Tuesday, September 28, 2010

"It's not you, it's me."

I used to take people on like I could handle all their problems.
& I don't know when all that changed but somewhere along the line, I decided that the last thing I wanted is someone who's going to be all up in my shit.

& the baggage. Holy shit. If we're going to be together, at this stage in my life, you're not even allowed to have baggage.

I feel like sometimes I pester Mr. Flintstone because he kind of goes through life like one high, Asian robot. It's like the only things he's capable of feeling are "Whoa," and "I'm sorry, I wasn't listening."
The following is a hypothetical situation between Mr. Flintstone and I:

Scene: Snuggling on living room floor
Me: Hey, is everything okay? You're kinda quiet.
Flintstone: eh.
Me: I don't know what to do with that.
Flintstone: Can I have a massage?
Me: Yes, but hold on, we're talking.
Flintstone: About what?
Me: About your feelings.
Flintstone--distracted by dog. What?
Me: Omigosh, baby pay attention.
Flintstone: Oh myyyyy gosh. I did it again so I'ma let the beat drop.
Me: Okay, no really.
Flintstone: Okay, no reeeaaallly.
Me: Is something wrong? I sometimes find it's easier to work through my emotions via interpretive dance.
Flintstone--distracted by dog.
Me: You're not even listening.
Flintstone: I am.
Me: What's the last thing I said?
Flintstone: You're not even listening.
Me: Uggggh. Are you okay?
Flintstone: Am I getting a massage?

Okay, I've never interpretively danced unless you count dancing to Cameo's hit single, Candy, in the morning when I get ready as dancing interpretively. [But I think there's more to it.]

Anyway, it used to drive me crazy that Mr. Flintstone doesn't have real feelings.
Until recently.

When I realized I am socially inept to deal with anyone else's shit.

It's happened a few times now where I'm totally into someone and then they pour out all these feelings and I feel like they just took a shit on my lap.
& I'm sitting there thinking, "Omigosh. We can never undo this. I'll never forgive you for taking an emotional dump on my levis. Things are going to be so weird everytime I see you now." & usually, I'm just itching to get the fuck away from that person and breathe. But like, literally, itching.

I don't know where I'm going with this.
What I'm trying to say is nothing used to freak me out when it came to relationships.
& now I'm extra selfish.
(Note: I'd be that crab on this post. Selfish Shellfish. Yah, I'm sooo clever).
I only want to deal with my shit and I don't want all the cards on the table or to have to answer to anyone.

Right now the kind of guy I can handle is a man I'm going to have to stab in the biceps with a fork every now and then to make sure he is still capable of feeling; the kind of guy who'd rather get a massage than take an emotional barf all over my face/dump on my jeans. whatever.

Sunday, September 19, 2010

The Time I Rented SATC

The day I rented Sex & The City, the movie, was a memorable one.

Not because it launched me into an obsessive desire to watch the entirity of the show's 6 seasons back to back and finish almost all conversations with the phrase, "I really am like Carrie."
Not because it forced me to look at other women and label them as Samanthas or Charlottes.

-->It totally did both of those things.
But neither of those are the reasons why that particular day stands out in my memory...

The I rented Sex & The City is forever burned into my memory because that day is the day I made a Blockbuster sales associate faint.

The day in question, I took on the mammoth task of making spaghetti alone.
Reader, I know you're probably thinking that making spaghetti is not difficult...it's actually like the EASIEST thing you can make.
& that would be because, unlike me, you, my dear friend, are not prone to catastrophy while performing even the simplest of tasks.

I, on the other hand, am a walking and breathing magnet for disaster.
As such, when I was making spaghetti, I cut my index finger trying to remove the little tin tie around the end of the ground beef. I'm not even sure how I did it.
All I know is for such a small little cut, that sucker liked to bleed.

I tried bandaging it but it bled through 3 band-aids in a row. So instead I took a clean rag and applied pressure until it stopped and I was able to finish cooking.
Once done, I decided to go around the corner to rent a movie.

Perusing the Blockbuster aisles, my finger started throbbing. I decided to apply pressure by nibbling the tip of my finger while I walked around.
I saw the SATC display but with no dvds for rent so I went to the check out counter to ask if they had any that just hadn't been reshelved.

In all that time that I was nibbling my index finger, I didn't notice the blood dripping down my chin and arms or the resevoir of blood that accumulated on my shirt.
So when I approached the counter to ask about SATC, the poor guy who was working looked up and unexpectedly saw this:

Or something like it.

