I never paint my nails in the house.
It’s not because I don’t want to. It’s just…
I’m not allowed to anymore because the last time I got nail polish on the bed…and on Tim’s shirt my shirt (his t-shirts…THE BEST. And I steal them)…on the counter…on the bathtub. Hell if I know how any of that happened…same as I said to Tim when he was all, “THE HELL, WOMAN? Why is there a pink heart-shaped splotch on my sink?!”
I refuse to cut paper if a straight line is required.
I don’t like to wait for anything to pre-heat. I just throw it in there all, “it’ll cook eventually.”
Same goes with things “cooling off.”
Which results in disasters like this:
And “this” was a lemon cake that was supposed to probably be like…three inches higher and all in one piece. The top layer isn’t even attached in some places.
My first mistake was tinkering with the recipe. TWO eggs? We don’t need all that extra cholesterol, hell, let’s try one egg plus lots of applesauce. Oil? Nah. More applesauce. Then, while it was busy doing its baking thing, I opened the oven around 50 times to check its progress and poked it about 300 times with a toothpick. Once I decided it was done baking…
Let me stop right there…and answer the question I’m sure you’ll ask yourself: Why didn’t she use a timer? Yah…well, we do actually have one. I’m just not allowed to use that, either. Last time I tried to time something on the oven timer thingy, I managed to explode the circuit for the entire left side of the house. Ok, so maybe it didn’t explode exactly, but I had to sit in the dark with no TV or internet until Tim came home. And the whole “look at the clock when you put it in the oven” is lost to me. I mean, sure, I’ll look.
But will I remember?
No. I won’t.
I’ll forget I was even cooking until Tim races into the kitchen and is all, “Why in the hell is there smoke coming from the oven?” True story.
So, anyway, back to my cake: When I took it out of the oven, I carried it immediately to the counter and flipped the bundt pan thing right over onto a wire rack. I then proceeded to beat the bottom of the pan with oven mits, hoping that would help it come out all nice and pretty, like on the box.
I was pissed all, “THE HELL, CAKE? You’re supposed to COME OUT IN ONE PIECE AND STAY TOGETHER.”
Then I read the directions: “Allow to cool at least 15 minutes”
Well, fuckitty fuck fuck.
Someone needs to invent directions for us non-patient people.
Something like: “Allow to cool at least 15 minutes before even considering flipping the pan over, dumbass. Did you hear me? I said FIFTEEN MINUTES, DUMBASS.”
Then, I might actually pay attention.
Instead, I get distracted admiring the pretty picture on the front of the box all, “It’s going to look like THAT? Really? Even though I don’t have chocolate shavings or a unicorn shaped pan? Awesome.”
Anyway, lemon rock cake is what I should have called it. Last night, after Tim took a bite of my failed attempt at dessert, I was all, “So, what do you think? You like it, right?”
He looked at me, bewildered, “What flavor is this, again?
Me: Vanilla. Well, vanilla and lemon….actually, it’s vanilla, lemon and apple.
Tim: That…tastes about right.
Me: So, you like it, right?
Me: I thought you liked dense cake?
Tim: “Yah….sure do…”
He really shouldn’t try to pull one over on me. I can see through the bullshit like I can a damn glass window.
(Actually, come to think of it, aren’t all windows are made of glass…or that clear plastic stuff like on airplanes?…an example on why proof-reading is kind of important)
Back to the rock cake: Tim’s eyes were screaming all, “This. Is. Revolting. I’m totally going to regurgitate the contents of my stomach after you fall asleep.”
Don’t think I didn’t hear the toilet in the guest bathroom flush about fifty times in succession.
Oh, and remember this one?
Why do I continue to torture myself?