Road Ragers Anonymous

Disclaimer: I am a theatrical motorist, passenger, backseat driver, radio changer, and blinker user.

It is and will always be an apocalypse from the second I enter any vehicle with anyone until the second I tumble out of one.

 

Maybe this is the reason Eddie suggested a dash cam to me. As comical as he finds me in route he cannot stand being in an automobile with me, why he would want to see how I am by myself is beyond me.

 

Come to think of it he isn’t the only one who has suggested this to me.

 

Well, let me enlighten you on what you’re missing on my morning commutes.

Then you can be the judge if a dash cam is right for me. Remember this is only the tip of the iceberg. Some may want the whole berg, polar bears, walruses and all, some may just want global warming to take over and let me rest in peace with the Titanic.

 

Road Rage and Hillary, Take One, Morning Commutes

 

First Stage: Shock and Denial.

 

Radio: “…we are backed up 91 N exits 24 to 32…”

Me: “Riiiiiight.”

Eddie: “You are going to be late.”

Me: “No, no, that will be gone by the time I get there.”

Eddie: Sigh*

 

Once I hit the highway about a half mile in I am forewarned by a similar message, typically every morning, I swear.

 

Electronic Signage:

Accident.

Exits 24 – 32 91 N slow moving.

Find alternate route.

 

Me: “Where I am going I don’t need roads…”

 

Yes, I talk to myself while driving. And yes, sometimes I like to pretend my car is a DeLorean. Could you imagine? I would go back to the future two steal Marty’s hover board (annnd yes, that ‘two’ was put there on purpose). After I stole the board I would go back to the future I just left and use said board to avoid the rest of what is about to unfold in your reading.

 

If you are even still with me…

 

You see for me it is refreshing to just write. When writing a novel it’s a constant annoying awareness of your surroundings: am I spelling this right, is that a word, did I forget a comma, fragment sentences, Oh Meh Gee, not those. Here I can just be a complete mess. I love it.

 

Back to the future of this blog.

 

As lightly depicted above I will react to the learning of traffic or anything really, like a cow getting in my way whilst driving, with numbed disbelief.

 

I deny that the traffic can possibly exist. I cocoon myself in a false reality that because I just adorned the roads with my presence that everything must be cleared. The divine spirit wouldn’t do this to me; why would he want me late; he wants only happiness for his children.

 

The shock that I am completely and utterly all wrong provides an emotional shelter from being overwhelmed by my halted predicament. This ease in period may last for a mere five minutes. When I do blossom from the coma of astonishment I will talk myself through the fact that I will most likely be late to where ever I am going. Oh yeh, work.

 

So maybe I do not care.

 

Stage Two: Pain and Guilt.

 

As the shock wears off I am suddenly in discomfort by my restrictions.

All the sudden I need to do everything. Why am I stuck here? I need to be everywhere else, doing entirety anything else but this.

 

This happens to me when I am stuck anywhere; elevators, walk in coolers, closets to Narnia…

 

Once limited I have an alarmingly high degree of need.

 

I need to host a fake meeting, right now.

I need to use a pay phone and now is the right time for it.

I need to take a dump, in the right that is now.

 

I need to do all the things. Now. Right now.

 

Wait.

 

Maybe I really do care if I am late?

 

Once I am done needing a heavy feeling responsibility blankets over me. I obsess over all the things that can happen if I am late. Will I get fired? Will I get written up? Maybe no one will care? Maybe they will care? Will they notice if I just say fuck it and don’t show for the day? Will I care if they don’t notice?

 

STOP!

 

A Doctor once told me I shouldn’t let my thoughts get carried away like this.

What I just did there is called the “Stop Technique” and it works for me most of the time because when I scream STOP in my head my ADHD kicks in I immediately forget what I was rambling about in my dome piece.

 

Forgetting my worries I text my co-worker that I am in unbearable traffic and will most likely be late.

 

Of course this doesn’t happen in the normal conventional manner, “Hey, I am going to be late.” It goes more like this:

 

Me: “Freaking Ryan Gorgeous Gosling!”

Tif: “What other than the Notebook is Ryan Gosling in? I never really liked him before but now I do. LOL!”

Me: “LmFao. He is amazing. I’ll tell you whenever I get to god damned fucking work. I loathe traffic. Pisses me the fuck off. I should seek help.” < In case you missed it that was the “Hey, I am going to be late.”

Tif: “Lmao! I don’t think there’s help for you. You’re just going to have to live with being crazy.”