The guy fainted.
& I still didn't understand why.

So I started screaming, "Oh my God, Oh my God! Somebody Help! The guy fainted! The guy who works here! I don't know what to do!"

& the other sales associate who was in the back of the store came rushing up.
Instead of addressing the guy laying on the floor, the associate comes up to me and goes, "Oh my God! Are you okay?"
& I'm like, "Yes, I'm fine. But this guy just fainted out of nowhere!"
The guy is staring at me like I'm stupid and he's like, "you're covered in blood!"
Me: "I'm covered in...?" and that's the part where I looked down and noticed my blood drenched shirt and my still gushing finger squirting blood onto the thighs of my jeans.
I was, indeed, covered in blood.

The associate who's not unconscious runs to the back of the counter and grabs a first aid kit, he then takes me to the employee restroom and hands over the kit.

I cleaned off my arms, face, and hands and wrapped up my finger. When I came out, both of the associates were standing behind the counter waiting for me.
The one who fainted cleared his throat, "ahem. I uh, I found that copy of Sex & The City you wanted."
Me: "Oh really? Thanks that's great. I'll just go ahead and pay now so I can get home."
Associate 1: "Okay so it's 3.99 and due back on Tuesday."
Associate 2: "Are you okay? Are you sure you don't want us to call an ambulance? It's no trouble."
Me: "Haha, no really, I'm fine. I just pricked myself a little while ago and I guess it wasn't done bleeding. You know, making spaghetti."
Associates both cock their heads to the left in confusion.
Me: "K, well, have a good night! Sorry about bleeding all over your store and making you faint. I left the first aid kit on the bathroom counter."
And then I tried my best to not run out of the store.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Breast of Fresh Air

My sister, FlorCarl, & I have a very special relationship.
Sometimes we text eachother random pictures; like she'll text me a photo of her sleeping & I'll text her back a picture of me playing with a furby.<--that only happened once, I found it in my high school closet at my mom's house.
Yes homo. haha, Just Joking.
But really, she always knows how to bring a smile to my face, take for example, the following conversation carried out via text message:

9/13/2010
1:44 pm
FLORCARL: I'm gonna cut the hair! I'm nervous!
ME: You're cutting it? Like short?
1:46 pm
FLORCARL: Not super short! How much should I cut off? I can't decide on a style!
ME: How much are you thinking of taking off? I like your long hair.
1:52 pm
FLORCARL: I like it too...but it's damn hot! Lol. I was thinking to my bra strap?
1:53 pm            
ME: It's about to be winter, impatient ass. I'd go to like mid-breast
2:01 pm
FLORCARL: Hahaha...you love me!
FLORCARL: What is mid-breast?
ME: (In response to "you love me") I do.
2:02 pm           
ME: Like where your nipple starts. Haha
2:06 pm
FLORCARL: Got it! Lol...that's exactly where my bra strap is! Whoop!
[Note: "Whoop" is a common Aggie term expressing joy/excitement.]
ME: Why do your nipples start so high? haha
2:11 pm
FLORCARL sends picture message. I hesitate to open. Picture is following photo of Gwyenth Paltrow with attached message: What do you think of this length...it's shorter in the back.
        
2:12 pm
FLORCARL: Big Nipples! haha
ME:  It's cute. I was worried it was going to be a picture of your nipple...
2:14 pm
FLORCARL: Can't stop laughing.
2:15 pm               
ME: I'm going to post this on my blog tomorrow...

Monday, September 13, 2010

Times When Sharing Sucks

"Sharing is caring."
Or so they'll have you believe.

But you know as well as I know that sharing is NOT always caring. In fact, sometimes sharing is the $10 hooker who slips you a rufie and then steals your liver.--> You wake up in a tub full of ice with stiches made of fishing line and a post-it note directing you to call 911. & worst of all, you will never get your $10 back.
What am I saying?

I'm not really sure.

The bottom line is, sharing is sometimes crap.
But I won't go into another analogy.

Instead, I'd like to give you this list of situations where sharing CLEARLY sucks, so that you can avoid them. I'd like to think of this as a gift--the gift of knowledge. Reader, I am sharing my valuable wisdom with you today.  Do you know why?
Because it's my 50th blog post. Rejoice!
For those of you who've been here from the beginning and those just starting to read me, I'd like to say this:
THANK YOU. YOU'RE MY FRIENDS AND I LOVE YOU, DAMMIT.


