One of the things I am proud of in my life is that I have always made my own money, and I have never been unemployed. I suppose technically, since I am a Pizza Slut, I’m not unemployed, but until Frenchy Christophe gives me more hours, I am stuck with much more time on my hands. This in a way is a good thing, because I have more time to write, which was always my excuse for NOT doing so before, but at the same time, I must point out that I have a very short attention span, so I tend to bound from one activity to the next, as evidenced by my recently watched list on Netflix Live. (I started watching 5 movies yesterday and didn’t finish one of them). Also, my need to feel useful and not like a slacker has found me this day in the kitchen, attempting to bake bread.
I have mentioned my lack of expertise in the kitchen on several occassions, however, it has seemed that my baking skills have been improving, albeit at quite an unhurried pace. I no longer find myself crouching in front of a heated oven wondering if I should stick my head in it when my caramel rolls resemble something leaking from a head gash in the latest John Carpenter movie, nor recently have I cracked up into an explosive spasm of tears when my Rockstar tells me my breadsticks would taste better sans the blackened crust. (It’s happened) That being said, my cooking still in no way brings to mind that bitch Betty Crocker, unless one refers to how very UN-LIKE her cooking my sustenence is.
I am stubborn, and I will not be shown up by a boodle of dough, even though I would be quite embarrassed if someone were to walk in right now and witness me screaming into a bowl, “Rise! You Son of a Bitch! Rise!” I will NOT be undone.
Good ole’ Saturday. A day to kick back, relax, start drinking at noon… or so it WOULD be if I didn’t have to be at work. Do you ever find it strange that the Bosses of the world- the ones who are supposed to be in charge of the workplaces- are the first individuals to be gone on a holiday weekend? And no, it does NOT make me feel better when my manager words it, “We will be away with our families.” Now, if my manager’s wife actually LIKED her hubby, I would say “Good for him”, and mean it. But since every minute I am with my boss is filled with his whiney voice telling me how badly he is neglected at home and how having 4 kids is so hard, I would say to him, “Dude! Work a fucking Saturday so I can hang with people who actually like me.” At least I just got to witness an altercation between a mall cop suffering from Short Man Syndrome and a Somalian.
Ay, me. So I tried to cook Italian last night. It was not completely disastrous, but neither did it have my Beloveds rushing back for seconds. Last week it was caramel cinnamon rolls, which surprisingly rose to the occasion. (HAHA)I sometimes get a recipe in my head that I simply must try, but most of the time, I pretty much despise cooking. This being because I’m not super-great at it, due to the fact that my private school hadn’t a home-ec class and the only thing my mother excelled at in front of the stove was frying home-made french fries without a deep-frier. (Yay you, Momma.) I spent the first decade of my life away from home not needing to know how to cook; I ate at work- the mom-n-pop restaraunt. So when I started dating my Rockstar and found he could make biscuits and gravy when I could hardly fry an egg, I was slightly embarrassed. Being the stubborn personthat I am, I said to myself, “Self! I can be just as good as Betty Crocker, and cuter too!” I would just like to point out- that bitch ain’t real! After numerous failed attempts at gourmet cooking, one of which included me chucking a gravy spoon at my boyfriend, I was ready to throw in the skillet.
But damn it! I realized I DO want to be an excellent cook. Perhaps it’s because when I think about it, I personally do not know one person my age who can cook well, from scratch. I shall be one of the elite few in the year 2061 who actually knows how to knead dough (while wearing 5 inch heels and glitter). As I have learned with sex, what makes a woman good in bed is passion. So I shall passionately persevere at stirring and mixing and sifting, and maybe after 20 or 30 tries, my breadsticks may actually be edible.