The Problem in the Kitchen

We have a problem in our kitchen. And the problem is me. I shouldn't be in there.

Many bad things have happened in our kitchen. I have to hand it to Jamie, he's been really patient about all of it. He's had years of this behavior and yet he still lets me wander around, unsupervised. (Though, truthfully, there has been talk of changing that...)

Consider:

I've demonstrated no ability to remember if the open soda/water bottle/etc. is his or mine. I lived alone for a very long time. I'm used to any open container being mine. So I drink it. It's often not mine. It's often an honest mistake. But not always...

50% of the time when I try to make hard-boiled eggs, I burn them because I forget to turn off the heat and the water evaporates. I've twice blown up eggs in the kitchen. There is a reason why Glade doesn't make Exploded Egg Air Fresheners. A good one.

I don't believe in waiting for something to be done. I have a set amount of time I'm willing to wait before eating and if the food cooking time doesn't fit in, that's too damn bad. I'll eat it cold. (E.g., lean cuisine is 2:30. Pizza is 14 minutes. Fish is at least ten minutes longer than I have ever given it.) And yet, he still lets me prepare dinner once in a while and doesn't tell me to read the box to see how long it will really take to cook.

We can't have bread in the house. We used to have it. And we had this conversation every time:
"Where's all the bread?"
"I ate it."
"There was a loaf here two days ago."
"I like bread. If you want it to stick around, hide it."
Hiding worked for awhile until I discovered all of the hiding places. Of course, there was one place I didn't find, he forgot about, and when discovered, we had a dandy little science project. After that point: no more bread.

I break things: glasses, plates, bowls, vases, promises not to eat the last cookie.

I put things in the dishwasher that don't go there: certain knives, silver, certain plastics, thumb drives, etc.

I drink from the container. I drink from the container and put the empty container back in there.

I spill dog/cat food on the floor. Constantly.

I've left the refrigerator door open.

I've left the oven on.

I've left the faucet on full blast. Several times.

I've forgotten things in the oven.

I've demonstrated very little responsibility in or affinity for the kitchen. And yet, patient Jamie shakes his head, hugs me, and moves along with his life. He accepts me for the klutz that I am. Which is very sweet.

Sweet is not what I'm going for.

I'm going for long-term banishment.

And it's not working...

The ears have it

I have ongoing problems with one of my ears; my kitten also faces some minor ear challenges. This is just one of many reasons that we're inseparable. There are Those Nameless Few who believe that Quintasaurus Rex and I have developed a nearly unnatural relationship. But they're just Haters who don't understand the beauty of sleeping in the warm embrace of a beautiful, strong, brave feline ... and they can pretty much bite it.

Me: My ear's acting up again. I think I'll try hydrogen peroxide.
Hubs: (not looking up from his magazine) Mmm.
Me: It might actually work and I lobster-hate that ENT who tells me to Stop Being So Vocal. What does that even mean?
(Pregnant pause during which Hubs realizes it's his turn to speak)
Hubs: Why don't you try Quinty's stuff.
Me: The stuff from THE VET?
Hubs: Mm-hmmm.
Me: Uhhh, let's see, because it's from ... let me think ... A VET.
Hubs: It's for ears.
Me: It's for CAT ears, not PERSON ears.
Hubs: But there's a picture of a horse on the label, too.
Me: It's for CAT ears and HORSE ears, not PERSON ears.
Hubs: It's probably the same.
Me: Yeah, it's probably definitely the same. I think I'll just go squirt GOD KNOWS WHAT that was prescribed to AN ANIMAL into my HEAD. That's what I'm going to GO DO RIGHT NOW.
Hubs: (returning to his magazine) Mm-hmm.
Me: And when you're DEAD and DYING, I'll just have them prescribe HORSE tranquilizers to YOU and we'll see how well that works out. How's that?
Hubs: Mm-hmm.

This morning I scheduled an appointment with Dr. StopBeingSoVocal. And cancelled my husband's subscription to Big Guys Need Big Tools Monthly.

Letters to Santa

Dear Santa,
This is Laney. I'm always good. I guard the house from everyone (including the man in brown who is here like every day; when will he learn I'm not going to let him in?). So far, no one has gotten past me and stolen my mom. This makes me very good. As so my pretty face and awesome figure. For Christmas, I would like a door I can open by myself, a permanent space on my parents' bed, and to catch a squirrel. If you could throw in a pool so I can exercise in a non-impact environment, that would be good as well. I'm an old lady, you know. On that note, if you could send a bigger cage for the hyper little dog, we could put the cats in there and the children call all play together while I get some peace and quiet. Please be weary of whatever that Mookie writes; he's trouble and has not done much to deserve presents this year. Definitely needs to cut down on the kitty pot. Just saying.