Sharing public bathrooms with your best friend when you're drunk is ALWAYS fun...
unless one of you has to poop. Then it's weird.

Anyway, the next time you're in one of the following situations, I hope you benefit from my words.

Sharing sucks when you're sharing:

A.) The place where you live. Living with another person is a wild-card. One time, one of my sorority sisters was living with me for the summer and I came home from class to find her naked in my study on the computer. I didn't know how to react so I just didn't. I've only had a couple of roommates in the past and one live in boyfriend. But it's safe to say I will avoid cohabitating until I'm married; even after then, if possible. I'd be the most content if I could live in my family's basement with my husband and kids on the upper level. Kid's visitation rights to my she-bat cave will be strictly limited and my husband will be on a sleep-over only basis. I hate living with other people. [Note: my brother & I's living situation is going really well, though. I'm surprised at how much I don't dislike living with him.]
       1.Bathrooms: People do the weirdest things in their bathrooms because they're alone. Masterbating, for example; most guys do it in the shower or in front of their computer. Girls tend to leave makeup all over the counter tops or girl stuff in the trash can--sometimes for too long. My oldest brother's kids do this weird thing where they put their dirty toilet paper in the trash instead of flushing it--creeps me the fuck out. & then there's the inexplicable; every bathroom sink Mr. Flintstone has ever had since we've been together gets coated in a thick layer of gunk that causes it to drain slowly. I'm pretty sure the gunk's main components are hair gel, tooth paste & spit, & dog hair.
       2. Bedrooms: Your bedroom is your sanctuary. In my case, usually a dirty one. Not exactly on purpose but I have a terrible way of leaving books lying all over the floor and Shakespeare has a bad habit of dragging my dirty draws out of the laundry hamper and chewing on them in the middle of my room. Things can get awkward when company is over. The weirdest part of sharing a bedroom is having to share your bed.
                  2i. Beds: Sharing a bed is weird. Even if you like the person. My first serious boyfriend, who I lived with, used to sweat profusely in his sleep and pull the sheets off the mattress. It was weird and I had to buy new pillows because he left sweat stains in my old ones. Some people fart in their sleep <--me. But also, sharing the bed = less room for you. When I stay over at Mr. Flintstone's we somehow manage to squeeze me, him, his dog, and my dog onto one twin size bed. I'm not going to lie, his dog, Jazzy, usually punks me out of my spot and I wake up breathing into the wall, having balanced myself on the last two inches of the bed and the nook between the mattress and the wall all night. Do I love sleeping beside him? YES. Do I also love having room to stretch my arms/escape if need be? Also Yes.
       3. Kitchens: People also do weird things in their kitchens. I had one roommate who would rearrange all my dishes and spices while I was in class. She also used my decorative oven mits to clean out my microwave. Why I have decorative oven mits is besides the point. I also had one roommate who made tacos for her man and stored the unused meat (still in the skillet) in the oven. I assume her plan was to put it away later but later only came 3 weeks later when we couldn't figure out why my house smelled like moldy enchuritos. We found the skillet still in the oven, but where the ground beef used to be was now replaced by grey meat jello.
        4. Bills: see letter D, Expenses.
B.) Desserts or Appetizers: You know how sometimes the waitress asks you if you want an appetizer/dessert and you don't want to seem like a fat ass so you look to the person next to you and say, "Wanna share?" but what you're really saying is, "Wanna watch me eat an entire brownie sundae/plate of mozzarella sticks and take part of the responsibility so I can avoid judgment?" & then the appetizer/dessert comes and you do share and you feel glad you shared but then it comes down to the critical point: the last bite.
I'd like to call this awkward encounter the last bite dance, since you & the person you're sharing with are both dancing around the fact that each of you wants that last bite for yourself but doesn't want to be impolite. The following dialogue usually ensues:
You: Go ahead, eat it. I saved it for you.
Them: No, I already ate my half. You eat it.
You: But I'm already full so if you don't eat it, it's just going to get thrown away. Go for it.
Them: I know you want it, just take it.
You: I really don't.
But you do. You want it so bad you almost resent them. Sometimes, you luck out & the other person doesn't really want the last bite; then EVERYBODY wins. For example, my new friend Keith and I were having lunch in the school cafeteria. Keith got barbecue and cherry cobbler. I got pasta. When we were about to leave, I noticed Keith had not eaten his cobbler & didn't plan to. Score for me: I made a new friend and got cherry cobbler fo' FREE! It was a good day.
Mr. Flintstone & I's thing is baking cookies: the pillsbury ones that are already separated out into little squares & all you have to do is put them on a pan and bake them. --> I know he cares because he always leaves me the last cookie. :)

