We're finally here. I hate everything.
Are you a person enjoying a cocktail? Perhaps a person sitting down to a bowl of pasta? Maybe you're just a person? My husband? My kid? My cat? Well, you can fuck right off. The lot of you.
This is where we are now. I am spacey and snippy. EVERYONE QUICK HANG OUT WITH ME.
I know I brought this on myself. That only increases my sense of angry self loathing. I am a fucking peach, y'all. I am honestly behind on releasing days of blogs because, I mean...how much do people want to hear about how much I hate everything?
It's a Saturday on Day 10. 1/3 of the way, which means I've made THIRTY MEALS by this point. I know, people do this all the time, but we don't typically cook three meals a day. Hell, my husband gets FREE lunch at work (at one of his two jobs), but he's not eating it right now because he's dedicated to my jackassery with me.
Saturdays are usually a bit of a juggle. Husband has clients all morning and afternoon, and I'm hanging with the bird and trying to work and get all of this food prep done. It's called living, and I know I'm not special. I KNOW. This particular Saturday was the day before the bird's birthday party. A happy and momentous occasion, that we paid someone else to throw because they have inflatable things and more room than we do. Putting a bunch of 4 and 5 year olds in here would be like putting thrashing ferrets into an ice cube tray. Ain't happening.
Everything was pretty much done, so there was no reason to stress. Breakfast was a kitchen sink scramble, which is really just Whatever You Have With Eggs. It's like a shrug on a plate.
I worked some more, played with the bird, and then had some sort of salad for lunch. It's really a blur of meat and leaves at this point. I'll get more creative in a bit. Promise. If I live.
Here's what happens when your new diet gives you more energy and you already run like a motorized hummingbird: you get anxious. You get tense. But MORE than normal. You have the patience of a hungry lion and the wherewithal of a drunken lion. It's not good. So I ate, and I worked, and all was well. Then, we decided to hit Target for a few last minute items when the husband got off work. I should give him a nickname, shouldn't I? To make this easier? I digress.
Both my husband and I had about one exposed nerve left from our week, and our kid found it.
And she tugged.
She asked for approximately 97 things in Target, in the grocery store, and from her mind as we drove in between those two locales. We were picking up water and juice for the party, along with some supplies and a dress for the birthday girl. It's common knowledge you can't take a kid OR an adult into Target and not expect them to want stuff, but the combo of 5-year-old and rabid-consumer-of-YouTube-unboxing-videos results in a bottomless hole of asking. Just to have. Just to collect.
I can usually get a more rationalized grip on this fact and deal with it accordingly. But...oh...I had no coping foods or beverages.
Everyone was in great danger.
I lost count of the number of times I threatened to cancel a party or return a gift. Each time was effective for about five seconds. Then more asking.
When we finally got home, we angrily shoved dinner into our faces while she happily played, knowing she had made her demands known.
Allegedly, we ate this dish of chicken thighs and roasted vegetables, but I don't have a picture of it. So it couldn't possibly have happened.
The bird went to bed, and suddenly all sins were forgotten. You know, they're sleeping so suddenly they're great again. We wistfully talked about how big our little girl was getting, and if she was ready for her sword and jacket with aiguillettes. Do they make those in a 5T? You know...for tiny dictators? I pondered this as I set up goodie bags.
We crashed. In the morning, another "I Guess This Is Fine" with eggs, because it's good and I am tired, dammit. I tried the thing where people blend coconut oil into their coffee.
It had caffeine in it. It was delicious. Once we were properly fueled, it was off to the party. The biggest temptation here was going to be the cake. Our friend, Rachel Claff, makes DELIGHTFUL cakes. She has made our wedding cake, baby shower cake, and at least one of the bird's previous birthday cakes. This time, the birthday girl asked for a cake shaped like a Num Nom. It was actually Rachel's suggestion when the bird asked for a Num Nom on top, and -- whaddya mean it sounds like I'm making up words? Ohhhhh. You don't have a tiny person collecting toys that don't do anything and come in seasons? Huh. Weird. They're little toys that have either lip gloss or a stamp inside. We've never gotten a stamp. They look like this. Then Rachel made this:
The thing is, I know Rachel. So I know this cake was not only the cutest thing next to a truckload of puppies, but it was going to be fu-UH-cking delicious. We somehow didn't eat it. We had vegetables from the tray. God, I hate us.
The party was a success, children were sufficiently worn out, and the bird hauled ALL THE PRESENTS EVER home. Seriously, people are generous AF. Upon opening the gift of the Snoopy Sno Cone Machine, we gasped and I blurted out, "WHICH ONE OF YOUR FRIENDS LOVES YOU THAT MUCH?!"
For all our hard work, I made this shrimp scampi, replacing the butter with ghee, which winds up to be a lot. Of. Butter. Which is a lot. Of. Happiness. Spaghetti squash is an ingenious thing. It's delicious, easy, and filling. But how anyone figured out how to do this is beyond me, especially since its primary goal is to kill you by melting off your skin with steam burns after roasting.
I don't have a picture of this dish. I ate it all. I ate it so fast. I almost accidentally ate my hands and my fork.
In the stage where I hate everything, that birthday party and this fucking scampi proved the exception. Thank you, clarified butter. Thank you.