Dearest Santa,
This is Turtle. I have been a very good girl this year. I have made sure to take care of my long pretty hair, I haven't broken anything, and I never ever wake up my mom in the middle of the night for attention (unlike ALL of my siblings). I had some accidents this year, but that's only because my brother is obnoxious and stalks me. For Christmas, I would like some soft treats, a new bed, and for Laney to stop chasing me. And I really NEED for my stupid brother to have more days spent in Time Out. He's a freakshow and I need some alone-with-my-mom time.
Love, Turtle.

Dear Santa,
Having lost/broken all of my toys, I need some new ones: balls, feathers, mice, the strings on my mom's hoodies, the shoelaces on my dad's shoes, etc. I also need some catnip. And before you comment on how much catnip I had last year, I want to say that I just use it recreationally. My dad says I should ask you for a clue, but I don't know what that means. I need some tools -- little ones designed to help me open the back door and don't require an opposable thumb to work. Oh, and something to keep my feet dry and clean when I'm outside. Also, if you could convince Mom to keep that blasted little dog in his cage at all times, I would appreciate it. He's a menace. And my sister Turtle is a big sissy.
Mookie, AKA Button Face

SANTA!!!
I have been a really good boy this year. I remember to go outside to go to the bathroom almost every day and am very diligent about licking my feet. Furthermore, I keep my mom warm by sleeping on her, with her, near her, etc. Sometimes I go to work and I don't even get paid, so I think I'm entitled to some gifts. Definitely need a pink sweater, some fashionable boots, as many treats as possible, and more blankets.
BTW, the stupid white cat likes to swat at me and stand on me when I'm under the blankets and I do not like that, so make sure you adjust his presents accordingly. I think he deserves coal. OH, and please note that Laney smacks me in the face constantly with her tail. Everyone thinks she so perfect, but she abuses me all the time and I never complain. Just more information for you when determining who should have what.
Actually, can you just send a cage for Mookie and make Laney an "outside only dog? That would be great.
Leo
PS: Can I eat your cookies?

Paula

Bouncing blonde ringlets, enormous blue eyes, and cupie-doll lips would have made it easy to write off Paula as a lightweight. She'd have forced you to eat that decision along with a steaming hot cup of Think-Again-Sucker. But then she would have laughed about it and encouraged you to do the same.

Paula always had your back; even when it wasn't in her best interests to do so.

She loved enormous pink peonies. And status reports.
And sparkly blue eye shadow. And team meetings.
And hooker boots. And color-coded project folders.

Two things got Paula hot: Dave Matthews and a Lesson (actually!) Learned.

She was like Chief Mama-Bird to an entire staff of women. She spent her time nurturing us in preparation for the day when she would nudge us out of the nest. Finally dropkicking us out of our comfort zones and into the Big Horrible World of Clients, she was always there to swoop down and catch us if our wings faltered.

Paula had time for neither sloth nor fear; she espoused a strict No Whining policy. She forced us to dig deep and find our best, bravest selves because it was too painful to disappoint her.

But she did have time for ice cream. One day I looked out the window to see Paula and Brian walking hand-in-hand chowing down on ice cream cones. She may have played Whipmaster P in the office, but she knew how to take a moment to enjoy a beautiful day with her favorite food and her favorite guy.

Paula's mantra was about finding and maintaining Balance. Between home and work. Between internal and external demands. She didn't just preach Balance; she strove for it herself. A devoted mom who could light up a room talking about her kids. A hard-working colleague who had always envisioned herself as the respected career woman she embodied. Staunch defender of both The Process and Those who simply could not work within The Process. She championed documented parameters but embraced clients' needs, all the while supporting her team with the ferocity of a lioness defending her young.

Paula was a complex woman, as enterprising as she was unpretentious, and as gregarious as she was perceptive. But above all, she was easy to know and easy to love. The world was a better place because she was here, and I'm a better person for having known her.

Over the Edge: A Thanksgiving Story

I don't know why I continue to insist that we can host Thanksgiving dinner and that it will be perfect.

This year's plan was brilliant. And yet, by the end, I was again left wondering why I thought it was a great idea. As I do pretty much every year. I can't be taught.