C.) Party nights: It sucks when you want your friend to come out with you but they are totally broke. Going out & covering just your expenses can be pretty pricey but then it's magnified when your friend is tagging along & everything you buy for yourself, you also have to buy for them. Then you have less of a good time because everytime you pull out money to pay cover or head to the bar for a shot, you have to mentally calculate how much is in your wallet and subtract whatever you were planning to spend and then multiply by two. This situation can cause resentment in even the sweetest of temperaments, but I was always especially aggravated by the math involved: I was a creative writing major, dammit. First you're pissing away all my funds & then I have to do math? You pretty much just inadvertantly screwed up my night.

D.) Expenses: Bills, Gas money, Etc. In Hamlet, Shakespeare wrote something to the affect of, "Never a lender nor a borrower be." You know why? Because money tears people apart. I've never really had anyone owe me money, but with respect to gas, I can pretty much say never give anyone a ride if you're depending on them to reimburse you. People forget about gas expenses like it's nothing; even if they told you they'd help you out on the gas. Only give rides to people you love (that's what she said) & you won't mind the gas thing.

E.) Clothes, Personal Items: Never loan out anything you're really attached to. I once loaned a cocktail dress to a really, really good friend several years ago & still haven't gotten it back. Someone out there still has my white go-go boots that I lent them one Halloween. I can't even count all the dishes and cookware of mine that are out there floating around. & the thing is, the borrower usually has the BEST intentions of returning your stuff but it's inconvenient for them to bring it back and you don't want to make a big deal about it and come off as up-tight so you just hang out & voila; your shit has just been adversly possessed. (Yeah, that was a legal term from property class--be impressed).

F.) Jail. I can speak about this one first hand. Trust me, you don't want to share stuff in jail-->because you never know. On the other hand, sharing in jail is a surefire way not to get beat down.
For example:
  • always get lunch, even if you're not hungry. Your cellmates might want to hoard your uneaten bread to make a sandwich later.
  • When you post bail, always leave behind your toilet paper for someone in need.
  • The rubber from your shoes; you can share this with your cell mates when they want to do their eyebrows, clean under their nails or if they need to stick something under the table to make it stop wobbling.
  • Toothpaste: can be used like glue to hang things on the wall. Also good for brushing teeth; also leave this behind when you post bail.
  • Things you should NOT share: your tooth brush, soap, wash clothe, cup, bedding, undergarments,or hair brush.

Friday, September 10, 2010

my face es en fuego

So today I woke up and as I washed my face, I realized my scar was finally gone.

I will admit something only a select group know about me; I lied to most people when they asked what happened because the truth was so embarassing.
Even Mr. Flintstone does not know the whole story-->that's how embarrassing it is.

Okay, are you ready?

In the summer of 2009, I burned my face.
While eating macaroni.

Well sorta.

I used to eat a lot of microwaveable macaroni. The good kind; not the kind you pour water into that's all powdered and stuff.
No, I used to eat the kind that was frozen macaroni in a little paper tray. It was so good.

& one day, I had just heated up some macaroni and when I pulled the paper lid off of the tray, hot cheese splattered all over my face and hands.
I don't even know how it happened.

It's not like the macaroni spontaneously combusted or anything.
I don't want any of you to have irrational fears of macaroni due to this post.
I think it had something to do with how I was holding it.

But anyway, that shit hurt. I immediately knew I was in trouble, even before looking in the mirror.

So I rushed to the bathroom to wash my face and when I splashed cold water onto my skin, I felt splotches of my skin wrinkling up. When I touched them, the skin just came off.

The part of my face that was skinned was pretty big, too. There was one splotch the size of my thumb just below my left eye and another, but much smaller one, by my mouth.

My best friend, Caroline, was on her way over and so I gave her a call;
Me: Hey sis, I just wanted to warn you that I burned my face just now. I didn't want you to come over & freak out or anything.
Caroline: You burned your face? With what? Is it bad?
Me: You'll see.

