How the hell did I do this?

So, I went about trying a new recipe for an upcoming barbeque. Actually, I had six new recipes to try out for this thing. Yes, six new recipes for one barbeque. Because, you see, in my world there is bored, and there is overly bored. And when I get overly bored, I tend to go overlyboard. Oh yeah–when overly bored I tend to go COMPLETELY  Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell  on your ass. That’s accurate.

And I’ve been bored with the things I’ve been cooking lately, plain and simple.

So, I stumbled across some new recipes, among them–PB&J cookies.

Ahhhhh-ahhhhhhh-ahhhhhhhhh!

What’s that you say, God? Peanut butter and jelly cookies? And also, that despite certain patriarch-influenced depictions, you’re actually a gloriously curvy, blue-singin’ woman? I KNEW IT! Well, all except the PB&J cookie thing, though. That was a new thought. A delicious, delicious new thought.

So, my first order of business before any of the rest of the recipes was to make the PB&J cookies. And then another set of experimental cookies that night, and several new dishes to follow the next day.

Right. So, I get to mixing this recipe I had found on some woman’s blog. I get all the way through mixing before I realize this recipe hasn’t called for any flour or sugar or butter or anything like that which one might find in a non-imposter cookie. No, this one is mainly peanut butter, with a dash of baking soda, brown sugar, vanilla, and egg white. And jelly, of course. Mmmkay. That doesn’t seem right, but I’m on the phone with a friend of mine at the time who’s an AWESOME baker, and she suggests I might as well put them in the oven and see whether they come out.

And so the recipe (already hearkening back to the foreboding feeling I’d experienced with a previous dessert incident–The Great Cookietastrophe of ’09) told me to put the mixture into little balls and place them on the cookie sheet before placing a divot with my thumb in the middle of each for the jelly.

Only, these things, as you’ll recall, are mostly peanut butter. You know what? You try sticking your hand in a peanut butter jar, pull it out with a handful of the stuff, and try to make shapes out of it. Yeah. Good luck with your new nickname, Grossyhands. These did not shape into a ball of any sort. They didn’t even suggest balls. They just sat there, little abominations staring at me accusatorily through the unseen eyes of their agonizing, grotesque, amorphous blob-type figures, as if to cry out, “What. Have. You. Done?!?

And then I filled their piteous craters with strawberry jelly.

I popped these sad saps into the oven, waited about 8 minutes, and then decided to check on them once they’d stopped screaming. I pulled them out, and…

Someone took a bunch of craps in my oven!!

AGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!!

What the blue hell?

They are monsters!!!!! I’ve created monsters!!!!!

I mean, they are as enormous as Grand’s biscuits and a sickening light brown color. Why??? They were little petite globules with jelly in the middle! And now they look like an entire steaming tray of Mastiff feces, with traces of blood at the center of them. Honestly, if I ever saw this come out of a Mastiff, I would have the heart to put the dear creature out of its misery.

THIS IS NOT OKAY.

What the hell went wrong? I didn’t miss any steps or ingredients. I checked the blog to look at her picture of the finished product.

Her cookies:

“SCREWWWW YOUUUUU,” I yell at the image on the screen. My darling male companion now ran into the kitchen for the second time in ten minutes, thinking I had undergone some awful culinary injury due to my continued Tourette’s-like verbosity.

I take the offensive, little piles off the stove and set them in my dining room to cool while I calmly try to figure out my next move. I send a picture of them to my friend who had earlier said to just pop them in the oven and see–my friend who then proceeds to laugh so hard she almost has to pull over, and immediately tells me she’s coming right over because she just has to see them in person.

When I go back to the dining room table to peer at them again, once more they have decided to astonish me and alter their disgustingness into a totally different image of bleghh.

Mmm. Lunch?

Now they have completely flattened, as if someone had stopped pumping air into them and had forgotten to put the cap back on the hole, and the jelly has gotten, well…frothy. Frothy.

At this point, figuring “What the hell,” I cut a cookie-like thing out of the solid cookie sheet hulking mass and taste it. I mean, it slops partly onto my spatula and partly back onto the pan like ingredients that desperately miss flour, but the taste? Actually, quite brilliant! Taste just like peanut butter and jelly. And you know what? If I had just placed it between two slices of bread rather than deciding to expose it to 8 minutes of 350-degree heat blast, it might have been an acceptable thing to put in my mouth.

I ended up scooping up the whole thing–both already baked and still “dough”–with a giant spoon and dumping it into a great, big bowl, which I then put a fork in and handed to my darling male companion. Who, of course, was only too happy to eat it.

And you know what? I do believe he rather liked it.

And that is my epic cookie fail for this year.

Wow. This video amazes me. Mainly because it is nearly indistinguishable from the scene if you were to record me sleeping on my parents’ couch just as their one of their small dogs decided to use my midsection to joyously springboard itself from the top frame of the couch to the ground. This video is exactly what it looks like, that is my precise reaction, everything. And like the video, just as I’m about to go back to sleep, the other dog lines right up to do the same thing.

To be brief, if I were a sea lion, I would totally tear the flesh off a penguin. And you can quote me on that.

Pure, Concentrated Spite and Malevolence

[Note: I do not condone the trapping and killing of penguins … if you are a human. However, if you’re an animal being badgered by a (notoriously antagonistic and scientifically-proven evil-scheming) penguin, when all you want to do is sleep—I can totally understand. Have at.]

