Quinoa Salad and the Rolling Pin of Doom

I get on these kicks where I am determined to do something - usually prepare some recipe I found online - and I jump in head first without even thinking about the needed materials, the time frame, the sheer ridiculousness of the idea, and on and on and on.

This was one of those moments. BUT. It was one of the moments when I TOTALLY REDEEMED MYSELF. 

They approve.

I decided, on a whim, to make this recipe: Quinoa Salad with Hazelnuts, Apple, and Dried Cranberries. I found it on the interwebs on FOOD52, and could think of nothing else until I got to the store, purchased the few food items I needed, and got home.

Cook the quinoa. Okay, fine. But first! Rinse the quinoa. Have you ever made quinoa? It is the tiniest little grain-like entity ever, and even my fine mesh strainer was not fine enough to contain them. It took a bit of swishing in a bowl of water, but I finally got them sparkly clean. (Also, it apparently isn't really a grain, it has some kind of bitter coating on it - hence the rinsing - and it is loaded with protein. Worth the hassle, it seems.)

Disclaimer: Many pictures have been staged to protect the innocent.

Chop the parsley - done. Chop the green onions - done. Sautee celery and yellow onion - done.

Roast the hazelnuts.

Hmmm.

Fine. 

What it should have said was, "Roast the SHELLED hazelnuts," because my dipshit self had never cooked/baked with hazelnuts before (unless Nutella counts) and didn't realize that she needed to get the fucking nuts out of the fucking shells before throwing them in the fucking oven.

They took three different trips into the oven before I realized this.

So there I was, sitting on the kitchen floor at eleven o'clock at night whacking a ziplock bag of hazelnuts with a rolling pin. Those fuckers were SUCH bastards. It took a while of trying before I got the movement down, and when they cracked, it was the most satisfying crack.

It didn't get easier from there, however. They went back into the oven, and the recipe promised that the peels would slough off, but THEY DID NOT.

This is a picture of PURE FRUSTRATION.

My perfectionist self did not appreciate that the peels were still there, and went at them with a paring knife until realizing that it was after midnight and perhaps I was a jackass.

But this is the output, and it was awesome:

I forgot to take a picture, so here's the one from Food 52 instead.

Anyway, it was a huge success in that it was delicious, but it was not a success in that I didn't get to bed until one in the goddamned morning and had to get up at six. 

The Best of Boots, The Worst of Boots

My Dear Merrell Spire Peak Waterproof Boots,

After visiting Betsy in New York and coveting her pair, I acquired you in the early spring of 2007. It was love at first sight. For the DC winters, you were not at all necessary (unless it was Snowpacalypse or Snowmaggedon - both of which occurred in the era of insane social networking and after I moved away and during which the entire DC area went fucktard batshit insane). 

You were an art form for the feet!

Brand-new you!

And you were available in my size!

When I relocated to Michigan, you were most definitely necessary. That first winter back saw many, many snowstorms, and you kept my feet toasty, warm, and dry.

We had so many good times - I was able to wear skirts and dresses in the winter because of you! I was semi-fashionable while surrounded by undergrads because of you! I didn't slip and fall on my ass as many times as I probably would have if it wasn't for you!

But I got older. And so did you.

A mere shadow of your former self...

Now, my friends, I must say goodbye. You have sagged and buckled around the ankle, and you are digging into the bad one with such disdain that I have to stifle a scream with every other step. 

In fact, you are hurting my ankles so badly that I am tempted to walk to the parking garage in my socks. And it's 21 degrees out there right now.

No amount of shoe polish can return you to your former glory. Believe me, I've tried.

I hope that one day I will become acquainted with others in your family, but until then, I am broke and bootless.

FAREWELL.

STOP IT

I was sitting in my car in some parking lot, phone to my ear, wondering if my bleeding ears were emptying INTO the phone, when I had a bit of an epiphany:

Can we all agree as a nation, that we are over Kenny G?  

I was stuck on hold with one of his screechier songs blasting in my ear, wondering why they couldn't just play some sort of muzak instead.

Thankfully the song ended after what felt like an eternity. The next song started... AND IT WAS THE SAME SONG.

And then I died.

MURDERER.

Three Words: Bumpy. Cake. Sundae.

Do you know what a bumpy cake is? DO YOU? This is bumpy cake:

Do you see all of that frosting? It is incredible. It's made by several companies, but the two best are Awrey's and Sanders.

Growing up, my cousin, Holley, would always have an Awrey's bumpy cake for her birthday - much to the delight of her cousin (me, for those of you not paying attention). It was so frosting-y and chocolaty and delightful, and one piece was never enough.

