Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Riddle me that.

Help me make sense of something if you will - as I was doing dishes tonight I realized a little somethin' somethin' about myself.  Currently in my life, I have a (roughly) 4 by 2 inch hole in the ceiling of the landing of my apartment.  Something I see and pass by a dozen times a day, and it's the very first thing you see when you walk into my apartment.  I also have pretty serious bumper owies on the back left of my car.  Scrapes, dents - the whole deal.  At work, the tower of the computer my boss built for me sits on the ground near my feet.  Over the years, the outer shell and innards of it have slowly started coming apart and may or may not be falling all over the floor and are something I kick multiple times a day.  All these things I listed?  Don't bother me in the slightest.  Noooooot even a little bit.  Yeah, I think about fixing them all at some point, but truth be told?  That's as far as it gets.


While washing the pots and pans I used after cooking tonight's dinner, I realized I have a new cook spot on one of my pans.  I scrubbed at that sum'bitch for probably 15 minutes before realizing it wasn't going to go anywhere.  This situation I just described?  Nearly put me in hysterics.  Also, probably last year right about this time I was hosting American Idle night for Jon, Kevin, Chris and Tim.  Well our sweet delicate flower Jon was unfortunately unemployed at the time which would lead to his personal Happy Hours beginning at roughly 3pm. After inviting the guys ladies over, Jon got awfully shrill about how badly he wanted to make his homemade spaghetti sauce for us.  Knowing better than to argue with the man woman after a few Manhattan Martini's , I let him take the reigns in the kitchen.  What he didn't tell me?  The first step in this magical sauce required SCORCHING a can of tomato paste on the bottom of the pan with some sausage and scraping it off to add to more cans of tomatoes.  You guys I'm not kidding when I say I was sweating and clutching my wine glass so hard I was afraid it would burst into a billion pieces watching him SCRAPE the bottom of my perfect, amazingly amazing pan knowing what sort of irreversible damage it would cause.

Why do I get so up in arms over things that sit in a cupboard but a few hours of the day, when other rather large and substantial items are unquestionably in need of some TLC and repairs, yet I couldn't give a hoot about?

I don't know either.

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