& to her it was that bad. Caroline thought it was so nasty she took me to the emergency room.
Her plan was just for us to walk in & get advice on how to treat it from a nurse or social worker but instead, the hospital actually admitted me.
2 hours later, they let me leave with the advice that I should not wear makeup until after the scab fell off and to use vitamin E to help with the discoloration. They also gave me 2 small packets of fancy neosporin.

I later recieved a $700 bill. Insurance picked up all but $30 & I still get letters from College Station Medical bitching about the $30 I still owe them.

I felt super gross. Especially once it started healing; the color of it right before it scabbed was the shade of green that sores turn when they're infected. Everytime I talked to someone face to face, I could see their eyes wandering from my sore to stuff behind me and back; they had to force themselves not to stare directly at it.
I could tell everyone really wanted to know how I'd gotten that nasty scar but usually they were too polite to ask. Sometimes guys would be like, "did you get into a fight?" & I lied. My story to everyone but my parents, the doctors, Caroline & Darlene was that I burned myself with coffee.
I dunno why, coffee just seemed so much less embarrassing than the truth.
I still think it is.

Mr. Flintstone was & still is such a total Adonis to me. He is physical perfection. If he was a dessert, he'd be creme brulee or that discontinued chocolate cake at olive garden. But anyway, my point is, I was really concerned about how long I'd have the scar and whether he'd still like me now that my face was possibly altered forever. I gave him a call;
Mr. Flintstone: Hello?
Me: Hey hun. How's your day going?
Mr. Flintstone: It's alright. What about yours?
Me: Not too good. I just burned my face and spent two hours in the emergency room.
Mr. Flintstone: What?
Me: It's not that serious. Caroline took me to get advice but they admitted me instead. But anyway, it's pretty ugly. I don't want to see you until it's cleared up. They said I might have a scar for the rest of my life.
Mr. Flintstone: That's silly, babe. & if you do end up with a scar, I'm sorry to say this babe but you'll have to go from a 10 to a 9--you'll still be beautiful.
Me: *laughs*
Mr. Flintstone: I know how you feel though. One time I was playing basketball and I accidently bit through my lip. I had to have stitches. It was really bad. So I know all about the insecurity about scars. But now you can't even tell.
Me: Really?
Mr. Flintstone: Really. So don't worry about it.

& that phone call really made me feel so much better.
Once the scab fell off, I had a tiny pink triangle under my eye--but you couldn't see it under makeup. & until today, when I caught a glimpse of a College Station Medical bill out of the corner of my eye, I'd almost forgotten about it.

To this day, I still haven't had any frozen macaroni but I honestly don't miss it.
I'll get back to it one day but for now I'm taking baby steps.

& also, I just noticed, I've been writing a lot lately about fire and heat. I hope to conclude this 4 part series with this post. I promise to start talking about other things again.

Thursday, September 9, 2010

You Might Be Cursed If...

Actually, I don't think I'm cursed.

But I'm fairly certain our apartment is.

The word the maintenance men actually used was "haunted" but I think that's just a tad on the meretricious. There is no proof of paranormal activity here, just some maintenance problems.

But the argument could definitely be made that this place is cursed. For example,
8/7/2010 We move in. Shortly thereafter, I inadvertantly let in a cockroach; find it in my room, under bed. Irrational fears ensue.

8/22/2010 Apartment catches on fire due to faulty wiring in dryer unit. We almost kill everyone in building 7 for failing to realize small fire growing inside wall.

8 days later, we are allowed to move back in. The apartment is still covered in soot from the cieling's fiber glass insulation and extinguisher fluid. Cleaning people come Wednesday; forget to clean. Return to clean following day.

8/31-9/6 2010 pass without problem. Maintenance returns to replace light bulbs, install dryer. Leaves note saying they "checked" A/C unit. Replaces air filters.

9/7/2010, approximately 1 am: power goes out during thunder storm. On-call maintenance sleeps through multiple phone calls. Regular maintenance comes promptly after 7 am phone call & restores power.

                Replace breaker.

9/8/2010 A/C stops working.

9/9/2010 Maintenance checks A/C. It's still hot as balls in here.

The last time I saw a maintenance guy face to face and we talked, I apologized because Shakespeare wouldn't stop barking at him & he says, "Oh it's okay, I know he's a nice guy. He's just trying to protect you now but usually when I'm here, he's the sweetest thing."

& then it hit me how much maintenance has been here.

Today, Ray said we should maybe consider moving. We live on the third floor so I, personnally, am not looking forward to dragging our sofas down the stairs. I can take a little temporary heat & technical difficulties; we did, afterall, set this place a-blaze a couple of weeks ago so there's bound to be issues.

