Bad days are followed by Good days, right?
So I originally wrote this post November 14, 2006 but never posted it. But I think I will without any editing. For your enjoyment...
Now, I don't mean to only write when something bad happens, or I'm in a bad mood, etc. but the thing is with me and my life, is that usually it's the bad days which present themselves as extemely funny (this funniness is not always immediately seen by myself who is always involved in the said "funny" situation, but eventually after all of you have laughed, I start laughing as well). Today my friends, is a PERFECT example of the "funny" bad shit that happens to me on my bad days.
So I had a bad day, let's start with that. I won't get into the details, they involve work in a job I still love, although has it's moments, boys, (I won't lie, they affect me and let's face it, they are retards that only serve the purpose to make your life "interesting"), and a general haze of bad-luck happenstance instances that always seem to attach themselves to me when I'm having one of those bad days.
So I come home tired and frustrated from my bad day. Resist the bed's taunting to join it for a nap, cook, eat, fill in DeAnne with all the latest that she's missed over the last 2 weeks, and finally succomb to the bed's persistent calls due to my pounding headache. I lie there fuming for a few minutes until I realize that I'm making my head ache so bad it might actually pop off this time. So that happy, go lucky, positive/annoying side voice pops into my head and says quite confidently that I must let go of my day and turn my evening into something enjoyable. So I rack my brain as to what I could possibly do to make this day take a turn for the better. I think about walking but my legs have taken a personal day, I think about a nice hot bubble bath and then the fact that I just had one last night, so I turn to the old trusty baking.
I turn on the oven and decide to make my favourite seasonal cookies, Danish Peppernuts. Mmmmmm, man! are they good! (yes I just used an exclamation point where it shouldn't be but dammit, get over it). So off I go cooking my favourite Danish Peppernuts, putting everything I have into them. Meaning I manually ground the cardamom from the pods and manually shaved the cinnamon instead of using the regular fucking cinnamon that is ever so conviently ground for you. Who knows how long that took me, but I didn't care, I was baking my bad day away dammit! Then I decide that I should follow my friend Janie's advice and have a glass of wine. I think about it, do I really need that? I only have good bottles sitting around for special events I'm just not sure will happen anymore. Hmmm, should I? Nah, well? Ok fine, let's face it, men don't like that sweet red wine that I bought and it's incredibly hard these days to get the women together for a women's night, so fuck it, let's do it. Open the goddamn Bouteille Call wine. Yes, that's right, "Bouteille Call". I'm not helping you with that one. Figure out the humour yourself.
So there I am, merrily cooking and sipping on my 1/4 glass of wine. I shave the last ingredient (lemon rind) into the dough and realize that I've heated the oven too hot. I heated it for the swedish brownies I thought about making (The Danes won, don't tell the Swedes). So I open the oven to cool it down a bit. I go back to my mixing but ever so slowly start to realize that, hey, it's a bit smoky in here. Which is common as I bake a lot and my oven isn't the cleanest on the block. So I open up my balcony door and pray to god that my fire alarm doesn't go off. As I look around I realize that it's actually pretty smoky in here and maybe if I open the apartment door too I'll get better air flow and the smoke will clear faster therefore alievating my concern about setting off the fire alarm. I hold the door open for a minute, get bored, close it and go back into my kitchen just as the hallway (no, not my hallway, no, not my apartment fire alarm) fire alarm goes off full fucking tilt (which I might add is right the fuck outside my door so is extremely loud and yes I'm fucking swearing because trust me, at that point in time it was fucking full on swearing time).