Right, so Kari and I were screwing around in Downtown Wyandotte and decided that what we needed was ice cream. Sometimes that ice cream craving is solved by a cone from Burger King or a frosty from Wendy's, but this was serious. A very serious craving. And Sanders was open.

Come in! You will not be disappointed...

When Kari and I entered the ice cream parlor, we thought that we were getting ice cream -like a scoop or two. But then I saw the menu and knew that it was fate that brought us there that night because BUMPY CAKE SUNDAE.

You might be thinking, "That can't be real." OH WAIT IT CAN.

Eat me.

I just realized that this picture doesn't do it justice, for you can only see the ice cream and hot fudge, but trust me... there was cake under there, and it was borderline illegal.

I Don't Understand Why I Don't Yet Own This

JUST SAYING.

(http://www.folterclothing.com/outerwear/squirrel-cardigan/)

The Cleanest the Bathrooms Have Ever Been

Being laid up with a broken anything is a pain, but having a broken ankle just really, really sucked. I am finally to the point where I am allowed to put weight on it, and I have slowly been reintegrating myself into the land of the bipedal. I am desperately trying to be careful - to not over-do it, really - and just let things happen organically.

God, that last sentence made me sound like a giant fucking hippie. Organically. Fuck off, ME.

Mike has been really wonderful throughout this entire ordeal - and really all the time, to be honest. He takes care of me even when I am a tremendous pain in the ass. I try to keep the house clean and pretty since he's the one paying the bills and working a ridiculously stressful job. I figure that it's the least that I can do.

But not being able to thoroughly clean the house was bothering me, and I found that things were becoming more and more cluttered. I could tell that it bothered him, too, but he never said a word.

So I hired a house cleaning service. It's something that I would have never considered before, because it seems so... superfluous. So... uppity. But in the end? SO WORTH IT.

I have been able to do some surface cleaning and the like, but vacuuming took about ten times as long as usual, and I was completely unable to vacuum the stairs. I thought about trying on multiple occasions, but all I could envision was losing my balance and breaking other bones.

Because it was a Groupon deal, it was well worth the money, but I don't know that I could justify paying full price for something that I am soon going to be able to do on my own.

Nordstrom Fail

When I was in Seattle last June, Mike's mom took me to Nordstrom Rack. It was brilliant. It was enormous. It was cavernous, even. 

You see, Nordstrom (and its Rack) is like Mecca to me, predominantly because it is one of the few places that actually carries shoes in my size. (A ridiculous size 4, if you must know. Which is the same as wearing size 2.5 in girls' shoes. And I'm almost 33 years old.) I really couldn't care less about the designer clothes and whatnot - I just want to wear shoes that don't have Hello Kitty on them.

A Rack location opened in Ann Arbor in April, but I forgot to go. And then a few weeks later, me and my ankle were passed out on the couch reading magazines and binge-watching episodes of Parks and Recreation, so I didn't get a chance to visit.

Well, I finally got my car back, and I gotz paid, so I drove my ass to Arborland and hobbled inside.

The shoes were in the back left corner of the store, and it took me a few minutes to figure out where the bitty ones were. Imagine my disappointment when instead of the WALL of size fours I encountered in Seattle, there was one measly rack. ONE.

I swear that if it wasn't for the pain meds I would have sunk to the floor and cried.

Possibly the Greatest Shirt Ever?

Discuss.

Hi! I'm Haley and I'm Adorable!

My youngest niece, Haley Grace. FEAST YOUR EYES ON THE CUTENESS! FEAST!!!!!

And here she is with her big sisters, as they watch over her shaky steps.

It Was Earth ALL ALONG

Have you ever realized that you had a bag of M&Ms in your desk at work ALL ALONG and you only discovered it JUST NOW?

Because that's what happened to me. Just now.

My inner monologue: 

"I ate my healthy lunch, and I really want to go get some sugar and/or chocolate and/or gummy bears, but I shouldn't. There is all of this work to do and broken ankle weight to lose* and money to save.

"Well... maybe I could go to the vending machine. I think that there is some spare change in my desk dra... WHAT IS THIS?  

Aw yiss.**

Also, I love that the bag says that it is "Sharing Size: 2 Servings" because AS IF people (read: me) won't eat the entire bag in one sitting, let alone SHARE.

...................And that was my afternoon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*Broken ankle weight is the weight I gained during the recuperation period after breaking my ankle and the subsequent surgery that turned me into part-robot:

I couldn't put weight on it for almost three fucking months, and I gained enough weight to truly hate myself. Yay!