But the fact that maintenance called this place haunted makes me think they know something I do not.

I will be on the look out for any displaced growling noises, slime coming out of the faucets, or small microcosms inside the refrigerator.



Ghostbusters is still my favorite thing & arguably the best haunting situation possible; the marshmallow monster is almost as cute as the pillsbury doughboy.
As a matter of fact, the only way it could've been any better is if it had been the pillsbury doughboy instead of the marshmallow monster.

So, yeah. I guess that's about it.




Tuesday, September 7, 2010

Things that go bump in the night. It's just me

The problem is I've seen way too many horror films.

I wouldn't say I'm afraid of the dark, but I don't like being in it.

No lie, this stems from the time I was in the 5th grade & BEGGED my mom to let me watch The Exorcist. <--That shit fucked me up for life. I was fourteen before I could sleep without a night light &, even still, I chose to sleep with the tv on. I still do unless I'm with Mr. Flintstone who's not so big on background noise, infomercials, or TV Land re-runs; so I guess there goes the allure of evening television.

Anyway.
Two weeks ago when our apartment caught on fire, a big sign that something was wrong was when we turned on our dryer, all of our power went out & wouldn't come back on.

There was also a little smoke and some crackling noises coming from the walls, but the power outage preceded everything.

Last night, as I bathed, the power went out.

Shakespeare was napping on the pink shag rug in my bathroom and I kept looking over to see if he was as nervous as I was. Turns out, he wasn't. In fact, he just kept napping.

It's not the dark itself so much that bothers me as the fact that my over-active imagination scares me into thinking something could be lurking in the shadows. Under this pretense, I payed particular attention to Shakespeare because man, that dog loves to bark. At everything. So I knew any potential dead Japanese women hiding in my closet would set Shakespeare off on a barking spree the moment she should start slithering or throat moaning.
I am, of course, referring to The Grudge.
On a side note, once, as part of a practical joke, I made that really gutteral creepy moaning noise the dead girl makes in the movie at Mr. Flintstone. Like first thing when he woke up. He was like, "That would be scary." & I was like, "That movie scared you, too?" and then he was like, "What movie?"
So I guess it would scare him if I woke up & first thing in the morning made one really long belch while maintaining eye contact. Weirdo.

But anyway, so as long as Shakespeare wasn't barking, I figured I'd just continue sitting in the tub and wait for the breaker to trip again and start back the power.
After 20 minutes, my ass was starting to prune & still no power. & then I remembered the fire. Either the ass-wrinkling or the threat of imminent fiery death (& I'm not sure which) finally motivated me to get out of the tub after half an hour of waiting and put on my big girl panties...literally.

5 minutes later, I was standing up against the hall way wall listening for any evident crackling sounds.
I slammed my face into the door frame and knocked my knees into a few desks and tables for good measure as I came back into my bedroom to call maintenance.

The lady running the apartment's on-call line wasn't much help...
I'm eighty percent certain she forgot about me since I called thrice (that's three times) between 1 am and 2:30 and when I woke up for class this morning the power STILL wasn't on.

Let me tell you, my apartment without the power, even on a stormy San Antonio night in September was hotter than the devil's balls if he was wearing leather pants in Texas July. He'd have to slather baby powder all over his groin to keep from chaffing.
It was fucking hot.

Since I couldn't sleep, I decided to light some candles and finish up studying. I got all my stuff done & eventually fell asleep with my face in a torts book.
When I woke up this morning, I felt good about conquering my fear of the dark, although, I was pretty excited to get the power back in time to do my makeup for class.
I was still feeling good, if a little tired, while I sat in class today.
Until the power went out in the middle of lecture.

The kid next to me: "Who's touching me?"
Me: "Shh...Hold me. I'm scared."

In my own defense, it totally could've been a tornado which is a rational fear; this is fucking Texas.

Monday, September 6, 2010

Paella? But what are you making for him?

So this past weekend was a big weekend for Mr. Flintstone & I. For one, he moved into his first solo apartment. Secondly, this weekend he recieved his first paycheck from his new job. Third(ly?), I was pretty pumped about not having dropped out of law school after these first two weeks of class. & Finally, it was Labor Day weekend. All of these things really mean nothing but it felt like there was some cause to celebrate.
Something you should know about me, Reader(s), is that I will go out of my way to make Mr. Flintstone happy, which I should probably do less of because it recently came to my attention that this mofo likes to fight. I think he feels like it keeps things from becoming monotonous & keeps the passion alive. I have no fucking idea, we're like on opposite ends when it comes to that. I HATE FIGHTING--when I get mad I have to work hard to come down off of my anger & then I over analyze the situation. But to him, fighting's like hot.