Here was the plan:

We would invite both sets of parents over for dinner. To accommodate that many people, we bought a new dinning room table which would seat 8. Understanding the reality of my cooking ability (of which there is precious little), I delegated most of the meal to mothers who were eager to make (his mom) or buy (my mom) whatever needs to be made/bought. His mom would bring the cheesy potatoes (which could have been all I ate, quite frankly) and cranberry ecstasy, my mom gave me a turkey, bread, and a frozen pumpkin pie to prepare. Jamie would make the gravy and green beans. I would make mashed potatoes and set the table. For our after-dinner entertainment, his parents would share pictures from their latest trip.

Perfect, no? No.

The super-wonderful table set we bought for the occasion was perfect. Beautiful dark wood, great size for the house (with a butterfly insert), shiny and new and, as of Thanksgiving morning, somewhere in a truck in the Midwest, slowly trudging our way. We still don't have it. So we would have to huddle around a small table for four, with someone sitting on an ottoman and someone sitting in an office chair. Rather imperfect.

But that wasn't what threw me over the edge.

Jamie bounced from bed at 9:30, running to the kitchen in a panic, "Got to put the turkey in!" I laid there wondering what on earth he was fretting about but decided not to interfere. It wasn't until 1:30, when I asked him how much longer the turkey had, that we realized that the turkey was going to be ready an hour before we were ready to eat. Apparently, my email communication which said, "Please arrive between 2:30 and 3:00" confused him into thinking it said, "We are eating at 2:30 on the dot."

But that wasn't what threw me over the edge.

We turned the oven off, covered the turkey, and left it in the warm oven. By the time we were ready to eat, it was perfect. My father, however, was too ill to make it. Thanksgiving is his favorite holiday -- it was sad to not look down the table and not see his mashed potato volcano. It felt more than incomplete; it felt wrong.

But that wasn't what threw me over the edge.

Once the turkey was out of the oven, we had planned to put in the frozen pumpkin pie. By the time we finished eating, cleaned up, and sat down to look at trip pics, it would be ready. I took the pie out of the freezer and started to open the box. The pie should have slipped right out, but it was stuck. I therefore peeled back the cardboard. The first thing I saw was pie crust -- which is the best part of pie. What I found terribly odd was how much pie crust I saw. And how little pumpkin filling. As I peeled the whole of the box back, I saw the pumpkin: a nice, perfectly rectangular slab of pumpkin neatly stored at one end of the box. Apparently, the pie had melted at some point and then been put in the freezer on its side where it separated. "Uh oh," I said. Parent radar went up.

"Did you drop the turkey on the floor?"

?

"Um. No. But I think we have no dessert." I walked into the family room and showed the box of crust and square pumpkin filling. Not missing a beat, my mother said,

"Gretchen! You are supposed to take it out of the box before you cook it." She's familiar with my work.

"Carolyn!" I replied like the delicate flower that I am, "It's still frozen."

"Oh."

But that wasn't what threw me over the edge.

We ended up putting the pie in the oven and hoped it would just settle back into place. Meanwhile, I started to clean up. My mother stood chatting with his mother in the kitchen, telling her wild stories about our extended family. I smiled to myself thinking how relaxed everyone seemed to be, sipping wine, feeling comfortable, telling stories, not feeding the dogs people food. But it was just when I finished having that thought when my mother accidentally knocked a wine glass off of the counter and it shattered on the floor. Note: she was the only one not drinking and this was a move I would have predicted I would have pulled.

But that wasn't what threw me over the edge.

We sat around and looked at the trip to China pics and, when those were done, the conversation turned to that inevitable place: when were we going to get married and the fact that I put on my wedding dress all the time. To try to get that conversation off track, and satisfy people's desire to see me in my dress, I pulled up some pictures of me in it. This backfired and only served to heat up the discussion on the wedding.

But that wasn't what threw me over the edge.

After dinner, after China pictures, we stopped by another family-member's house for dessert and drinks. About half way through our time there, I realized that we had forgotten all about the pie which was still in the oven. Whether or not the oven was on (and if the house was on fire) was in debate.

But that wasn't what threw me over the edge.

The oven was not on, the house had not burned down, and the pie was cooked perfectly. Which meant that I would have the pie all to myself.

