Happy Friday, fellow bloggers! And a happy week it’s been, too, as I was recently the proud recipient of…
…well, shoot, let’s do this properly. Altogether: mouths agape! Eyes widened! Breath bated! And, try bristling a little with curiosity.
I can tell you’re into this now. Except, maybe bristle just a BIT more. It’s honestly so sweet of you, really. Don’t be afraid to go completely bug-eyed. Think Katy Perry, not Renee Zellweger.
I think we’re ready. So, without further ado, I’ve won…
Sure it's exciting, but can we do something about all the...pink?
The Glitter E. Yaynus Award.
Say it loud! Say it proud! Say it fast and then gasp in horror upon finally realizing what it sounds like a mere five days after receiving it! (Hey, I get it! I GET it! Wow, that is so undignified. Thinks about it a little longer. Then…giggles. Giggles more.)
So anyway, I spent way too long trying to figure out what the letter “E” stood for before coming to that realization. Glitter? Sure – I’m a girl. All my makeup and lotion contain glitter. (Don’t worry about the lighting, nightclub, it’s the weekend and your human disco ball is on its way!) Yaynus? Like Festivus, why not? But the“E.” That stubborn “E.”
“E” is for epiphany.
I never expected to get to this point in my blogging career and yet – here we are! I don’t know how I can possibly go about reaching higher goals with my writing now. It’s quite likely I won’t be able to handle the pressure and will lock myself in my bedroom meticulously cleaning every key on my keyboard as an excuse to why I have writer’s block. All thanks to MJ, evil stepmom.
No, really. THANK YOU.
And that covers the thanking the nominator portion of the evening. We’re setting a good pace in this award shit show (hah) already. Feel free to sit back in your chairs now if you’d like. Bathroom breaks are still not allowed.
Well, you should have went before!
The next rule requires me to run across the highway blindfolded. That’s just ridiculous. Good thing I was in high school track and have an instinctive sense of direction. I can always tell where the ice cream is in a packed freezer. Challenge accepted.
Aaaand…back! As it turns out, I am not as spry as previously thought. MJ, I’ll be sending my doctor bills your way. Thanks to you, I’ll never be able to dance atop a bar to Journey again. (Bummer)
Next, I must confess five things about me that make others want to kill me.
1. If you tell me a story that lasts longer than two minutes, I will indefinitely drift off and start planning my next meal. It’s always about my next meal. You say you’re worried about losing your job? In deciding between spaghetti and sushi, I think it’s obvious who has bigger problems at hand.
2. I’m about to win HGTV’s 2012 Dream Home. Hey, we can’t all win dream homes. But we can be good sports and send me housewarming gifts. *muffled coughing – SLAP CHOP – muffled coughing*
I'll never have to learn to properly cut onions - take that, society!
3. I will pull out in front of you in traffic. I’m late and you’re in my way. Since you’re obviously the one in the wrong, I’m betting you’ll slow down and all without flipping me the bird because at least you’re clearly ahead of me in line at Heaven’s Gate.
4. I take forever getting ready. Probably because I can never get all that glitter off.
5. I hate The Goonies. Ahhhh, it’s so boring! I can’t even get through the first half hour! Fine. Five minutes. Ok, opening credits – you got me. Can’t we just all sit down and watch The Sandlot together?
Moving right along. In accordance to the award rules, I must now list five things I’d be willing to stick up my patooty if forced to. Right. Nnnno! I will instead list five reasons I am absolutely unable to abide by this rule, even if I wanted to. (I don’t)
1. I’m a lady.
2. Ladies simply don’t have the anatomy.
3. Or bowel movements.
4. And we certainly don’t toot. Ever. Fact.
5. No means no!
Know what else ladies don’t do?
Lastly, I must pass this (coveted) award to five deserving bloggers. Without further avail:
When I think of the surely darling children I’m going to have one day (sans the van – cool soccer mom reputation to maintain here, and yes – I DO shell out extra cash for the quality Hi-C juice boxes at practice), I can’t help but already feel for these unfortunate children with whom no one will want to trade lunches.
At best, I can put together an appallingly delicious sandwich – I mean it. That thing will blow away any previous sandwich standards, especially when the works slap you squarely into tomorrow. Tomato, lettuce, pickles, turkey, and TWO cheeses will fight a dirty and epic battle to conquer your taste buds. Place your bets now, folks.
Ok, so I know you’re thinking that you can get that sandwich anywhere. And probably with a few chips thrown in on the side, or some homemade potato salad. No doubt a pickle slice.
But, guys. I’m gonna let you in on a little secret.
I toast the bread. I TOAST the BREAD!
At worst? Well, fellow blog readers, I am ashamed to tell you that more than once a month, I open the refrigerator to find a year-old jar of peppers, three mismatching beers left behind from a game night I hosted a year ago, and what I can only assume at one time was a piece of fruit that has slowly disintegrated in the crisper drawer. On a positive note, I won’t have to add raisins to my grocery list. Ba-dumm-tumm-dshhhh. Just kidding. I don’t have a grocery list.
Ironically, on the scale of things, my best and worst are only marginally separated.
If you’re single, it’s completely acceptable to live off of sandwiches in your 20s. It’s not like I’m going to come home on my lunch hour and happily slave away in my “Commander in Chef” apron to prepare a roast that I will then slowly devour in a month’s time thanks to those new freezer bags that now offer 25 percent less freezer burn. About time, am I right? Besides the obvious glitch in that plan being that no one under the age of 75 likes roast anyways.
I fear for the day some poor guy slaps a shiny ring on my hand without even questioning why we never eat at my apartment.
Because then. ONLY THEN. A day to mark the end of an era. Sink or swim. Ride or die. Cook or be divorced after years of unhappy silence upon coming home to find an assortment of meats and toppings slapped hastily between two pieces of (perfectly toasted) white bread.
“But…we had sandwiches for lunch,” he’ll say as I hear his stomach literally whimper, acidic tears dripping from its shrunken encasement.
“I thought they were so good, that we’d have them again for dinner,” I’ll say, smiling brightly, for I have a surprise for him. A special dessert of the likes only I can manage. Not just any sandwich. ICE CREAM sandwiches. Hy-Vee special: two boxes for $7.50. Helloooooo, Wife of the Year.
At least, that’s how it goes in my mind.
Every Christmas at work, our department has a Thieving Santa party. Our first time around the table last year, I picked out a nice set of decorative plates for dip, alongside a blinged out spreader. Everyone fawned over them and at the time, I chuckled alongside them with seemingly utter delight while quietly having a panic attack thinking, “Now I have to make DIP?!”
When my inner temper tantrum – and the trading - subsided, I looked down rather reluctantly to find I held a crock-pot in my hands. Which, OF COURSE, no one wanted because everyone on the face of the Earth already has a crock-pot. Winner, winner, aaaaahhh, crap, I’m gonna have to make dinner.
“How lucky for you; now you’ll be able to cook easy meals for the whole family!” said the masses, eagerly sharing simple recipes hearty enough for a group of 8+. Except that it’s just me and my cat. And what’s “cooking?”
It’s still in the box.
I have the cookbooks and the painstakingly handwritten family recipes handed down throughout the generations. I have a recipe holder in the shape of my favorite thing in the world – shoes. I have a spatula and a handful of forks. But, at the end of the day, I have absolutely no ambition to cook.
So, my cookbooks take up much needed space, my recipe holder sits restlessly atop my microwave longing for the day it’ll grip instructions for homemade lasagna, and my kitchen is just a means to get to my dining room, which is a means to get to the television.
And on the days when I’m too tired to make even the simplest of sandwiches?
Thank God for Jimmy Johns.
