Call It An Ounce Of Crazy…Or Two, Or Three, Or Twenty
This morning, I am alive – thank the man in the moon for that.
I almost didn’t make it through last night. It was touch and go there for a while. It was a close call, and I mean a really close call.
But in the end, the big red pot that sat on the stove overnight with the turkey soup inside it that I am making because Monday was Thanksgiving and we had two turkeys and something needed to be done with the bones, did not explode into a giant fireball, ultimately consuming me and my family in smoke and flames as we lay unconscious and charred in our beds, the firefighters unable to get to us because the blaze was just too intense.
Miraculously however, the firefighters managed to save the cats. Well, pretty much what happened was that the front door got blown open and the cats just ran outside, but one of those handsome firemen took them all home – except for Jackson, the weird one. He was given to the neighbours. And the cats lived happily ever after with me watching them from above as I floated around in the clouds – a cat guardian angel like no other.
Yes, I’m a little neurotic.
And as someone of this unstable ilk, there are a few things – OK, a lot of things – that bother the hell out of me. The first one – if you haven’t already figured it out – is leaving food to simmer on a ridiculously low temperature overnight on the stove, even if that food will spoil otherwise because there isn’t room for it in the fridge and it’s not cold enough yet to set it on the back porch. My feeling: you never know when the burner will go from slightly warm to inferno-level for absolutely no reason.
I also don’t like the toothpaste lid to be left off or askew – ever. It could fall onto the floor, and I could step on it while I was curling my hair with the curling iron, which I rarely do and which would be very ironic if I was doing it during that inopportune moment. This could accidentally cause me to burn off a hunk of my hair, and make me look either really crazy or like I was some kind of new-wave fashion maven or one of those older but still fairly cool MTV hosts. Sadly, I’m not that put together. My clothes wouldn’t match my head’s hip appearance. I’d probably just look homeless.
And it drives me batty if someone leaves a teaspoon or so of cereal in the box, or less than a cup of liquid in the milk container. Eat it or drink it, for Christ’s sake. As if that little bit is going to make a meal for someone.
And fingerprints on the microwave or stove? Don’t even get me started. Damn you, stainless steel appliances.
And I don’ t care if the shelves in that same fridge are stained or covered in sticky stuff in a few places either.
I guess we all have our pet peeves, and we all have things we don’t give two craps about. It’s the magic of being human.
Anyway, whose idea was it to make that G.D. turkey soup? That’s right, it was my husband’s. He is always trying to use our resources to their utmost potential, always trying to push me outside of my comfort zone. I guess we were made for each other.