And that's what did it. After ODing later that night on pumpkin pie, running upstairs to try on my thin pants and finding that they didn't fit (shocker), and that the presence of more pie in the house was going to lead to 20 lb weight gain (overnight) which would lead to ill-fitting clothes which would lead to a general lack of feeling fabulous which would lead to others not buying into my general fabulous appeal (you may not comment on that) which would lead to loss of friends, job, creativity, and ultimately to writer's block which would lead to depression, lack of focus, lack of self-identity, and, ultimately, a catatonic state.

So I threw out the pie.

And wondered why I thought Thanksgiving Dinner was a good idea.

But Christmas dinner will be perfect.

I was tired

by tess

Having been out of the office for a couple of weeks, I'm having a little trouble re-adjusting to my brutal three-day work weeks. I was falling asleep at my computer until I saw it. IT being the Muppets version of Bohemian Rhapsody on youtube. Thankfully Miss Piggy and a L'il Critters Gummy Vitamin revived my interest in the day. At least temporarily.

I made it all the way to 7:35 AM without being thoroughly annoyed. But the sticky note on my monitor tipped me over the edge and into the abyss. Why would you put a sticky note on my computer? Ever heard of voicemail or email? Recognizing the handwriting, I could hear Paul Harvey intoning And Now You Know the Rest of the Story. It was from Brianne, the woman who is physically incapable of sending an email without Replying All and attaching a Read-Receipt Request. I prefer to preview her emails then delete them so that she receives the "Unread Message Deleted" warning. Brahahahahahahahahahaha.

Is it National Can't Be Bothered to Use My Turn Signal Day? I think it is.

It pleased me to no end to snark "Wow, pretty necklace!" when the Queen of Knowledge showed up in a neck brace this morning. [Oh, don't be all judgmental. I happen to know for a fact that she's perfectly fine. She's just trying to make her husband feel guilty for making her clean the gutters. And if I thought it worked, I'd already own one!]

We (and by we, I mean I) officially begin the day at 8:30. This morning at 8:25, only a quarter of the staff had arrived. By 8:29, we were all the way up to a third. I've officially become the old lady in the library who purses her lips and makes the tsk-sigh sound when someone dares to make a noise.

Last autumn, I was (yet again) espousing my child-rearing theories to a colleague, Annie. Specifically, I was encouraging her to avoid the Well-we-don't-want-little-Belinda-to-be-an-only-child-so-we-better-squeeze-out-another-brat pregnancy. I also provided wise counsel that she avoid the Santa Claus trap. After all, I'm an only child, and my parents never thrust me toward a fat, furry stranger's lap. So clearly it's all good, I mean I turned out okay. Right? Not so much. Apparently the advice of a drunken psycho loser no longer carries the gravitas of Nick Nolte or Kirstie Alley, both much-admired among the Order of Drunken Psycho Losers, not to mention the Pajama and Muumuu Wearers Alliance. This morning after sharing the pictures of Belinda on Santa's lap, Annie announced her pregnancy. Tsk-sigh.

As my co-workers' fake-laughs become more girlish, my own becomes more manly. I'm either going through The Change or Steven Segal is hiding under my desk.

As you know, many of my dreams involve flying. In fact, I often encourage my dream-self to fly higher and farther because I like the feeling of weightlessness. And the scenery. The rest of my dreams involve being partially- to mostly-naked but searching frantically for clothing. [And, yes, I know what it means, so don't bother to ever-so-helpfully google it for me, thanks.] Yesterday I had a horrible nightmare that I was working alone as a waitress and too many people came in at once. I awoke in a sweaty panic but once I confirmed that I wasn't about to expire from terror, I had to admit that there were two funny parts:
1. My panic attack bloomed into full-fledged hysteria after just two customers placed drink orders;
2. The restaurant inspector was so freaked out by my insanity that he started taking orders, then commanded me (and the many, many voices inside my head) away from the customers.

My cats are alone for the first time in more than two weeks. I wonder if there will be a Tigergate-like crime scene by 6:15 when I get home.

You're officially old when you begin to refer to all women under the age of 30 as Little Girls.

If life were more cartoon-like then I could install a trapdoor just outside my cube area. Then every time I heard that annoying faux baby-voice whining, "Tess? I know you're going to hate me but I need you to ..." I could flip the switch, the ground beneath her perfectly manicured toes would disappear, and down, down she'd go. Where she'll stop, nobody knows.

A few minutes ago, I thought to myself:
Wonder if I should actually try to accomplish something today.
Then, because I couldn't be bothered to listen to myself thinking, I responded:
Hmm? What? Oh. Nah.
I'm not sure that a licensed therapist would consider this discussion to be a sign of positive engagement.