I mean, as my darling male companion has pointed out every time we go to the zoo, look how they stand around with their arms out like that, all “What, man? You wanna come here and say that to my face? What?!”

Jerks.

“What? What? Come on, bring it!”

…Okay, truthfully I can’t keep this up forever. Penguins are actually so completely adorable, every time I look at them I explode into hearts and kittens. Their adorableness is actually their only natural defense. True story. And for those of you in the pro-penguin camp (and it must be really cold where you camp), here’s a little bone I’ll toss you after maligning their character so ruthlessly above. Prepare to melt into a puddle of cuddly cherubs and Precious Moments figurines.

There. You happy? Jeez.

“The drug of the day.”

I will be upfront and say that which is no surprise to anyone who spends time with me: I have an overactive mind and a really wild and hairy imagination. It’s true. And while encouraging parents will want to applaud this in you as a child, telling you it’s a gift, that you’re creative, that you’re special, I find that the only benefit I tend to get out of it is the ability to stare at a wall or out a window for hours on end without ever getting bored or running out of things to think about and elaborate on. (And yes, Anal Retentive Annie, I realize I ended both those phrases with prepositions. It sounded funny the other way.) On the other hand, I find it hard to shut up. Or to shut it down. And the mean reds tend to come all at once and out of nowhere, and can spend plenty of time turning my imagination into a nightmarish playground. It’s cute. Really.

This has led me to ongoing past attempts to either find things to shut all the over-activity up or to ride it like a wave. Alcohol was a steady fallback, for sure, for a grand old 6 years or so. Barbiturates, cigarettes, holy Christ—caffeine in amounts that made my ears ring, and some glittering, sparkling other things I’ve tried that swirled around in my head, attempting to fix it, stall it, or calm it down.

After years of desperately seeking a new drug of sorts—something that revs me up when I want revving up and calms me down when I want to rest, I have abandoned my former remedies nearly altogether (with the exception of a can of pop here, a glass of wine there). They usually never achieved the desired effect, as they all have undesired consequences. Alcohol—hangover; pills—grogginess and necessity of prescription; caffeine—crash. I tried other things too—walking five miles home from work in the evenings, electrolytes, cleansing fasts, altering my meal habits, etc. All were “eh.”

I seem to have recently discovered my new drug. The one I take which wakes me up, puts me in a phenomenal mood all day long, knocks me out at a reasonable hour, gives me tremendous energy, costs no calories, has no negative after-consequence, and doesn’t make me binge on sugar. And that is working out in the morning. Why it makes a difference to work out in the morning, I’m not sure. Some metabolism thing? Dunno. All I know is that working out in the afternoon or evening is….just working out in the afternoon or evening. Working out in the morning is the freaking answer to what we’re doing on Earth or something. Because, just, wow.

How have I never discovered it? I used to think those people who work out in the morning are total wack jobs. Truly sick individuals who must have nothing better to do. But really. Rather than doing it at the end of the day when I’m ridiculously tired, I do it before work. And I LOVE it. It’s like some mystical force I can’t explain. You know how the perfect cocktail just hits all the right places as it goes down? This is that cocktail.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s a pain in the ass. But I love that the energy lasts all day; I love that I can sleep at night; I love the positive framework into which everything seems to fit afterward. Fuck. What have I been doing with my mornings prior? Sleeping? Ahahahaha!


And I’m not one of those obnoxious individuals who will walk around in track clothes or talk freakishly wide-eyed to other people about the gym or my workout habits. Really, it’s not an interesting subject, and I probably won’t mention it much to anyone at all outside of this post unless asked. It’s just that it occurred to me today that I should be in a really shitty mood.

I should. People have days; this one is not mine. But I worked out this morning. Sounds stupid, but I swear to god. The sun is still shining.

For instance, my thumb is killing me. Two days ago, I very nearly snipped the entire middle of the face of my thumb off while attempting to open a bottle of wine. …don’t ask. My thumb freaking hurts! But, like all I can think about with regards to it is “Eh. The pain isn’t that bad.” Or thinking about how after wounding myself and laying face-down on the ground for minutes with my thumb held up in the air (like a child) for my darling male companion to fix it, he then put a black pirate Band-Aid on it and we spent an enjoyable part of the evening fighting with his pirate Lego set afterward, since my thumb bandage had been inspiring me to yell “Yaarrrr!” and “Avast!” (and if you think it’s easy defending yourself with a tiny Lego sword and pistol when part of your thumb wants to separate itself from the rest of your thumb, you have another think coming). And that makes me smile. So. Intense thumb pain—fun with pirates. You see, I worked out this morning. Everything’s peaches.

Another example. I realized I hadn’t brought my lunch today and all I have at my desk is an old can of condensed soup. Also, I’ve been cold all morning. My reaction? “Hurray! I love when we have soup weather.” Then I opened a bag of crackers at lunch which proceeded to spill Saltine guts all over my desk and pants, and I laughed. In fact, I think I even had the nerve to give it one of those isn’t-that-cute smiles. Bills to pay—no worries. It’s all wonderful. Collection agent called. Have a lovely day! Rolled my ankle a little walking here from the gym–well, thankfully it wasn’t worse than that! Yeah. I worked out this morning.

This sort of optimism is really pretty out of character for me. Also, I’m relaxed, focused, and energetic. Rock my f’ing socks. So yeah, I’m going to attempt to keep trying for the morning. If you happen to see me in a pissy mood, remind me, yeah? Good stuff, people. Good stuff.