Around 3:00am each morning I wake up to finish the glass of water on my nightstand. It’s a phenomenon as predictable as a conservative watching Fox News. Then of course, I get up to refill it because let’s face it, I need to be prepared for the next time I wake up with insatiable thirst.
This obsession with water leaves me wholly convinced that in a past life I was a severely dehydrated desert animal. I simply can’t seem to quench my thirst, and never have been able to. Seriously just try getting in my car and viewing the back seat filled with water bottles and not think I make a living recycling.
So I’m up this morning and groped my way through the dark into the kitchen – and it smelled horrible. There was no visible smoke but it was definitely the smell of burning flesh.
Ok it wasn’t burning flesh but it smelled REALLY bad.
I checked the oven for the usual burned pizza I normally forget about, but no black frisbee was to be found. Then I remembered….I wanted fake chicken nuggets right before bed. (Yes I’m a vegetarian and no I don’t miss bacon. Those fake nuggets are crispy, they are juicy, and they are DELICIOUS.)
I carefully opened the toaster oven and there lay 4 pathetic black strips of protein. Sadly their dead carcasses looked up at me, never knowing the joys of being drenched in ketchup and low fat ranch dressing*.
*My roommate gives me shit about my low fat choices. “Why not buy the better tasting full fat and just eat less of it?” she frequently wonders out loud in my general direction. “Uh, because I slather burritos in sour cream, soak pizzas in ranch, and put mayonnaise on not one, but both, slices of sandwich bread?” Trust me I’m doing you all a favor, you don’t want to see full fat mayonnaise Joni running around the beach.
Why oh WHY can’t I cook anything ever? This particular circumstance can be explained by vodka – I may or may not have been out and about much earlier in the evening and perhaps there were people of the handsome male variety generously providing libations. I won’t confirm nor deny this possibility, but let’s just say I got home and wanted a snack, then determined that laying down would be better.
But even when I’m completely coherent. I can’t NOT burn the shit out of everything. My home is the place grilled cheese sandwiches come to die. All tofu scrambles are deep south cajon style, see image 1.
My point in all this is – I have finally realized that I am absolutely required to date and be friends with ONLY persons who can cook. I’ll die if I don’t. Die of eating only cereal and mac and cheese, or simply by burning the house down.
Bonus if you are a spider killer. My god I am the most PATHETIC person when it comes to spiders. I decided to wash my car yesterday and wouldn’t you know there was a giant spider just under the faucet. After my fit of screams died down, I ran to get the fly swatter and our all-natural (garbage) bug spray*.
*I mean really. Why would you buy “all-natural” bug spray? That shit is intended to MURDER, slay, annihilate bugs, their families and the ecosystem as we know it. A mafia in a bottle, dressed up in 40’s gangster attire with the kill success rate of Tony Montano. But no, we have the all-natural hippie Joan Baez of a spray, which is merely a gentle ass perfume that makes the house reek for 3 days. Her excuse is that we have a couple dogs…but they eat grass and cat shit, so I’m pretty sure they can handle a little bug spray in the air.
I stabbed the spider with the fly swatter sideways, shrieking all the way and blurting profanities about the spider’s family. I of course left the dismembered body coated in all-natural bug soap to warn the others that this, THIS, is the place where they would die should they trespass.
Unless it’s in a frying pan, in which case the spider would be burned like my poor sweet, now inedible, fake chicken nuggets.