So great! Just fucking swell. I'm in my pyjamas (and not the sexy kind either), absolutely no make up on as I rubbed it all off, crazy hair and all. Anyone who knows my last fire alarm story is starting to know what's going to happen next with all the issues I have with make up and personal dress code. So it takes me a bit to figure out what the hell I"m going to do now that I've caused the building's fire alarm to go off. The thought process goes as follows: well fuck it, I'll just stay in here and wait it out. Problem, the smoke is coming from my place and I think the firemen are probably going to figure that out. Great, fucking great. Ok, well fine, I'll go evacuate the building like the rest of the disgruntled people trying to turn their days around and pretend it had nothing to do with me. Yeah but firemen are hot and can probably figure out which floor the alarm was triggered by and can probably smell (and see) which apartment the smoke is coming out of. Fuck. Fire sirens over the fire alarm. So thinking about my last fire alarm episode, realizing though that there is no fire, I throw on some jeans, try to put on some make up even though I'm shaking harder than those girls in that Outkast video, grab my purse, put my coat on over my curious george shirt anticipating some nippilitis, leave my door unlocked because let's face it, they're going to be coming in anyways, and head down the stairs. As my feet hurry down the stairs I start to realize that seeing as they are going to figure it out anyways, I may as well fess up. So I start to hurry even more, hoping to get to them sooner, rather than later. An old lady in the stairwell sees my hurry and lets me pass. I feel incredibly guilty about making her leave but also know that she could probably beat me senseless if I told her not to worry, there's no fire and I know this because it's all my fucking fault. So I zoom on past her and mumble thanks and keep heading down the 11 flights which seem like 44.
Man, I get outside, see EVERYONE else outside and head towards the front entrance to find the more than likely hot fireman in my not so hot state. I finally find one and tap him on the shoulder. He looks at me and I say, "Um, I think this is my fault" His eyes grew large and he quickly asked me what I meant and I said, "I was baking and my oven started smoking". With every ounce of will he had he resisted to roll his eyes at me, however, trust me, the eye rolling was there, I saw it behind his eyes. He's like, "ok, we'll check it out".
So then I'm left with what to do with myself as I'm surrounded by 28 floors of ill-tempered co-inhabitants. So I make my way over to DeAnne's. Call her first to explain that I'm on my way over as my day had actually managed to get worse. I know, she totally didn't believe it either, but it did, my bad days are smart that way. My bad days destroy me and then finish me off with that nice stinging sucker punch.
Ok, so if you've actually managed to read through all this without a pee break, you might hope this is the end. And I mean it is really but the thing is I tend to over think things a bit and maybe over care a bit and so when I finally had the guts to come home, expecting to see a nasty note at the least from management or the fire department but fully expecting all my angry neighbours in my apartment trashing it, I enter my apartment and start to realize that yes, they were in here and yes they saw that although it's pretty clean for me, it's not all that tidy thanks to my bad mood. Hmmm, they saw my messy kitchen which I was cooking in (I blame the size of the kitchen for the mess), oh god, they probably think I was drunk because there's an open bottle of wine and pretty much a quarter of a glass on the counter (because I've only had a sip or two. I doubt that they bothered to take notice that the bottle was full, so there goes that bit of dignity. I continue my rounds to see that they've gone in the bathroom and looked in the shower (?!), thank god I picked up those undies first before i left the apartment, however, then I realize that they have also gone behind the red curtain which is a HUGE no-no when I say so, so I'm sure if they looked fucking closely they saw those undies regardless of my attempt to save them having to see them plus seen my room with all my clean clothes NOT put away. Which I thought about doing but decided that that sort of activity does not turn a bad day around. Cooking does, or so I thought. Fine, I feel violated and stupid and way worse than I did when I was lying on my bed with my pounding headache. So I make some calls. Everyone loves my great and humourous bad day stories. And only after a long conversation do I realize that fuck, I have some of my recycling lined up by the front door. My recycling includes 12 empty bottles of wine. HOLY FUCKING GOD they think I'm a total booze hound and so do you probably but I swear, that is just a year's worth of recycling plus a couple of visits from my mom, not to mention maybe a sangria party. Oh man! OH MAN! Kindly, Joseph tells me, "fuck 'em, they don't matter". Fine, they don't matter and I didn't get a date with a hot fireman because, hey, I'm the stupid idiot that set off the alarm.
So there you have it, my day in a nutshell. I have managed to lose the day's frustration only to be replaced with some uncooked cookie dough and a super long blog. Tomorrow is almost guaranteed to be better and basically the moral of this damn story is that one should keep their oven clean.
