing around on the computer while bored at work.  I, for some unknown and probably very subliminal reason, went to the FAFSA website.  See, it used to be complicated and convoluted and challenging to submit the federal financial aid application.  Now?  Now it's as easy as updating your facebook status. Without even fully realizing it, I had the whole thing filled out and submitted.  One of the boxed that needed checking was the "school code" box so that the school (or schools) you might apply to will receive your financial aid info. I had been looking at a couple of online programs - one at TSU and one at ASU.  The ASU online program was exactly what I was looking for.  Suddenly, and without much forethought, I contacted ASU to apply for the BS-Communication online degree program.  Turns out, I'll be able to transfer most of the lowly credits I received from junior college in California in the mid-90's.

I'm just sitting here thinking about what a difference a year makes. Last year I was all about partying and living life!!!!  Turns out, I can live life just as well with an education.  Even better, probably. I also figure that now that I'm older I'll probably give a shit that I'm spending money to learn something.  This means I'll probably pass mostly everything and keep decent deadlines and bring an online apple for the teacher. In other words, I'll be my 9-year old daughter.

Here's to getting bright, using new words that I don't understand, and fighting educational and financial bureaucracy for the next 2-3 years.  Go me.

I have a disease called SPITE

spite

spaɪt/ Show Spelled [spahyt] Show IPA noun, verb, spit·ed, spit·ing.

noun

1. a malicious, usually petty, desire to harm, annoy, frustrate, or humiliate another person; bitter ill will; malice.

2. a particular instance of such an attitude or action; grudge.

3. Obsolete . something that causes vexation; annoyance.

 

I don't think it's particularly malicious, how I execute my spite.  It, moreso, has to do with: when I get really angry to the point of the humiliating, public, "angry-cry", I get very very driven to SHOW SOMEONE. That someone doesn't have to be a real person.  Shit, the someone is frequently me.  So. I think I'm spite-y towards myself.  If that's possible.  The good part of that, though, is that it always moves me fervently forward in my personal growth and life progress.

 

Apparently, last week's talking-to got me real mad.  And I decided that I need to not work for other people for a whole lot longer.  I like when other people pay me. I like that I'm not ultimately responsible for the well-being of the company, its staff or its product(s). But I don't like that I have to check in with someone and I have to account to someone. And I obviously don't want to keep the office hours that have been firmly suggested to me. And by firmly, I mean, "keep these hours or we'll fire you".  I have, therefore, decided to further reduce stress in my life.  I will be slowly and methodically looking for a cushy job closer to home that pays nearly the same with similar or better benefits. I don't know if such a thing exists, but I aim to find out.

 

I have also decided to earn my degree.  In the mid-90's I went to a community college in California.  It was mostly for shits and giggles, but, turns out some of those credit will likely transfer.  Yay me!!

 

While most people fight against their main disease or illness, I usually let mine carry me away.  Oddly, my ailments are usually and eventually to my benefit.

Things that make puppies sing and difficult women behave

Yesterday was very trying. UP, down. UP, down. UP, down.

My car developed an severe attitude on Friday night and she decided to act her age.  Which in dog years means she's about 77. She blew a bunch of hoses and she hissed and she whined and she got all hot under the collar. Tempermental bitch. I had to have her towed to the shop but, because it was a long weekend, I had to wait until they opened back up on Tuesday.  I worked from home Tuesday so I could sign the car over to the tow company.  This all means, of course, that I had no way to get to work.

Yesterday, I carpooled with Baby - I dropped him off and took his car in to work. I arrived around 9am. My regular office hours are 830am to 5pm and because I'm a glorified secretary and cannot, apparently, make adult decisions, I must turn in a time card and I have to answer to some overpaid office bitch who is underworked and bored to tears.

Strike #1: late to work

I had planned to leave work early yesterday for my son's first football game. I asked my boss and she was fine with it. She recommended I e-mail the office Nazi, which I did. Apparently it has been decided that certain people I work with HATE me.  I'm cool with that. However, I had a good talking to by The Big Cheese about my work hours. Okay, okay...I hardly ever get to work by 830am. I will not, however, apologize for asking to leave an hour early to go watch my son play football.  Missing a kid event is one of those things a kid remembers for a lifetime. Will my coworkers remember I left an hour early on September 7th, 2011?  Very unlikely.

Strike #2: stern talking to about my work hours

I went to the football game after picking up the daughter from day care.  Baby was already at the game.

UNstrike #1: made it to the game and Baby supported my son (insert hearts and butterflies and kittens stuffed with rainbows)

UNstrike #2:  they won the football game :D

I had my son's optometrist appointment scheduled for tomorrow, but since I didn't know when I was getting the car back from the shop, I called to reschedule. Keep in mind I work from "830am" to 5pm. The eye doc does have late hours twice a week, but they couldn't fit my son in for several weeks. Yeah...that's not gonna work. They offered me a 10am next week.  Again...not gonna work for my schedule.  Really?  How about a 3pm tomorrow.  HELLO?  Perhaps my English isn't so good.  I need to work you into MY schedule ...you know what? It's fine.  I'm afraid I'm going to have to fire you now.

Strike 3: find a new eye doc soonest so my son can get contacts.

I called an eye place near the fired eye place.  Not only are they still close by, but they had THREE Saturday appointments for this weekend. (YEAH!!)

UNstrike #3: scheduled eye appointments

I received a call from my mechanic about the car.  They were all done! YAY!  I can have my car back....after shelling out $511

Strike #4: pay out the ass for some fucking hoses

UNstrike #4: just so happens I have the money to be able to do it and I'll pick up the car Thursday.

The same afternoon (yesterday) I finally got a call back from my doctor.  I've been having a few "women's health issues" and I need to get it resolved soonest.  There are a few things I refuse to give up in my life and sex is one of them. The nurse suggested I come back in for another look-see.  Yeah....good call, sweets.  That's exactly what I was thinking. Hopefully we can come to an agreement on a course of treatment (read: they do what the hell I want them to do).

UNstrike #5: fix uterus

Because I was feeling stressed about all the silliness of the day, I decided to shop.  My type of shopping involved ordering DirectTV for the house so we could catch all the football games and all the premium channels. *HAPPPPPY SIGH* Well, I figure it's better than coming home with a bag full of shoes or jewelry.

UNstrike #6: buy stuff in order to feel better

Oh, I'm sure there were more trials yesterday of the regular sort: traffic, dinner, trash day, homework, carpooling. But all that was forgotten when, after the kids were in bed and the house was quiet, Baby laid me across his lap and played in my hair. This is the final and eternal cure for EVERYTHING.