On a side note, Reader, you should also know I watch a lot of Nickelodeon & for some reason the characters from Nick Jr are singing "I've got a Feeling" by the Black Eyed Peas. If I had a glass of wine, this would be freaking amazing. But I digress.

Back to what I was saying: I will go to no end to put a smile on that chinky face. So on Saturday when he suggested cooking & said he was in the mood for shrimp, I automatically thought of the most romantic Latin dish ever; Paella.

Paella is a dish consisting of shrimp, scallops, mussels, chicken, clams, and chorizo--all tossed around in rice and peas. Right now you might be thinking, "Wow, Lauren can cook like that? I had no idea. How absolutely hot/impressive."
& to that I'd say, "Well actually, no."

But damnit if that stopped me from trying.

So I went to Super WalMart & picked up all my ingredients and then gave my dad a phone call.
Me: "Hey daddy, I'm making paella for [ Mr. Flintstone] tonight and I think I'm going to need some help."
Dad: "Pa' ella? But what are you making for him?"
--The joke here is that pa' ella in Spanish would translate into for her.
Me: "What? Oh. Hahaha. You're so clever, dad. Okay but no really."
& my dad starts telling me all the really complex secrets behind making paella. But they were so complex I stopped listening. He kept saying something about the water level and the rice to which I responded, "Yeah, I got it. They have to be level."
But it suffices to say I took only a few basic tips away from our convo & decided to just wing it.

It was going really well, too!
Until I realized I'd over-estimated the cook time and noticed my rice was drying out & I hadn't even tossed in my clams and mussels! So I added more water.
This is where listening to my dad about the water was important...
Because I effed up right here.
I added too much water. So from then on, my rice was squishy, fat, and sticky. It was still pretty flavorful, but I felt like that stopped it from being an otherwise perfect dish.

There were a few bumps in the road though.
For instance, WalMart didn't have clams in their seafood section, but I was able to find canned clams in the international isle. Trying to be romantic, I also purchased four 50cent candles with the idea of lighting them all before Mr. Flintstone got home.

Right around nine, I stepped out to take the dogs for a walk. When I came back, the smell that greeted me was like a clam market. Those canned clams were not playing around. I decided to break out one of the 50cent candles and hope it would suppress the smell. While I was lighting candles and dog walking, my rice was starting to smoke.
So I went to turn it and came back to crack a window. In those brief moments, the small, cheap candle decided to drip from the small table it was placed on onto the carpet.
I saw this and desperately tried getting it all out. This was, afterall, Mr. Flintstone's brand new place so I felt like it was extra terrible to already start making stains on his carpet.
Then I heard a knock at the door. I panicked a little because I still had wax all over my fingers and knew I hadn't completely gotten rid of the clam odor.
I imagined myself answering the door and my love would walk into his new apartment, sniff the air and shoot me a dirty look. The only response my imagination had prepared was, "Okay, so I may have spilled candle wax all over your new carpet and inadvertently made your apartment smell like clams, but you still love me right?" Cue innocent face.
But when I looked through the peep-hole, it was actually Mr. Flintstone's young upstairs neighbor coming to yell at me about the dogs barking. I wanted to say, "what the fuck do you want me to do about that? they're dogs, they bark." & I was more than a little irritated because I was pretty sure she was having a party upstairs since I could hear all of her whoadies on the patio and she brought a dude with her who still had a deck of cards in his hand. But whatever. That put me in a bad mood for the next half hour before handsome got home.

Mr. Flintstone came home in a bad mood, too. And his temperament was only exacerbated by my story about his up stairs neighbors. But then he was ready to eat and I lamented about the sticky rice. He still loved it and told me it was great, regardless. He even had four bowls!
Sitting together on his couch eating paella, I looked over and felt so blessed just to be with him at that moment and to know that even though I'm clumsy and make mistakes all the time, he still appreciates the sweet things I do.

Right before bed after we'd done the dishes and were turning off all the lights, he looked over to his tv table and pointed to the melted wax still in the candle dish,
 "What is that?"

"Umm, let's talk about it in the morning."