Now, I don't mean to only write when something bad happens, or I'm in a bad mood, etc. but the thing is with me and my life, is that usually it's the bad days which present themselves as extemely funny (this funniness is not always immediately seen by myself who is always involved in the said "funny" situation, but eventually after all of you have laughed, I start laughing as well). Today my friends, is a PERFECT example of the "funny" bad shit that happens to me on my bad days.
So I had a bad day, let's start with that. I won't get into the details, they involve work in a job I still love, although has it's moments, boys, (I won't lie, they affect me and let's face it, they are retards that only serve the purpose to make your life "interesting"), and a general haze of bad-luck happenstance instances that always seem to attach themselves to me when I'm having one of those bad days.
So I come home tired and frustrated from my bad day. Resist the bed's taunting to join it for a nap, cook, eat, fill in DeAnne with all the latest that she's missed over the last 2 weeks, and finally succomb to the bed's persistent calls due to my pounding headache. I lie there fuming for a few minutes until I realize that I'm making my head ache so bad it might actually pop off this time. So that happy, go lucky, positive/annoying side voice pops into my head and says quite confidently that I must let go of my day and turn my evening into something enjoyable. So I rack my brain as to what I could possibly do to make this day take a turn for the better. I think about walking but my legs have taken a personal day, I think about a nice hot bubble bath and then the fact that I just had one last night, so I turn to the old trusty baking.
I turn on the oven and decide to make my favourite seasonal cookies, Danish Peppernuts. Mmmmmm, man! are they good! (yes I just used an exclamation point where it shouldn't be but dammit, get over it). So off I go cooking my favourite Danish Peppernuts, putting everything I have into them. Meaning I manually ground the cardamom from the pods and manually shaved the cinnamon instead of using the regular fucking cinnamon that is ever so conviently ground for you. Who knows how long that took me, but I didn't care, I was baking my bad day away dammit! Then I decide that I should follow my friend Janie's advice and have a glass of wine. I think about it, do I really need that? I only have good bottles sitting around for special events I'm just not sure will happen anymore. Hmmm, should I? Nah, well? Ok fine, let's face it, men don't like that sweet red wine that I bought and it's incredibly hard these days to get the women together for a women's night, so fuck it, let's do it. Open the goddamn Bouteille Call wine. Yes, that's right, "Bouteille Call". I'm not helping you with that one. Figure out the humour yourself.
So there I am, merrily cooking and sipping on my 1/4 glass of wine. I shave the last ingredient (lemon rind) into the dough and realize that I've heated the oven too hot. I heated it for the swedish brownies I thought about making (The Danes won, don't tell the Swedes). So I open the oven to cool it down a bit. I go back to my mixing but ever so slowly start to realize that, hey, it's a bit smoky in here. Which is common as I bake a lot and my oven isn't the cleanest on the block. So I open up my balcony door and pray to god that my fire alarm doesn't go off. As I look around I realize that it's actually pretty smoky in here and maybe if I open the apartment door too I'll get better air flow and the smoke will clear faster therefore alievating my concern about setting off the fire alarm. I hold the door open for a minute, get bored, close it and go back into my kitchen just as the hallway (no, not my hallway, no, not my apartment fire alarm) fire alarm goes off full fucking tilt (which I might add is right the fuck outside my door so is extremely loud and yes I'm fucking swearing because trust me, at that point in time it was fucking full on swearing time).