 

Sigh, possibly however excruciating it is, maybe it is important that I experience the pain of tapping the breaks every four seconds fully. I needn’t avoid or escape from it with alcohol or drugs.

Wait, what? Wrong meeting.

 

I need to enter this chaotic, guilt ridden and scary place to encourage a revised morning routine for the future.

 

Stage Three: Anger and Bargaining.

 

Frustration gives way to anger.

 

I lash out and lay unwarranted blame for the fact that I am stuck in traffic on every single vehicle.

 

I try to control this, as to not cause permanent damage to my own car. But this is a time for the release of bottled up emotion. I straddle the breakdown lane blocking assholes from trying to cut everyone off. Who do they think they are? If I have to sit here so do you. On my list of driving peeves this comes in at number two. Breakdown lane drivers. I just can’t.

 

I call my husband. He hits ignore.

 

Hashtag#what the fuck.

 

I call him again. He can’t talk. I inform him he is totally not helpful in my revelry. Hang up. Pretty sure he doesn’t care. Pretty sure he doesn’t understand what revelry I can possibly be in while driving. He later informs me that I am utterly ridiculous. 

 

I yell and scream. I ask “Why does this always happen to me?” … LOL… no really I do. My donkey angel tells me it’s because I dawdle in the morning and I curse at my donkey. He goes away and so I sell bribes to my steering wheel “…if you get me to work on time I will never forget to give you an oil change again. Wouldn’t you like that?”

 

For good measure I add, “And if you’re really fast you’ll get those new tires you’ve needed since last winter!”

 

Happy Face.

 

Stage Four: “Depression.”

 

A long period of sad reflection will overtake me when I run out of payoffs and energy from my antics.

 

I will guzzle coffee to add more fuel to my dwindling fire. I will also spill coffee all over me but it won’t matter anymore. There’s no hope for me. I’m trapped in a highway parking lot with no access to napkins.

 

In this sad, pathetic, and wet moment I finally realize the true magnitude of my poor decision making in the dawn. Poor choices like that one time I hit snooze eighteen times versus just getting my fat ass up to go for a run to burn off the stale donut I was sure to eat upon getting to the office late. 

 

And then that thought depresses me more. I shouldn’t find road rage comfort in sugary delights.

 

Stage Five: The Upward Turn.

 

A good song comes on the radio, a calmer and more organized version of my crazy self emerges.

My physical symptoms lessen, and my "depression" begins to lift ever so slightly.

 

I will hum. I will grace my fellow drivers with a happier time.

 

I will blast the music. Dare myself… done, windows down.

 

I will sing to my windshield, head bang to my steering wheel, and play air guitar while causing several other accidents because now more people are focused on my stellar performance versus the road.

 

Stage Six: Reconstruction and Working Through.

 

As I become more happy and functional, my mind starts working again; I find myself seeking realistic solutions to problems like traffic in the morning commute.

 

I will get up early tomorrow god damn it. And I will like it. And this will never happen again.

 

And then I will run for President.  Because I am an awesome early bird!

 

Who needs Clinton when you have me?!?

 

Stage Seven: Acceptance and Hope.

 

I now accept the reality of my situation as traffic clears nearly an hour later.

 

Acceptance does not necessarily mean instant delight with ones self. More like relief.

 

And I actually make it to work only minutes late. Which by the way I am on salary. I actually am never late, I just make up that I am to stress myself out to feel important since they aren’t doing a good enough job of that, lack of engagement and all.

 

Given the pain and turmoil I have experienced, I can never return to the carefree, untroubled driver that existed before this tragedy.

 

But I will find a way to speed forward pretending to be Tanner Foust drifting in between cars for a hope that tomorrow will be a smoother ride.

 

Vrroomm Vrroomm. Beep.

 

 

“People may start to look like their dogs, but husbands start to act like their wives.” – peaCock

New Year’s Day, 2014, bitter cold.

 

Eddie and I decide we are going to sand, stain and poly the wood frame around Eddie’s beautiful custom made countertops. This project is one of the many annoyingly small finishing touches we have for our kitchen.  Now that Eddie was done selling his soul to a job, ‘He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’, for the month we decided no time like the present to get back into our money sucking home.

 

Due to the inclemently unkind conditions outside we had put our gas stove on downstairs to aid our fat, walrus of a furnace.

