I recently went on an adventure. Most people call it “Christmas Shopping”. I call it, “trying not to go insane.”

I realized as I was shopping that there’s a lot in the retail industry that makes no sense. Case in point: While I was exploring the Ann Taylor outlet, I noticed that there were no petite sizes, which I thought was odd since most women’s clothing stores carry petites. I am 5’ 3”. I’m tall for a “petite” but short for a “regular”, so I was looking for both sections, but I remained unsuccessful. Until, for whatever reason, the fabric gods gently pulled on my hair, forced my chin to point in an upward direction, and caused my eyes to look higher than normal. And then I saw it. The petite rack was at the top of the clothing wall. Let me repeat that. The PETITE rack was at the TOP of the clothing wall! What stupid clothing layout engineer decided THAT was a good place for petite clothes? Whoever he was, he’s thinking: I know…. These people already haven’t been teased enough in their lifetime about their short stature, let’s really taunt them and put their clothes where they can’t reach them! And then, if we all banLe http://www.tutti-casino.com/download-online-casino-gioco.html room sono molto piu? economiche perche’ hannopochissime spese per fornire il servizio. together, in a few months, thousands of short naked women will be running around like crazy homeless people, asking application card citi creditcard credit debt reduction servicesbest card credit interest ratecard credit fraud reportcredit card reward program,card credit program reward,best card credit program rewardcredit card debt statistics,teen credit card debt statisticscard card credit master pal pay,card com credit pal pay,pay pal credit cardbad card credit credit discover,bad credit discover cardbusiness card credit processing start,credit card processing for businessmbna america credit cardannual card credit fee no secured,annual card credit credit fee no poor,no annual fee credit cardcard credit generator number stolen,card credit fake generator number,credit card number generator0 credit card offer,credit card offer with 0 on transferonline application visa credit cardapplication card credit status visavisa reward credit card,card credit point reward visacard consolidation credit loan studentbank card citi creditcredit card debt consolidation servicebad card credit credit ukкомпютриcard credit offer visabusiness card credit find smallprovidian bank credit cardhow to reduce credit card bad debt,bad debt credit card,credit card bad debt statisticsbest rate and deal credit card,best credit card ratevisa credit card application formcard comparison consolidate credit debtfree credit report no credit card,free credit card,free cell phone no credit card neededcard credit history no visa,no credit history credit card,card credit credit history needed nobank card credit georgia monogramlow interest student credit card,low interest rate credit card balance transfer,low interest credit cardbill card consolidation credit debt life partner,credit card bill consolidationbest reward credit carduk credit card applyinstant online approval credit cardchase credit card home pagecard consolidate credit debtcard credit gateway paymentcash reward credit cardcard check credit credit nocredit card balance transfer rategreen dot prepaid credit carduk credit card,uk visa credit card,guaranteed credit card ukcanada card consolidation credit,canada card consolidation credit inuk lowest interest credit cardbest cash back credit cardcard credit high risk ukcredit card application onlineapplying card credit ukfirst premier credit card application where all the clothes went! That’ll be a riot!

The truth is I couldn’t even reach the rack. So I pulled the sales clerk over to bring her magic stick that pulls down clothes, and I pointed out to her the poor layout her store. She simply responded in a thick Southern accent, “Oh, you are so right! That is hilarious!” and just laughed.

As I went home, I noticed a small naked woman wandering the streets, looking for clothes.

Beware of Pampered Chef tools. They are dangerous.

When unloading the dishwasher one day, I dropped one of our $1.25 paring knives. On the way down, it sliced my leg. I had to wash it again.

When making spaghetti, I pulled out my new Pampered Chef Executive Cookware to use. As I reached for oregano, my elbow knocked one of the small cookware lids off the counter. It landed on its edge on my foot. I cursed it, hopped around a second, and grabbed my foot for some magical healing. When the initial pain subsided, I continued with the recipe. After I finished, I looked down at my throbbing foot. Blood was seaping through my sock. I had a matching gash below my pinky toe with the scar on my chin.

When cutting pound cake for a trifle a few days ago, I sliced my thumb with the bread knife. It wouldn’t stop bleeding for the next couple days. I now have a chunk of skin missing from my thumb.

I am continually amazed at my lack of coordination and how often cooking results in serious injury for me.

One such memorable example was when I sliced my face open with a crystal vase. Ok, I’m being a little over-dramatic. It wasn’t so much my entire face, as it was my chin.

I was about to dump out the nasty left-over flower water (aka sludge) from my crystal vase into the backyard. But, this was summer. At night. This meant that opening the back door into the yard was going to have to be clandestine operation to avoid the ranks of mosquitos, moths, and other various avian insects from attacking my face like a scene from Birds. Furthermore, this appeared to be the mating season of the little lime-green frogs that hang out on our back windows, and I didn’t want them bringing their activies inside. They’re very cute, but I prefer to look at them with the safety of a double-paned window in between. So, with caution, I turned off the lights (to not attract any visitors), and I reached for the door to the porch.