**Aw yiss is something I picked up on Hark! A Vagrant, and I want to use it all of the time, but would never take credit from Kate Beaton because she is brilliant and I want to be as funny as her:

(Credit - Kate Beaton at Hark! A Vagrant: http://harkavagrant.com/index.php?id=125)

Hedgehogs of Sadness

For months, I had been coveting these wee little hedgehog dryer balls, but even though the price was right, the cost for shipping certainly wasn't. But I found them at the awesomeness that is World Market, and I snatched them up immediately.

Mike was about losing his damn mind over his static-y golf shirts, and didn't want to use anti-static spray every goddamned day (which is totally understandable), and I was determined to find a solution.

Do they work? They do! They work incredibly well - shirts no longer static-y, towels are fluffier, and clothes dried faster. I had a set years ago (there were just round balls, and were absolutely not as adorable as the hogs) that I found at CVS or the like, and they worked, but not nearly as well as these.

Of course, that is the information that I gleaned after one weekend's use, because after the sixth load of laundry finished drying, I discovered that one of them fucking broke.

I named them Fritz and Frank.

Fritz fucking broke. He broke!

What the hell, hedgehogs? Why did you have to ruin everything?

Back to Work. Ugh.

After only a few days back in the working world - albeit part-time - I am starting to consider going off the grid and living under a bridge. I. Am. Exhausted. Of course, that's because my stupid mangled ankle is still healing and also because I haven't taken a single vicodin in over a week. Mainly it's because I was living the life of a lady of leisure, sleeping whenever (and wherever) I wished, eating Cinnamon Toast Crunch for dinner, and staying up watching infomercials until four in the morning.

So I've gone through withdrawal before - from Coca Cola. And that was not fun. Withdrawal from serious narcotics?  Well, that's a completely different story. 

Because let's take a look at that suck salad: I was getting restless leg syndrome after two days off of the drugs, except that it was like, over my whole fucking body. That freaks me out a little bit, since I was pretty much down to one, maybe two, pills a day.

So I am completely exhausted, AND I am not getting enough sleep. Awesome.

Plus, you know what else is fun? Not being able to drive. To remedy that, and to make sure that I have a source of income, my dad has been picking me up and driving me to work, logging 80+ miles every day. I seriously don't know how he does it, and I don't know what I would do without him.

That said...

He drives sooooo fucking sloooooooow. Getting passed by semis in the right lane? All in a day's drive! But he's getting such good gas mileage!

(He is driving my car, by the way. I thought that if I was going to ask him to drive me around, he shouldn't have to use his own car. Besides, why let my poor baby Focus rot in the driveway when it can reach speeds of up to 63 on I-94???!?!)

But he has to put up with me, too. And I am obnoxious. Like when I say that I'll be ready at 8:30, but he has to wait for me to dry my hair or pack my lunch.  Or when I make last minute decisions like, "I don't need to stop for anything before wor... THERE'S BIGGBY OMG STOP AT BIGGBY TURN LEFT IMMEDIATELY COFFEE."


My mom has been driving me around a bit, too, but not as much. Something about me talking/swearing at other cars as if they can hear me annoys her for some reason.

And my lovely sister-in-law, Kari, has been coming up to visit and take me to stores and generally deal with my shitty-but-getting-better-attitude. She's basically a rock star. Plus, she brings this preciousness with her -->

Not being able to leave the house on my own is also starting to take its toll. Have a Taco Bell craving? TOO BAD. You have to eat healthy food instead. Booooo healthy stuff! Legitimately need to go to Target (not just "go to Target" to fuck around and buy $75 worth of crap you don't need, but "go to Target" because you're almost out of toilet paper and your boyfriend is in Minnesota for the week)? TOO BAD.

So woe is me and all that crap. 

Possibly One of the Best Things to Happen Ever

Amirite?

Superfluous Email Accounts

Every so often - when I think of it - I'll check my spam folder in yahoo.  

I mean, most of my yahoo inbox is spam-type stuff anyway, as it's the email address that I use to sign up for store emails and the like, so the real spam folder is usually a fantastic sight to behold.

LocalSluts emailed and offered free access!  That is definitely exciting. Also, free solar power? Sweet.

This is EXACTLY Why I Don't Use My Crutches

Credit: T-Rex Trying Tumblr

http://trextrying.tumblr.com/image/43687448647

I'm Lazy. That's Why.