 

About two hours into sanding and staining Eddie disappears downstairs. I in the meantime insert headphones and attention deficit out sanding a nearby table. For some ungodly reason sanding the table gave me the shivers, in turn that lead to the headphones of music blasting in my ears, noted because suddenly I jump to a blaring broadcast:

 

* Danger, Danger Will Robinson, Danger, carbon monoxide detected, warning, danger, get out, leave your home, death *. (Shame on any one of you attempting to read this scattered reenactment and not knowing my Lost in Space reference. Shame on you.)

 

Of course, I panic, I rip my headphones out and rush downstairs only to greet myself to Eddie standing in the middle of the basement staring at the ceiling. Low and behold: false alarm. It was only my darling husband scaring the ever living shit out of me by testing the carbon monoxide detector. Eddie explained, in case I lost my sense of smell, that there was a gas aroma right where we were standing.

 

This would mark Eddie’s first Hillary moment of the New Year. You see, as I pointed out to him, carbon monoxide doesn’t smell.

Therefore that shouldn’t have been your first thought.

 

As we stand there contemplating why it smells like a gas station in our basement the smell continues to get worse so Eddie turns the gas fireplace off and opens a window to air out the cellar. We stand staring at the unit for a while, visibly nothing is the matter; maybe it’s our furnace. We ping pong the heat up and down. Nothing seems to be wrong with the furnace, let’s stare some more at the piece. Fuck it, much too cold out to keep this gadget off and the windows open. We turn it back on and go back to kitchen labors.

 

Less than an hour into continued staining a gas like odor travels up the stairs wretchedly bad enough to halt all headway. Eddie abruptly leaves the room to go investigate. I look at our dog; his stomach moved up and down, up and down, he didn’t seem alarmed. I assumed we were good.

 

Hillary Fun Fact. This is my new bargain, I decide at what degree my panic should be fixed at by the dog’s mannerisms. If he’s calm, cool and collective then I needn’t freak-out but if he is going balls deep crazy, which is much of the time since he takes after me; clearly I need to be alarmed.

 

Eddie’s gone a while so I venture below, not seeing him, but it’s cold…the windows are open again.

 

Eddie pops out of nowhere, not to be confused with one of Janet Jackson’s nipples, “Hillary, where is the manual to this thing?”

Good question, “I don’t know.” and immediately I go on the defensive to his accusatory tone, “How should I know where you put it?”

 

The conversation goes in this sort of way; just a lot more blaming, swearing, loud noises…:

 

E: I didn’t put it anywhere.

Me: Did you check your workshop?

E: Yes, but I didn’t touch it—

Me: The old pantry, you had appliance manuals up there.

(Eddie goes upstairs to check while I stand around with no apparent urgency to the current situation. You see now the stove was off and the smell was gone, really what was the rush?)

E: It’s not up here. Where the fuck did you put it?

Me: I didn’t put it anywhere.

 

 

E: This always happens, you touch everything then you forget. Either it’s lost, thrown out; why do you have to touch all my shit?

Me: Oh, god forbid I put things in the places in which they should go so I don’t dramatically trip over shit.

E: Well. It’s not helping now.

Me: Because I didn’t touch it.

 

Eddie continues to tear up the house, swearing at me under his breath like a wild monkey and sulks downstairs to do another go around.

 

I think hmm…let me go check a few spots. What will it hurt to prove him wrong?

Laugh out loud. I find it in my filing cabinet in a folder labeled ‘Manuals’.

 

I did touch it. Damn-it.

 

I go downstairs to gravely admit to my wrong but and at first glance I don’t see him. “Eddie…I did have it.”

From a far, dark corner of the basement, “I fucking knew it.”

I find Eddie on the ground, sitting Indian style, looking all crazy eyed, rocking back and forth.

 

In which later he claims to me he was in the only corner of the room he felt had air.

And I quote: “I had to find air I thought I was going to die from gas poisons. The smell was entering my brain, I was going crazy. I thought that was it.”

 

I, of course, find this even more epically hilarious considering… I, for once, was without panic, partly due to dog reading. And in part due to the fact if something bad were to happen to me today I surely don’t have to go back to work tomorrow.

 

Eddie’s Hillary Moment number two, onset of complete panic.

 

Reading the manual we do everything stated to us, clean the device, air out the room, look for a broken pilot, finger the device, touch ourselves, take a shit, make a sandwich and so on and so forth.

 

By this point we have spent three hours cleaning, rubbing, and sucking.  We turn on the element we smell very little to nothing.

 

YAY! Pat on back, we are awesome, fist pump!