In doing so, I made sure to focus on the two green frogs positioned near the door knob. I’m not afraid of frogs, but I had visions of them jumping on me as I opened the door, so I wanted to open the door as little as I could. With the vase in my left hand, I reached for the knob with my right, kept my eyes on the frogs, and proceded to cautiously open the door.

At that very moment, two copulating fairy bugs flew directly into my face, and what should have been a knee-jerk reaction became an “elbow-jerk” reaction. With my right hand still on the knob, my left hand forgot that there was a crystal vase attached to it, and it tried to swat the fairy bugs from my face. I jammed the vase into my chin.

I screamed. Somehow I managed to carefully place the vase back on the counter and close the door, aborting the plan altogether. My husband comes running to me from the living room, and my explanation of what happened barely elicited a comforting reaction from him:

“I hit myself with the vase.”
“Why? How?”
“Bugs were flying at me.”
“That’s ridiculous. I can’t believe you’re that afraid of bugs. Good grief, Erin.”
“(sniffle) You don’t understand!” (Insert exasperation). “Nevermind!”

I went to the bathroom mirror, and that’s when the waterworks turned on. I had a large bruise developing with a one-inch gash directly on my chin. I was afraid I needed stiches, but I was more afraid to explain to the doctors that I had been attacked by two copulating fairy bugs and a vase. I simply put ice on it and a lovely Pocahontas band-aid.

I continually find myself approaching recipes that appear simple, yet turn out to be emergency tutorials on how to perform intricate surgery or engineering of some sort. Last night’s adventure was the whole chicken.

The recipe was clear and concise: take a 3-4 pound chicken, remove the neck and giblets, rinse chicken in cold water, baste with olive oil, rub on a few seasonings, and roast in the oven. I allotted about fifteen minutes to complete the task. I’m educated, I thought. I have a degree. Surely I can handle this. What began as a fifteen minute sprint became an hour long battle with the chicken.

Step 1: “Remove the neck and giblets.” Easy enough. I’ve seen my mother do this three hundred times when preparing a turkey for Thanksgiving. Everything comes packed nicely in a little baggy as if Boo Radley himself was awaiting the treat of seeing a look of joyful surprise at the unsuspecting consumer. So, I take the chicken from the cellophane wrap, pick it up under the armpits, and locate the neck. Aha! I’m brave, so I reach in with my bare hands, grab the neck, and pull. It didn’t budge. Why? BECAUSE IT WAS STILL ATTACHED! Immediately, I do what any sane woman would do: I called my mother. I have chicken juice all over my hands, and I have a feeling I need both for removing this thing, so my husband calls my mother and puts her on speaker phone. The conversation that ensues becomes an inadvertant shouting match:

“Hello?”
“Mom, I need help.”
“What?”
“I need help.”
“With what?”
“How do you remove a neck from a chicken?”
“What! Why?!”
“Because I’m going to eat it and the recipe says to remove the neck.”
“Well, just pull it out”
“It’s not coming. It’s still attached.”
“What?”
“It’s STILL attached!”
“Oh, well, it shouldn’t be. There should be a little baggy inside.”
“I know, ma, but there isn’t a baggy.”
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Thanks, I’ll call you in about two minutes.”

No help. Thankfully, I have my Pampered Chef kitchen shears which I discovered do a wonderful job at cutting through chicken necks. I removed what I could. This is gross.

Step 2: “Remove the giblets.” Ok, no baggy in sight. Are there giblets? Oh, yes…there are. I proceeded to look up the chicken’s butt and noticed two Barbie sized kidneys and liver still attached! I majored in English so I would not have to dissect animals any more, and yet here I am, performing exploratory surgery. Once again, with my kitchen shears, I attempt to remove the organs. This was not so clean or pretty. Like an eight-year-old boy, I cut the organs out, botching up the job, and wreaking havoc inside the chicken cavity. Meanwhile, fifteen minutes have already passed, and I haven’t even begun getting close to actually COOKING anything!

While my face is a little too close to the chicken’s butt for my comfort, I notice a disturbing new aspect about this chicken I have chosen to prepare. Remnants of feathers, looking like over-grown wirey hairs from an old man’s chin, are poking out from near the chicken’s butt! Upon further inspection, I notice the “hairs” are not simply adorning the rear of the chicken; they are on the ankles, elbows, and collar as well! Suddenly, I’m taking back to my novels about turn of the century women working in chicken houses, sweating while plucking chickens for only enough wages to eat a meal for that day. Now what? I immediately think to grab my tweezers to extract the wet feather remains, but I was really hesitant to use a human grooming tool for food that already resembled the body of a small child anyway. It was a little too macabre for my liking. So, I grab my trusty kitchen shears for the third round of surgery. I start trimming the skin in the problem areas, trying not to think of how much chicken juice and salmonella I was spreading.

