I could say kinda legally this is a guest posting. But it’s kinda legally not. It’s still me but my doctor put me on some crap to make my vajazzle do its monthly job and Dear God in heaven it’s making even me question who the hell I am this week.
Or who I’m not. This week.
Therefore, here’s a disclaimer for whatever reason one might be needed since this is kinda me but then kinda not.
And if I didn’t cover everything…be sure and throw whatever isn’t covered in the comments:
For recreational use only. For office use only. For entertainment purposes only. Do not disturb. Your seat cushion can be used as a flotation device. In the event of decreased air pressure, oxygen masks will pop out of the top of your monitor. No money down. No purchase necessary. Employees must wash hands before returning to work. Caution, coffee is served HOT. You must be present to win. Winners need not be present to win. Eat your veggies. Wear your seatbelt. Don’t take candy from strangers… or strange people… or anyone really. Don’t quote me on that. Don’t quote me on anything. If something offends you, lighten up, get a life and move on.
Is that it? Did I cover everything?
No salt, MSG, artificial color or flavoring added. Ribbed for her pleasure. This article does not reflect the thoughts or opinions of either myself, my friends, or my cat. I don’t have a cat. Pray for my family this week.
There. That should do it.
I don’t cook. And don’t care to cook. But if I do, keep your mouth shut because I don’t need to hear it needs more salt or it’s too salty or the pasta is sticky or there’s not enough spice or whatever.
So, I married and man who cooks awfully great and who has a daughter who cooks awfully great.
(There’s actually not much I can do in the kitchen that is satisfying to either.)
(And that’s ok. Because you know what…that’s just one less thing I gotta do.)
(Amen. Halleluia. Praise Jesus. Pass me a biscuit that I didn’t make.)
They both are veeeeery particular about their cooking, too. Which is a great fit for us…because I don’t give a rip. Whatever they do and however they do it, is just fine by me.
(They both are THAT good.)
For example: Keith likes cheese shredded by hand. By one of those knuckle cutting shredder things. I’m elatedly fine with pre-shredded out of a bag.
For example: Cayla does all cookies, cakes, brownies from scratch. I’m ecstaticly giddy with that roll of dough you slice then bake after you’ve eaten most of it raw. And I ain’t no hater of Betty Crocker box stuff.
They both might cook much better than me, but there are a few things I do much better than either of them.
I can commute one-hour to work and one-hour-17-minutes home from work like nobody’s business.
I can mop the shit out of a kitchen floor.
Nobody can continue a conversation with no facial reaction changes after being hit unexpectedly by a fart, like I can.
Underwear on the floor gets picked up without a complaint.
I can tolerate the smell of feet or sweaty head or hormones or whatever that smell is that reeks from a teenagers room.
See? Who gives a rats ass if the cheese is shredded by hand or the cookies are baked from scratch if you can scrub a toilet bowl with your bare hands and a brillo pad?
And there’s one more thing I can do better: Macaroni and Cheese.
Of that, I am the queen. If only in my world.
It’s the best breakfast ever. To me. Nothing like a Saturday morning alone with my bowl of mac and cheese. And not those clumpy half curled noodle things. No. It’s gotta be shells. And it’s gotta have milk and butter in it. And the shells have to be just at a certain softness. Not mushy. But not crunchy. Because that’s how I love it. Just me and my bowl of macaroni and cheese can solve all the worlds problems any given Saturday morning.
(And it always just taste better on a Saturday morning. Though I’ll take it anytime.)
Here’s where I’m going.
Since Keith was cooking and I was hungry and wanted to rush things up without acting like I was rushing things up, I said I’d start the macaroni and cheese.
(That’s how much I love my family. It was the last friggin box and I was giving it up for them. What I’ll do for breakfast on saturday, who cares? Apparently no one. Because again, it was the last friggin box.)
Wanting to make sure the shells weren’t undercooked or overcooked to their liking, I let him tell me when they were cooked and ready for the cheese.
As I grabbed the handle of the pot to take them to the sink to drain, well…it went down like this…
Me: “OK. All I do is put the cheese in, right?
(Because remember…I like milk and butter in mine. And God knows they don’t.)
Him (Without thinking or looking or realizing just how his life was about to change): “Yes. But drain the water first.”
(Drain. The water.)
(Drain the water first. He told me to drain the water first.)
It’s like life immediately went into slow motion. I couldn’t believe what I had just heard. My ears had this really loud ringing sound in them at this point.
Me (Or actually Satan because the voice that came out was from such low nether-regions and the wording was spoken at such a slow, almost motionless rate, it had to be Satan speaking): “What did you say? Did you tell me to drain the water first? Do you think I am such an imbecile I don’t know to drain the water BEFORE putting the cheese in? Do you really believe I know nothing about being in the kitchen?”
All of that had to take about 3 minutes to say because apparently Satan speaks very, very low and slow. Very slow.
(FYI: He clenches his teeth when he speaks that low and slow, too.)
Man. Keith just froze. Eyes closed. Faced scrunched up. He knew it was too late. Life, as he knew it, was over.
I drained the water, cheesed that shit up sans milk and butter, and put it on the table. With a smile.
(Cayla asked why we were having my breakfast for dinner.)
Nothing more was said about that little situation the rest of the night. And honestly, I wasn’t mad or upset. I just blew it off because really…I save my energy for bigger battles.
(And he’s such a good man…he didn’t mean it the way it came out. Satan assured me.)
(And I knew how he meant it when he said it. I just couldn’t keep Satan concealed and in my nether-regions.)
Well, nothing more was said except for when Keith said, “Hey, baby…how about we do a big breakfast Saturday morning before we get started for the day?”
My reply? “Sounds great…I’ll go to the store after work tomorrow (and my one-hour 17 minute commute) to get everything.”
LITTLE DOES HE KNOW WHAT BREAKFAST IS GONNA BE.