 

We head upstairs looking around feeling a little less than accomplished, we start the oven for dinner and finally Eddie continues staining. About a half hour later we smell, taste,…listen, oxygen is now replaced with gas at an alarmingly intrusive rate.

I may possibly say fuck the dog, his breathing patterns; I start wondering if we have a leak and voice my concerns to Eddie.

 

His face gets all contorted and the color slightly drains as he leaves the room to “go inspect”.

 

I stand pondering what the issue could be and wondering if there is a WebMd site for this type of shit and go to work through these thoughts with Eddie; only to discover him standing in the mud room with his head out the back door. I find out later this was to get air.

 

Again I quote: “Hillary I thought I was going to pass out and die. I needed air.”

Reminiscing abruptly ends on this:

Me: I thought you were checking outside for leakage. (This is a typical Hillary moment, you know since you can see gas about as much as you can smell carbon monoxide.)

E: No, I was freaking out.

Eddie’s Hillary moment number three. Complete, utter uncontrollable panic in which pupil believes their immediate and immanent death is upon them.

 

Now our anxieties have both elevated to defcon five. I am in forums reading how our house is going to explode and we need to get out immediately, take the soap! And Eddie is texting firefighter brother in laws while trying to get a hold of the emergency gas lines at no avail. 

 

After about six hours in sheer panic Eddie and I find a piece of information on a website just as he gets a text about how using stains, oil based paints, etc. while having a gas appliance in use can create an alarmingly high aroma of gas making one believe there is a leak but the smell will fade as the items dry.

I feel we are in for a gassy 2014 folks...

 

 

 

“The Best at Being the Worst” – Food Network

(I would like to note that this application was filled out back in 2012 when indeed I didn’t even know how to cook a grilled cheese sandwich. (I always forget the butter side goes on the outside.) I have since acquired some substantial skills in the kitchen. I’d say ever since the kitchen was remodeled, this past summer, I have been on a roll. Not to be confused with a dinner roll.)

I think today is finally the day I share with you my false reality in the kitchen. It’s like placing a baby in the driver’s seat and expecting to make it out of that car ride alive.

If I were to send in an application to “the Worst Cooks in America”, Part Two of that application would look something like this…

II.            YOUR FOOD AND COOKING BACKGROUND

Why don’t you cook, or cook well?

I most certainly cook. And that is the problem.

What’s even crazier is I do look at a recipe, of sorts, to cook whatever I plan on torturing.

The first time I realized I was severely handicapped in the kitchen is when I moved in with my husband five years ago. As a treat for all his hard work, at the time making our new home livable, I wanted to make him a nice dinner.

A manly dinner. Steak.

I had never cooked steak prior so I went online to see what the best way was to make this steak mouthwatering. I found something that stated I should “salt the steak to bring out its flavor”. Up to interpretation for a steak cooking virgin, honestly everything is up for interpretation when it comes to me.

I thought to myself, salting a steak that is easy enough. I took it upon myself to really make this steak the best he had ever had by taking a knife and cutting slits into the meat. After I did that I took Morton’s Salt and I rubbed that salt in and for emphasis I sprinkled some more on the top and bottom and let it sit for an hour.

During that hour I went outside to assure my husband that he was going to have a rewarding dinner later. At this point in my life I didn’t understand the concept of protein, starch, veggie… I just understood put food on the plate. So instead of making a side during this hour I decided to preheat the broiler to ensure optimum cooking. We didn’t need a bout of E. Coli, in which I am deathly afraid of thanks to ‘Toxin’ by Robin Cook, I mini panic before I eat any meat to this day due to him.

We sat down for dinner that night, me smiling from ear to ear proud of my good looking steak. My husband very excited that he didn’t have to cook took the first bite. His face contorted into something that you would see watching ‘The Exorcist’, not to insult me he swallows. And continues to “eat” or chew food in mouth afraid to swallow, my interpretation. I figure, hmm it must be okay, at least. I take one bite and I feel as if I am drowning in the ocean. This steak was dried in a salt like coffin. I put my utensils down and stared at my husband, I notified him he could stop eating (please note there was no side to wash this down with just water… lot and lots of water). I certainly was not going to eat this shit so neither was he. He spit out the current piece of jerky in his mouth and asked me what the hell happened. I explained and he just shook his head.

He suggested that we save the steak and bring it to one of the local farms to feed the horses as an alternative to a salt lick.

I am sorry to say my cooking did not improve in the years to come, to date I always manage to sabotage most of my meals.