Step 3: “Rinse in cold water.” Once again, I lift the bird from underneath the armpits, but this time, I give it a colonics treatment. As I was holding it, I was disturbingly aware of Peter Gabriel’s music video with the dancing chickens, afraid that at any moment it was going to break out into song. Then my mind, which is perhaps coping with the shock of having to perform emergency surgery, begins magically transforming the chicken into a newborn infant. Its fat belly and little arms and legs somehow prevent my ability to see this as a future meal. I feel like I should put a dress on it or something. I take a moment to think about when I might start having children. . . and the moment is gone.

Another fifteen minutes have passed. I can finally finish the recipe.

Ultimately, we ended up eating a pretty good chicken, but I’m so marred by the experience, that I’m swearing off any food that still has a body.

About a year ago, I had just signed on to be a Pampered Chef consultant. I was thrilled at the prospect of making some extra money (because we all know how great teachers get paid), and I was desperately eager to learn how to cook in time for my first show.

It was a Sunday night. Amazing Race was on- my favorite show- and I was ready for my frozen pizza. Yum. Despite the fact that I had begun Pampered Chef, I hadn’t actually prepared myself for real cooking yet. I stuck the frozen pizza on a cookie sheet and baked it. No problem. Eight minutes later, I had a truly gourmet meal ready to eat. My new silicone pot holders worked wonders getting that cookie sheet out of the oven. My hands emerged unscathed as I reached for the hot metal pan, so I was thrilled with the product. (It does not take much to impress me.)

So anyway, I then put the pot holders on the range (because they also function as trivets) and strategically placed the cookie sheet on top. I cut myself the perfect slice, grabbed a glass of water, and went into the living room to watch my show.

It was a great evening. I had my pizza-a perfect corner piece with a perfect balance of burnt cheese and soft crust- and a warm fire in the fireplace…until I realized we didn’t HAVE a fire going in the fireplace. I caught the reflection of fire in the glass, and I was completely perplexed. Where is that fire coming from? Oh…the KITCHEN!

I ran into the kitchen to see flames completely engulfing the cooking sheet and licking the microwave above the oven. I quickly assessed the situation, while finishing the bite in my mouth. I grabbed another pot holder and managed to grab the cookie sheet and dump it in the sink. My two new Pampered Chef silicone pot holders/ trivets were on fire on top of two burners on HI. Apparently, as I took the pizza out of the oven, I had bumped into the knobs on the oven and turned two burners on HI. Next, I did the only thing I could think of. I screamed.

My husband came running into the kitchen, looked at me, and belted, “Well…PUT IT OUT!” My kitchen looked like a scene from the movie SIGNS. Half empty glasses of water strategically placed on every countertop. So, I grabbed the measuring cup of water, filled to about 1/4 cup, and dumped it on the stove. One, I realize that you’re not supposed to use water when putting out the fire on your stove. Two, the meager amount of water in the cup was equivalent to spitting on it, so nothing happened. I looked at my husband with desperation in my eyes. What do I do?

Like a true man, he took my elegant, white, waffle-weave dish towel from Crate & Barrel, and starts wacking away at the fire. We then had five pieces of burning silicone pot holders on the linoleum flour. He proceeded to wack at and stomp on the pieces, until nothing was left but ash. When our eyes reconnected, I could see what he so desperately wanted to say out loud: “You have got to be kidding.”

Mount Vesuvius had evidently erupted in our kitchen. There was a fine layer of ash on every appliance, in every drawer, in every crack. Then I noticed with horror what remained on my range. Not only was there ash, but there some sort of liquid oozing down the side and dripping into the crevices. Now I started to panic. The silicone had melted. Our oven was one year old, and I ruined it. I freaked out and started whining to my husband. I thought there was no way I was sleeping in the bed when my husband discovered that I was the reason we were going to have to get a new oven. I expressed my concern and waited through the long pause that followed.

“Erin,” he said calmly, “that liquid is the water you poured on it.”

“Oh.”

We kept the oven.

So, anyone who knows me will laugh at the fact that I’m blogging right now. I’m very open about the fact that I’m convinced the AntiChrist will be a robot of some sort. I think technology is taking over the world, and I’m afraid that my child will become a Cyborg. With that being said, I realize the hypocrisy in this site. However, seeing as how no one knows how to read print anymore, I figured I might as well sell my soul and succomb to the technology gods, so that someone will read it.

I write because I’m a self-proclaimed clutz, and events happen to me all the time that make me think I actually live in a sitcom. Growing up, I used to think there were hidden cameras all around me and that I actually was on t.v. somewhere (this was indeed before I read 1984 or saw The Truman Show). Anyway, while I don’t know that Big Brother is following me, I find that my life plays out as if it were on t.v.

Specifically, my cooking experiences play out like vignettes of the “I Love Lucy” show, and it began when I got married nearly four years ago. Since then, I have burnt and dropped food, ignited my kitchen, and sustained various injuries all over my body from items I have dropped or flung on myself. The fact that I am a Pampered Chef consultant remains a mystery to both my husband and myself, and I’m simply waiting for someone to tell me to stop before I actually kill myself from cooking.

So- if you can’t cook or lack a tv and would like the enjoyment of a sitcom, read on, and enjoy the farce my life has become. You may find a few other surprise topics tucked in here and there…

Enjoy.