So this is how my Thursday night went:
I get home to a house that is a cool 87 degrees and begin cooking my first Spinach Quiche. After nearly an hour of preparations and a very LARGE cut on my finger while chopping onions, I finally pop it into the oven and go about cleaning up the kitchen. 5 minutes into the baking, I realize that I read the recipe incorrectly. The Quiche is supposed to cook for 15 minutes beFORE the cheese topping is added. I missed that part.
An hour later, I take the quiche out of the oven and George and I peer into the contents, hoping for the best. Thwarted. The cheese topping formed a nice 'lil seal and kept the quiche innards in a state of soupiness. By now it's nearly 8pm and we're starving. So George suggests that we mix everything around, getting rid of the Cheese Seal and giving the eggs room to breathe and solidify. Pop it back into the oven and set the timer for 15 minutes. After 8 minutes, we give up, too hungry to wait for this crap any longer. Pull it out and pour it into bowls. I'm ticked off because I SO want to be a great cook and am slowly coming to the realization that, while I'm 'okay', great is nowhere in my future.
After eating the Quiche Soup® (which tasted pretty good, and would've been supreme if it were actually stiff), I went downstairs to cook the brownies for Friday night's get-together. I turn the oven to 350 and begin cracking the eggs. In my peripheral vision, I notice movement. I turn toward the stove and see smoke billowing out of not only the sides of the oven door, but the top burners, as well. I open the door to see what's what and am accosted by a grey wall of smoke. The dogs are barking, and I'm frantically trying to wave the smoke away before ADT sends out the fire department (our smoke alarms are tied into our security system). I run upstairs and flip on the attic fan, thinking this will help. On a good day, it would have. Today, however, God hates me. Today the attic fan decides to go on a partial strike. It works, but with a high pitched squealing sound that simply can NOT be good. I'm sure the squirrel that was, no doubt, caught inside would tend to agree with me.
Once the smoke dissipates a little, I am able to see the culprit. Friggin' quiche. There is burnt egg and feta cheese caked to the bottom of my oven. Near tears at this point, I decide to smoke a cigarette while waiting for the oven to cool enough to clean it out.
It is now 11:00pm. After much stumbling, fumbling and cursing, I finally get the bottom of the oven out and place it awkwardly in the sink. I turn on the water, find my brillo pad and grab the sprayer to begin my "Left hand scrub, right hand spray" action. Guess what happens. No guess...
The SPRAYER BROKE! Spraying me and half my kitchen with water. On a peripheral level, I realize that this is probably extremely funny. However, I quickly disagree with that stupid bitch who seems to think life is one Big Freakin' Joke, swearing that if she had a tangible jaw that I didn't have to share with her, I'd punch it, and go about pretending not to notice the inner cackling. It takes the sprayer 5 full minutes after I let go of the nozzle to stop spraying. I look in the sink and see that the seals simply crumbled all at the same time. Bastards. I decide that the brownies will not be made tonight, as the faucet won't reach more than the bottom corner of the oven tray, and I'm not going outside in the dark to scrub this tray with a hose and a flashlight. Although West Nile Virus is looking pretty damned good to me at this point.
Wet and dejected, I give up. I pour the eggs down the disposal, square my shoulders and decide that I am going to go to the bedroom to watch TV and attempt to relax. I walk into the bedroom, ensuring that my "Life Sucks" pout is firmly in place (pretending not to notice George's HORRIBLE attempts at not laughing at my predicament[s]) and proceed to flop down very hard and angsty-teenager-like on the bed.
That, my friends, is when the metal bed frame chose to break. Yessirree, there was just no END to this fun-fest.
Okay, so it didn't 'break' really....it just bowed a little, but the top portion of the mattresses slammed down 3 inches. George roared. I burst into tears and begged God to "TAKE ME NOW!!!!!"
I went into the filing cabinet to look up our Rooms To Go contract and, sad to say, there is not a Fat Ass Clause anywhere to be found.
I give up.
