This will never be my food blog.
Because that would involve getting better at photography (okay) and cleaning my kitchen (not okay).
This will never be a blog about all the cyooooooot things I found on pinterest. Not because I have too much respect for myself (although…. ) but because I have too much respect for all of you. Also, you can just hop on over to pinterest and find your own shit that you won’t really make – you don’t need my help, not even a li’l bit.
But the other day, I came across a blog post titled “How To Torture An Oreo” and of course I clicked on it. And now I’m going to tell you what came of it.
Not about the cookies, because they were every bit as lackluster as promised. In fact, mine weren’t even attractive: they looked like B-movie flying saucers and tasted like tooth decay. But, you see, before I could make the damned things, I had to buy the cookie dough (Rhubarb Swank is absolutely correct – there is no point using my incredible cookie recipe if I’m just wrapping it around a goddamned Oreo) and since we were set to do the grocery shopping together anyway… *
HIM: We need Coke.
ME: Okay, but after that we need… (thinking) 9-volt batteries.
HIM: (nodding) Okay. (heads off toward beverage section)
ME: And… (checks list) Oreos.
HIM: (stops, shakes head)
ME: (defensively) No, really. Need them. Legitimately.
ME: Double Stuffed.
ME: I have a plan!
HIM: (horrified stare)
ME: (moves on)
HIM: What’s your plan? Shock aversion therapy to get Brindle to stop loving Oreos???
ME: What?? No! I would never do that! She loves Oreos!
ME: Why would you think that?
HIM: Why do you need batteries and Oreos??
HIM: You said –
ME: No! Not together!
ME: The batteries are for a different thing entirely.
ME: The Oreos are for my plan.
ME: Which doesn’t involve batteries.
ME: Or Brindle.
ME: Do you feel better now?
HIM: Yeah, now that you’re not planning to electrocute our dog
Ridiculous, right? I swear, he’s always causing scenes. Did I tell you about the thing in the fabric store?
Hang on, let me check.
No, I did not tell you about the thing in the fabric store. Let me do so now:
We were, as I’ve alluded, in the fabric store. I’ve got a lot of sewing to do just now, due to the impending haunt season. I’d been tasked with making a new costume for one of the other ladies, and it’s a complicated order because of the lack of guidelines – if there are any costumers or seamstresses here, you feel my pain. Anyway, one of the requirements is that she really wants it all in black, so I’m shopping for these heavy black fabrics, comparing several to try to find the matchy-est blacks – current and former goths, you feel my pain here.
ME: This one’s more of a greenish…
HIM: (distracted, wishing he was literally anywhere else)
ME: This one’s darker, but oof! So expensive!
HIM: … yeah… (gauges distance to nearest exit)
ME: These two are closer… See, this is the problem with blacks!
HIM: (suddenly alert) Um…
ME: Tch. (tosses four bolts in cart)
HIM: (loud hiss) You canNOT say “this is the problem with BLACKS” in public!
See? You can’t take him anywhere. Honestly, I ought to go ahead with the shock treatment plan – which really wasn’t ever my plan, but now I’m thinking about it – to work on some of his behaviors. He ran out of his snore strips the other day and forgot to run out for new ones, but didn’t tell me that that was the situation. Until he came to bed and started feeding damp wood through a warped saw blade.**
ME: Roll over.
HIM: (doesn’t move, goes back to snoring)
ME: (poke) Roll. Over.
HIM: I just did!
ME: No, you didn’t!
HIM: Fine. Better?
ME: No, because you still haven’t –
* Grocery shopping together is actually one of those things that should go on The List, but basically he hates going with me because I am disorganized and easily distracted, hates going alone because it’s boring without me and I always complain that he forgot something that I mentioned but didn’t put on the list, and refuses to send me alone because the bill comes out to double and somehow we still have no food but I manage to bring home a sombrero and a giant stuffed tiger.***
** Well that’s what it sounded like, anyway.
*** I am a fucking rock star at grocery shopping, y’all.