in which I bitch.

[impy]

I am not meant to cook for other people on a nightly basis. Or, if I am, someone else should do the grocery shopping, as I approach it the same way I do most shopping expeditions. "Get in, get most of the crap you absolutely need, get the fuck out." It's not really conducive to creative cooking. At least, not in a good sort of way. Another major player in that?

I'm the girl who will happily eat the same three meals over and over and over again. Occasionally I burn myself out [sorry, lasagna in the smaller portions. Oddly, the giant box is still loved] but give it a couple of months and I'll throw it back into rotation. A big part of that is that I'm freakishly picky. I've gotten better over the years, but for the most part I'm not the girl you want to split food with.

I think mushrooms are the work of the devil, onions should never be more than just a taste [as in, if I crunch into them, someone's gonna fucking die], and as far as I'm concerned, tomatoes do not exist. Things made from them [sauces] should bear no chunks because then I'll be... yeah, that would be a gross picture so I won't share. Those three dislikes SEVERELY limit ones choices in the food department. I'm getting better on tolerating onions [one cannot eat fast food without acquiring this] but mostly... ick.

None of which would be a problem if I were making dinner for me and only me. Or hell, me and the Widget, as he'll add whatever he wants to his own, or demand something totally different. It works. But cooking for other people is taxing. You realize that maybe they don't want the same meal every week, whereas I could live on it twice a day, every day.

Of course, then the peasants suggest something featuring onions, mushrooms, and some other crap and you realize you would rather starve than even look at such a creation, let alone make it.

And yet, I'm gonna do it. I don't know why. I really don't know why since they ate all my ice cream.

There were three boxes of ice cream in the freezer. Three boxes of ice cream sandwiches that I'm not all that fond of, one because it's SF, and the other two... just because I'm not big on the sammich of ice cream. Those last three, btw? Totally bought for other people because they ASKED for them. There are also Popsicles and fudgesicles and who the hell knows what else.

So naturally they descend on the ice cream I bought for me.

And demolished it.

Totally.

Completely.

Gone.

I'm cranky today because people woke me up at one. Which sounds like fun, but how would you like it if I called you up after four hours of sleep, and eight hours of work, and oh yeah, no fucking breakfast OR ice cream [which is scientifically proven to make things all better] due to food all being gone OR people piling the dishes in the sink in an effort to be "helpful." Let's get one thing clear. If the sink is full of dirty, stinking, rotting [I'm exaggerating, go with it, don't be grossed out] dishes, how, exactly, am I supposed to clean them if I have no room to maneuver? What's that you say? You didn't think of that? Correction! You did not think! At all! Period! If you actually wanted to be helpful, you would have rinsed your plate, shoved it in the dishwasher, done the same for people's glasses, and then poured the soap into the dishwasher's slot [dirty!], and started the damn thing.

Um, and then people woke me up again before three, because Widge came home from school sick, and he decided that since he's actually a 90-year old dude with hearing aids that don't work, that he needed to crank the radio [in his bathroom, which shares an all-too-thin wall with my bedroom] so loud that I'm not sure, but I think the Australians could hear it.

I lost my rage, mainly because I got a Widge hug.

Dammit!

Comments

[ghosty4.livejournal.com]

Hate grocery shopping. Hate cooking. Right there with ya, sister!