Here's the thing - one might assume that because I am confined to the house, I have all the time in the world to write things.  One must not assume.

One must instead realize that Heather is a lazy, lazy, cripple who is more interested in finding creative ways to bathe than worry about updating this blog.

Also, I really love to sleep.  Really, really love it.

But in all honesty, one of my jobs kept me on payroll since I don't have to be on campus in order to get the work done.  The other?  Shit-canned me within hours of me emailing them. Nutsacks.

(Best part of it was that it was a temp job, so I literally had no rights.  THANKS, ASSHOLES.)

But you know what else? That job was depressing and annoying, and the new boss? She can fuck the fuck off.  

Good job that likes me allowed me to do all this awesome fun research at the campus archives. And while that might sound painful to most, I was in my element. As a history major, researching in archives is like, I don't know... Christmas morning? But really, it's awesome. FOR EXAMPLE. In grad school, I did research at the National Archives, and I found a letter from Sigmund Freud to his grandson. Who was briefly imprisoned on the Isle of Man as an enemy alien after fleeing Austria after the Anschluss. What the holy crap is that??!?!

Right, so what I mean is that I continued working, even when hopped up on vicodin, because my wonderful father took me to and from the kickass library every few days and I was able to do research.

So that's one reason that I have been AWOL here. The other is the above mentioned laziness. And lastly, I was very busy coming up with creative ideas for bathing.

RELATED TRANSITION.

I had a stress fracture on the top of my left foot once.  It was my first semester of college, and I had a cast put on over break. MERRY FUCKING CHRISTMAS. I had to get this cast condom thing that protected my cast from getting wet and soggy, which would thereby ruin my life EVEN MORE.

So I ordered one on Amazon, it arrived within days, and I used it a few times before the fucking thing broke. IT FUCKING BROKE.

But all of my swearing is now unfounded, because it broke on the morning of my follow-up appointment, and the cast was removed. So it served its purpose.

Oh my God, do you see what happens when I try to write again after a while? HORRIBLENESS.

I apologize.

OMINOUS WHEELCHAIRS

Because I live in a condo with two levels, I am lucky enough to have two wheelchairs at my disposal.  Kelly brought one over from her workplace, and my mom brought over my grandma's old chair.

This is significant because, well - have you ever used crutches?  They are a MASSIVE pain.  In the armpits, mostly, but also because even the very coordinated can end up on their asses.  I was constantly worried that I was going to do more harm to my ankle than I already had because I was always finding myself off balance.

Also, crutches are exhausting.  I found myself out of breath going from my couch to the kitchen.  Of course, that could possibly also have something to do with the fact that I've practically been living on my couch since May 4, but that's just conjecture.

The wheelchair on the lower level is getting a good amount of use.  When I get my lazy ass out of bed, that is.  I've gotten pretty adept at wheeling around the living room and kitchen, and it's really given me the freedom that I thought I'd lost.  After a while, I've even been able to cook and clean.

Well, I might be taking liberties with the definition of "cleaning," but at the very least, I am happy to tell you that the house doesn't look like a complete mess.

Upstairs, the wheelchair is pretty much imperative.  For the first week after I broke my ankle, I was either scooting around on my butt upstairs, or hopping on my one good leg.  It got dangerous when I almost fell down the stairs at one point.  And again, exhausting.  I think that I've taken a good amount of paint off of the door jambs, but I'll get around to fixing that eventually.

But wherever I am, the wheelchairs look like they are laying in wait.  Waiting to get me.  Look at it there at the bottom of the stairs.  It's all, "Yeah, come on down. I'll take you wherever you need to go.  If where you need to go IS HELL. BWAH HA HA!" DUN DUN DUN!

I have yet another appointment on June 5, and I'm hoping to get the cast off at that point.  I am NOT looking forward to seeing what my leg looks like under the cast, however.  This is what it looked like five days after the surgery (warning: IT'S GROSS):

LOVELY.

(Also, there are more pictures, but the bruising and the disgustingness is just too much, trust me.)

But then! I got this pretty cast:

It's been three weeks since my misstep, and let me just tell you, I am so fucking sick of this fucking cast.  I'm lucky that it wasn't worse, yes, but not being able to do much of anything is getting really, really old.

And I don't know when I am going to be allowed to drive again.

Broken Ankle = EXTREME BOREDOM

So as I sit here, bored out of my skull and waiting out my mandatory three-week recovery sentence, I can't help but feel like Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window.  

Of course, I can't see a damn thing from my windows, let alone MURDER.  The house faces woodlands, which is awesome, obviously, but there is no one to spy on. What is a crippled girl to do?