So great! Just fucking swell. I'm in my pyjamas (and not the sexy kind either), absolutely no make up on as I rubbed it all off, crazy hair and all. Anyone who knows my last fire alarm story is starting to know what's going to happen next with all the issues I have with make up and personal dress code. So it takes me a bit to figure out what the hell I"m going to do now that I've caused the building's fire alarm to go off. The thought process goes as follows: well fuck it, I'll just stay in here and wait it out. Problem, the smoke is coming from my place and I think the firemen are probably going to figure that out. Great, fucking great. Ok, well fine, I'll go evacuate the building like the rest of the disgruntled people trying to turn their days around and pretend it had nothing to do with me. Yeah but firemen are hot and can probably figure out which floor the alarm was triggered by and can probably smell (and see) which apartment the smoke is coming out of. Fuck. Fire sirens over the fire alarm. So thinking about my last fire alarm episode, realizing though that there is no fire, I throw on some jeans, try to put on some make up even though I'm shaking harder than those girls in that Outkast video, grab my purse, put my coat on over my curious george shirt anticipating some nippilitis, leave my door unlocked because let's face it, they're going to be coming in anyways, and head down the stairs. As my feet hurry down the stairs I start to realize that seeing as they are going to figure it out anyways, I may as well fess up. So I start to hurry even more, hoping to get to them sooner, rather than later. An old lady in the stairwell sees my hurry and lets me pass. I feel incredibly guilty about making her leave but also know that she could probably beat me senseless if I told her not to worry, there's no fire and I know this because it's all my fucking fault. So I zoom on past her and mumble thanks and keep heading down the 11 flights which seem like 44.
Man, I get outside, see EVERYONE else outside and head towards the front entrance to find the more than likely hot fireman in my not so hot state. I finally find one and tap him on the shoulder. He looks at me and I say, "Um, I think this is my fault" His eyes grew large and he quickly asked me what I meant and I said, "I was baking and my oven started smoking". With every ounce of will he had he resisted to roll his eyes at me, however, trust me, the eye rolling was there, I saw it behind his eyes. He's like, "ok, we'll check it out".
So then I'm left with what to do with myself as I'm surrounded by 28 floors of ill-tempered co-inhabitants. So I make my way over to DeAnne's. Call her first to explain that I'm on my way over as my day had actually managed to get worse. I know, she totally didn't believe it either, but it did, my bad days are smart that way. My bad days destroy me and then finish me off with that nice stinging sucker punch.
Ok, so if you've actually managed to read through all this without a pee break, you might hope this is the end. And I mean it is really but the thing is I tend to over think things a bit and maybe over care a bit and so when I finally had the guts to come home, expecting to see a nasty note at the least from management or the fire department but fully expecting all my angry neighbours in my apartment trashing it, I enter my apartment and start to realize that yes, they were in here and yes they saw that although it's pretty clean for me, it's not all that tidy thanks to my bad mood. Hmmm, they saw my messy kitchen which I was cooking in (I blame the size of the kitchen for the mess), oh god, they probably think I was drunk because there's an open bottle of wine and pretty much a quarter of a glass on the counter (because I've only had a sip or two. I doubt that they bothered to take notice that the bottle was full, so there goes that bit of dignity. I continue my rounds to see that they've gone in the bathroom and looked in the shower (?!), thank god I picked up those undies first before i left the apartment, however, then I realize that they have also gone behind the red curtain which is a HUGE no-no when I say so, so I'm sure if they looked fucking closely they saw those undies regardless of my attempt to save them having to see them plus seen my room with all my clean clothes NOT put away. Which I thought about doing but decided that that sort of activity does not turn a bad day around. Cooking does, or so I thought. Fine, I feel violated and stupid and way worse than I did when I was lying on my bed with my pounding headache. So I make some calls. Everyone loves my great and humourous bad day stories. And only after a long conversation do I realize that fuck, I have some of my recycling lined up by the front door. My recycling includes 12 empty bottles of wine. HOLY FUCKING GOD they think I'm a total booze hound and so do you probably but I swear, that is just a year's worth of recycling plus a couple of visits from my mom, not to mention maybe a sangria party. Oh man! OH MAN! Kindly, Joseph tells me, "fuck 'em, they don't matter". Fine, they don't matter and I didn't get a date with a hot fireman because, hey, I'm the stupid idiot that set off the alarm.
So there you have it, my day in a nutshell. I have managed to lose the day's frustration only to be replaced with some uncooked cookie dough and a super long blog. Tomorrow is almost guaranteed to be better and basically the moral of this damn story is that one should keep their oven clean.
posted by Dawne at 10:52 p.m.
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