God, I'm An Idiot
(I am totally in love with the parents in the above video. Yes, I'm that kind of sick puppy.)
Bee has been out of town all weekend. Naturally, this would be the weekend I chose to rent what a friend called "a movie so scary I NEVER need to see that again".
It was "The Exorcism of Emily Rose". Have you seen it? Well, don't bother.
Sure, there were a few freaky images in it, but mostly (in my humble opinion) it was just over-dramatic and failed to make me contemplate deep thoughts in the way the movie seemed to want me to. Damn, and I used to have such respect for Laura Linney.
Anyway, I'm still an idiot, since the movie has this recurring theme about Bad Things happening at three a.m. Naturally, even though I wasn't particularly scared, I kept waking up at thirty-minute intervals as three a.m. approached. So I didn't sleep too well. So I'm an idiot.
No, nothing happened at three. BUT, at three-fifteen, Mr. C suddenly started crying loudly. As I rushed into his room (checking for demons under the bed first, of course), I asked him what was wrong. All he would say is that he needed a kiss, and that he was sad.
"Why are you sad?" I asked, covering him in kisses.
"Because I'm not happy," was the illuminating response.
How a toddler can wake up from a deep sleep and decide they're suddenly unhappy is beyond me.
Another way in which I'm an idiot: I just don't learn. I will probably gain back the three pounds I just lost, because I got another deal (see 'The Fattening of the Calves') on a huge box of bruised peaches yesterday at the farmer's market. Ten bucks. So I've spent this weekend trying my hand at jarring and freezing them for later use. Because I just found recipes for oatmeal peach muffins, peach cobbler, warm gingered peaches, caramel peach pie and fruit pizza, and I must try them all!
For Mr. C's and my dinner tonight, I grilled some peaches to serve over the pork roast I just cooked. Yes, freed from the shackles of Bee's lack of confidence in my cooking ('Oh, Betty Crocker, Where Art Thou?'), I actually cooked a pork roast. And guess what? It was good. So good, in fact, there may not be any left by the time Bee gets home to give me his opinion on it.
And the greatest tragedy about that is not that my darling husband won't have a tasty dinner waiting for him, but that I won't be able to say 'See? I can sometimes occasionally sort-of cook something edible. I told you so!'.
Geeze, I'm an idiot.
Bee has been out of town all weekend. Naturally, this would be the weekend I chose to rent what a friend called "a movie so scary I NEVER need to see that again".
It was "The Exorcism of Emily Rose". Have you seen it? Well, don't bother.
Sure, there were a few freaky images in it, but mostly (in my humble opinion) it was just over-dramatic and failed to make me contemplate deep thoughts in the way the movie seemed to want me to. Damn, and I used to have such respect for Laura Linney.
Anyway, I'm still an idiot, since the movie has this recurring theme about Bad Things happening at three a.m. Naturally, even though I wasn't particularly scared, I kept waking up at thirty-minute intervals as three a.m. approached. So I didn't sleep too well. So I'm an idiot.
No, nothing happened at three. BUT, at three-fifteen, Mr. C suddenly started crying loudly. As I rushed into his room (checking for demons under the bed first, of course), I asked him what was wrong. All he would say is that he needed a kiss, and that he was sad.
"Why are you sad?" I asked, covering him in kisses.
"Because I'm not happy," was the illuminating response.
How a toddler can wake up from a deep sleep and decide they're suddenly unhappy is beyond me.
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| My second (OK, third) helping tonight |
For Mr. C's and my dinner tonight, I grilled some peaches to serve over the pork roast I just cooked. Yes, freed from the shackles of Bee's lack of confidence in my cooking ('Oh, Betty Crocker, Where Art Thou?'), I actually cooked a pork roast. And guess what? It was good. So good, in fact, there may not be any left by the time Bee gets home to give me his opinion on it.
And the greatest tragedy about that is not that my darling husband won't have a tasty dinner waiting for him, but that I won't be able to say 'See? I can sometimes occasionally sort-of cook something edible. I told you so!'.
Geeze, I'm an idiot.
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