Over-sharing on the Elevator

I tend to communicate in a total stream of conscience type of way, to my own detriment.

When leaving the office today, a woman appeared as the elevator door was shutting. I frantically mashed at buttons, trying to locate the door open button. As the woman entered the elevator, I said

"Sorry! Sometimes I get flustered and can't decipher between the door open and door close button! It's kind of like with greater than/lesser than signs. I have to employ that old second grade tactic of 'the alligator always wants more' and I have to visualize."

Was it only my second grade teacher who used that little teaching mechanism? Apparently so, or maybe it was just due to my ridiculous ramble that this woman stared at me with a "what the fuck is this girl talking about?" look. I recognized this look, as I get it often from my friends, my family and people I work with.

On a side note, I always try to hold the elevator door open for people. Except for that tart in the garage who parks her BMW SUV in a compact car spot every. single. day. I can't stand that type of asshattery, so I let her wait.

Stupid, stupid, stupid

I just submitted a cover letter that was written for Company A to Company B. Of course, I realized what I had done the moment I clicked "submit."

I guess that "attention to detail" stuff I included in the letter is going to get a good laugh.

Chicken Poppyseed Casserole Redux and a Flashback

When The Husband and I first started dating, Thursday night was date night. For the first month of our relationship, he'd come over to my house and cook dinner so that I wouldn't miss Grey's Anatomy. He jokes now that he cooked just long enough to hook me. And hook me he did...what could be better than having the son of a restauranteur cook authentic Italian food for you so that you could watch your favorite show? I told you he was smart.

The first time I offered to cook for him, I agonized over the menu. I needed something I couldn't screw up, but would be really fulfilling. I called Grandma (the queen of good, soul-warming food), and we decided on chicken poppyseed casserole and green beans. Real green beans, cooked with bacon fat. A casserole topped with buttery Ritz crackers. For dessert, my fabulous chocolate chip cookies. He was as good as putty in my hands.

Except...I had never cooked chicken before. Because I had lived alone for five or so years, my diet was largely vegetarian. As I trimmed the extra fat and blood veins out of the chicken breasts, I threw the raw meat down the disposal. I snapped the fresh beans and threw the remains down the disposal. I was working on assembling the casserole when I heard the awful sound that will haunt my dreams for years to come...glubglubburpglubglub. 

Let me paint a picture for you.  Me, in my cute red toile apron, laboriously working to impress this man with a home cooked meal. Me, thinking I had the another 3 hours to clean my apartment and take a shower. Me, hopeful that he would think I was as great a catch as I thought he was. Me, with crushed ritz crackers and flour in my hair. Me, looking over my shoulder to see what was making that God-awful sound.

It was my sink. Both sides of my sink, filling with what I can only describe as toxic chicken soup. Grey water. Chicken fat. Green bean pieces. And lord knows what else. Holy shit. Shit, shit, shit! I tried to run the disposal. Big mistake. The toxic chicken soup started behaving like that pink goo in Ghost Busters II. It was angry - very angry. And it was threatening to overtake my home.

I called my landlord. He told me he'd come over the next day, to which I cried, "NO! Please....I'm...I'm having a dinner party!" Nice guy that he was, he rushed over.

Landlord:  What did you put down here?

Me: Chicken and green beans.

Landlord: Raw chicken?

Me: Um...yes. Was that bad?

Landlord: You are never supposed to put raw meat down a disposal. Or stringy vegetables like green beans or celery. Or egg shells. Or pasta or rice. Gums up the disposal.

Me: Seriously? Are you kidding? I didn't know, I swear! I'm so sorry!

The landlord called the plumber, and they proceeded to carry buckets of the toxic chicken soup out my back door and dump it in the backyard. Then they snaked my sink. The whole process took hours. I had one hour to clean my house, take a shower and get cute, and they were still in my kitchen which now looked like a war zone. So, I did what any rational woman would do. I opened a bottle pinot grigio, and dove in head first. I sat on the steps of my townhouse with a bottle of wine between my legs, and called my friend doing that hysterical laughing/crying thing. Then I called The Husband and asked him to be two hours late. Then I called my mom and asked her why she didn't teach me the rules of the disposal. To which she replied that she had no idea...she put everything down the disposal. Thanks, Mom. She thought the situation was hilarious.

Dinner wasn't ready until nine pm. In addition to everything else, Grandma didn't tell me the beans would take hours and hours. The Husband laughed his head off at my expense when I told him what had transpired that afternoon.

I made chicken poppyseed casserole for dinner last night, the first time since the first time. The Husband gave it a 3.75. I found that I still couldn't eat it due to post traumatic stress syndrome.

I lack the fight response, and rely solely on flight

I am terrified of pests. When I was 23, I saw a mouse in my apartment...and spent the night at a hotel. When I was 25, I called the maintenance man in my complex and begged him to come remove the dead frog from my porch. Before I knew The Husband, I used to call my friend's husband to come catch the garden lizards that would get in my house. I simply cannot deal with anything larger than a roach.

So, I was standing in the kitchen today making lunch and heard this loud buzzing, rustling sound. My heart stopped beating. The Boy's ears perked up. I ran from the room, trying to figure out what kind of animal could have gotten into our house. I peeked back into the kitchen and saw it...my freaking cell phone vibrating on the plastic bag I had set it on.

Moron.

Brain Atrophy

I had trouble completing the crossword puzzle in the back of People magazine today. Not good.

Sometimes life's just not that exciting...

I have nothing interesting to say today, so I'm going to share a historic idiot moment with you, courtesy of yours truly:

I didn't really start cooking until I was about 27. Prior to that, the only show I watched on FoodNetwork was Racheal Ray. My mom LOVED the Barefoot Contessa. So, for one Christmas in my early twenties, I decided to get her a Barefoot Contessa cookbook. At B&N, I perused all of her cookbooks, and was so confused. Why was this woman always cooking "In a Garten"? You know...like Barefoot Contessa Parties...In a Garten, and Barefoot Contessa at Home...In a Garten. And why did they spell "garden" like "garten"? Was the Barefoot Contessa German? Why the hell was she always entertaining "in a garten"? It wasn't until I was checking out when it hit me...her name is Ina Garten.  I was so embarrassed at myself, I blushed on the spot.

I swear, I'm fairly intelligent. 

Leftovers - FAIL

I hate the taste and smell of microwaved chicken. I hate all microwaved meat, actually. This fact greatly reduced my lunchtime options when I was working. I survived solely on Smart Ones Lasagna Florentine. Every. Single. Day.

Whenever we have enough leftovers that we will eat them again in the same week, I reheat in the oven. Everything tastes better that way, and no food is wasted.

So last night I put the leftover Chicken Divan in the oven...and smelled something rancid shortly thereafter.

Note to self - remove saran wrap from casserole dish PRIOR to sticking casserole dish in oven.

Parking Garage - Fail

I forgot to look at what level I parked on and lost my car.  I walked around for 35 minutes before I decided to head up to the top level and just walk down the levels until I ran into it. I thought I was going to have to walk to The Husband's office and tell him I lost the car. But then I found it.

I just hope to God that the guy I had interviewed with wasn't staring down at the parking deck thinking, "What the hell is she doing?"