What scares or intimidates you about cooking?

Nothing scares me about cooking, but other people are scared of my cooking. Or my tactics in the kitchen.

I love to cook; I just do it incorrectly almost every time.

My husband told me after the steak incident that I should follow recipes word for word and if there is no recipe I should move on and find one.

One night I decide that I will make my husband some cookies as a reward for some more hard work. I am seeing a pattern here of reward by food; no wonder why he was fat. BUT anyway I only wanted to make him cookies. I did not want any; I was already gaining a load of weight in beer and wine.

I found a sugar cookie recipe on the back of a bag of flour and decided to cut it in half in the hopes I wouldn’t have any cookies left over for myself. I was moving along fine until I got to ‘one egg’. Well, how the hell was I supposed to get a half of an egg? I sat there and processed for a good five minutes, fiddled with knife meeting egg and then a light bulb went off. I wandered into our spare room where my husband was diligently working on something via the computer; I was looking for scissors. He had assumed that I needed scissors to open a bag or box of some sorts, (silly him) when he walked in on me in the kitchen he was speechless. So much so I didn’t hear or see him observing me in my unnatural habitat.

I was attempting to cut an egg in half, with the scissors. Which I did cut the egg… but it kinda broke incorrectly and I would say 75% of the egg made it into the batter versus the 50% I needed.

At this time my husband and I were not married. I mention this because this story became very popular within my new family. I had to reenact myself cutting an egg in half at a graduation party and my sister in law used this story in her wedding speech to my husband and I.

Jokes on me. I think not, jokes on you. These are the people that still try the “food” I make.

Why is it important for you to become a better cook?

I need to stop wasting money at the grocery store. It all ends up in the trash because all of my meals come out tasting like something Andrew Zimmerman might try in the jungle, bat poo. I might as well go to the grocery store, throw my money in the trash and drive home.

I hope you seriously didn’t think I wouldn’t have another example,… did you? Don’t answer that.

Of course I have an example, don’t I need to prove to you I need some serious mental, wait, cooking aid.

Instead of bringing it back let’s bring it forward to present-ER day so you understand this is an ongoing situation, not just limited to the past experiences.

Labor Day weekend 2012, family picnic at the in laws. I had a grand idea to make chocolate covered eggplant chips. My husband and I spent 3 hours slicing eggplant really thin, frying it, and melting chocolate to drizzle over the eggplant. First, it sounds disgusting so I am not sure why either of us went through with it. Second, if it doesn’t sound disgusting to you I should probably enlighten you to how it came out.

Limp “chips” with chocolate lobbed on top, a side of grease.

The in laws tried it because they felt bad that we sweated off half our body weight over the stove to create this poor excuse for a unique, exquisite dessert.

The whole time doing this I was so excited, I felt like I was in ‘Chopped” ready to win the grand prize over my unique three ingredient creation.

Sigh.

What will happen if you don’t become a better cook? What specifically is at stake for you?

Nothing really, I am already considered an atrocious cook. It can’t get much worse than you’re cooking coming up in a wedding speech.

Let’s just chalk it up to if I don’t become a better cook and my husband is ever not around my future children and I may starve to death. How many days could your body go without food?

How do your friends and family respond to your cooking?

With laughter. Lots and lots of laughter. Sometimes a doggy shit bag makes it to the table, sometimes.

What impact has being a bad cook had on your life?  What makes you think you are truly a BAD

cook?

There isn’t much of an impact it just makes it hard for me to fend for myself. I have to rely on others to make me my food or else I will be eating garbage. I’ve had a many PMS cravings unsatisfied with the nonsense I have thrown together to cook.

And I don’t THINK I am a bad cook, I KNOW I am a bad cook. For the many examples I have given to you today.

When did you first realize you were not a good cook? What happened?

I explained this in the first question; I guess I jumped the gun.

I probably should have realized this back in high school when I was left to watch my brother; I had to make mac and cheese… (Kraft from the box) for dinner and my parents weren’t even out of the driveway before I was calling their cell phones because I didn’t understand how to get 1/4th of a cup of butter.

I am sure there were more questions than that but let me save on some embarrassment where I can with a faulty memory.

Is there any one dish or a style of cuisine that you DO cook well?  Why have you mastered it?

Cakes. I love cake. But I only have mastered it because all it requires is for you to mix some things, throw it in a pan and bake. Oh yes, I am talking about boxed cake. And yes, I am talking about something you can walk away from to let the stove do all the work for you.

You see I live in the real world where baking a cake from a box IS baking a cake from scratch.

The first cake I made my husband in the ‘trying to woo him’ over stage, prior to dating, I brought to him at work as a surprise. This should have been his warning sign to look past my startling good looks, cough, and find someone who had some meat on them to guarantee they knew what they were doing in the kitchen, ya know good housewife material.

He ignored the big, fat, un frosted sign.

His sign was a chocolate cake in a 13X9 pan with no frosting on top, just sprinkles. I don’t like frosting, I just like sprinkles.

Describe a day of eating in your life, what do you for breakfast, lunch and dinner on a daily basis?

Well I am on a health kick so it’s pretty simple.

Belveeta Crackers

Snack (like a pear)

Sandwich

Snack (like yogurt or almonds)

Whatever my husband throws on my plate

Possibly another snack (like a peanut butter pack)

If I knew how to make some fancy health dishes this would probably be a more appealing list. I am probably failing my personal trainer for my lack of creativity and diversity in the kitchen. No doubt in my mind.

What dishes or kinds of food do you wish you could cook and why?

Any and every dish.

I really want to be able to cook without a recipe and with things lying around the house.

One because I hate grocery shopping, I loathe it in fact, so to be able to have the skill to cook with what I have would be amazing. Two I want to be able to say “BAM” when I throw things in the pan or pot to emphasize my great skills. Right now if I say “BAM” someone comes running to check if I am throwing salt into hot cocoa. (I don’t really want to share the story of my mess up with hot cocoa. I live in a very sad cooking reality.)

Why do you think you never learned to cook properly?

This is easy. I don’t listen. And if I do listen I interpret what I hear in a completely different way than intended because I am creative spirit. Just go with it.

Also, I always assume the recipe is a lie.

Is there someone you think is responsible for your being unable to cook? Who is it, and why are they to blame?

Oh no, I can admit when I am in the wrong.

Share one (or more) specific memory or situation where being unable to cook made you unhappy, frustrated or embarrassed:

I think the worst, best example is when I attempted homemade HEALTHY mac and cheese.

My husband was working late one night and I wanted to surprise him with dinner; it’s always a surprise even if he knows about it lets not lie to ourselves. We love mac n cheese and all this healthy, diet food was hindering our mac n cheese necessities. I decided to check outallrecipies.com for some good ideas to make mac n cheese in a healthier way. The problem was I took my favorite parts of five different recipes and put them in one.

My husband came home to me working over the stove, chopping up onions, etc. He happened to be on the phone and later told me that because I looked like I knew what I was doing he didn’t bother to stop and check in. Always a common mistake made by all, assuming I have the slightest clue of what I am doing.

I threw my concoction into the oven and let it bake. We sat down for dinner and it went something like this.

Eddie: “This smells good.”

*places forkful of fake mac n cheese into his mouth, spits out immediately*

It wasn’t even good enough to swallow to not add insult to injury.

Me: “Is it that bad?”

*Silence*

It is very hard to hush Eddie commentary.

Me: * while Eddie stares at me, places forkful of fake mac n cheese into my mouth, I swallow…my pride*

Eddie: “I most likely don’t want to know but I have to ask, what is this and what is in it?”

Me: *fiddling with fork* “Ummm, well this is supposed to be a healthy version of mac n cheese. There’s wheat pasta, cheese, onion, powdered milk…”

Eddie: “Onion. Really? (I love onion, I try to add this to everything I make, its good for your heart you know)

Wait, powdered milk?”

Me: “We had no milk left, I was being creative.”

Eddie: “Did you at least make the milk first?”

Me: “Wait, what? You have to make powdered milk?”

Eddie: *so disgusted with the dinner, or maybe it was me, he couldn’t even continue the conversation*

“You know where this is going right? It’s going straight into the garbage, and it’s this dishes lucky night. It is garbage night.”

I was actually hurt this night because we couldn’t even laugh about the experience until weeks later that’s how awful the tasting experience was. I am sure it scarred him.

If Oscar was in that trash can I am sure he would have even cringed.

What do you hope to gain from this experience, aside from just learning how to cook better? What will becoming a better cook do for you personally?

I will be able to entertain without hurting myself or others via food poisoning or using sharp utensils.

It’s really as simple as that. I think I need to learn how to cook and use items in the kitchen before I can actually have a bigger goal than that.

So, who wants to pick me? Bobby Flay preferably, I like his sauces, wink* wink*