I can, however, see what food items my neighbors throw to the raccoons each day.  

Today?  Watermelon.

The other day?  Honest to God, they threw spaghetti. I wish I had a picture to show you, because I swear, you cannot make up that shit.  It was all over the sidewalk because - and I'm just guessing here - the arc at which the watermelon soared through the air was bigger than that of the cooked spaghetti noodles, and they barely even cleared the grass.

(That's calculus, and I've tried everything in my power to forget calculus, so I'm sure that it made absolutely no sense.)

So basically, it's quickly becoming less "feeding raccoons," and more, "let's just throw our garbage off of the balcony. Fun!"

It's getting to the point where I could create an entirely new blog entitled, "Things My Asshole Neighbors Throw Off Their Balcony."

There's Always a Silver Lining

I was falling in slow motion.  I heard the bones snap as I lowered myself to the ground.  I knew that my foot was stuck in something, and I knew that the outcome wasn't going to be pleasant, but I really didn't think that my simple misstep was going to result in this:

I was hoping that it was just twisted.  That it could be popped back into place. (Spoiler: it couldn't.)

I don't completely remember what I sounded like during the incident, but I imagine that it was something like this:

Yeah, that sounds about right. 

I tried to be optimistic, but I knew that it was broken. I heard the bone snap.

Going to the ER was a much better experience than my last two visits.  I was not left to my own defenses in a bed in a hallway, and I did not have to get stitches in my skull.

This time, I was practically the only person there, things happened quickly, and before I knew it, I had in IV in my hand and I blacked out.

Thank goodness, because I missed the part where the orthopedic surgeon rearranged my fucking foot. And when I awoke, I was too high to feel anything. 

Surgery is scheduled for May 13, and shit's gonna get real - they're putting in a metal plate and some screws and Lord knows what else.  So I've set up my "Recuperation Station" in the living room:

Yes, that is a bag of bottlecaps under the HGTV magazines.

So you might be wondering about this supposed "silver lining" referenced in the title.  There are several.  Here they are, in no particular order:

--Mike isn't traveling as much, so he's home taking care of me. This is awesome because I hate it when he's gone. Sometimes there is Taco Bell. 

--Kari comes to visit and brings the baby and we get lunch and Biggby and it's pretty much awesome.

--My parents come over and take me shopping and to the library and cook food for me and clean the house and do the laundry.  It's incredible.

--Kelly got me a wheelchair from her work and I am able to get my peg-leg self around SO MUCH FASTER than I was.  Because I was using crutches and also just scooting around on my ass.  Which is still how I go up and down the stairs, by the way.

--I can't drive or go to work for three weeks.  When I can't drive, I can't take myself places to spend money. Which is good because I am not working.

--Arrested Development Season 4 is going to be released on Netflix IN FULL on May 26 and I am going to binge-watch ALL OF THE SHOW without worrying about staying up too late.

So those are the things that make all of this bearable.  The vicodin helps, too.

The Boyfriend

1. He's sitting in front of the TV: What is on the screen? ESPN.

2. You're out to eat. What kind of dressing does he get on his salad? Balsamic vinaigrette.

3. What is one food he doesn't like? JUST one? Onions. Which breaks my heart. But there are many, many others.

4. You go out to the bar. What does he order? Glenlivet. Rocks.

5. Where did he go to high school? Catholic Central High School.

6. What size shoe does he wear? Nine and a half

7. If he was to collect anything, what would it be? Really, really, really good scotch.

8. What is his favorite type of sandwich? I've never seen him eat a traditional sandwich, but he really likes the Cuban Hero at Red Hawk.

9. What would he eat every day if he could? Cedar plank salmon.

10. What is his favorite cereal? Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

11. What would he never wear outdoors? Shorts. 

12. What is his favorite sports team? The Detroit Red Wings, Detroit Tigers, and Michigan Wolverines.

13. Who is his best friend? Me.

14. What is something you do that he wishes you wouldn’t do? Show up late.

15. How many states has he lived in? One - Michigan.

16. What is his heritage? Polish. Like me!

17. You bake him a cake for his birthday; what kind? He won't eat cake, but I will. So I would make him a yellow cake with chocolate frosting. That's my favorite.

18. Did he play sports in high school? He was a diver.

19. What could he spend hours doing? Playing golf.

Dear Mother Nature,

FUCK OFF.

I Shouldn't Be Allowed to Do Anything, Ever

Remember how I am a moron and shouldn't be allowed to own expensive things?  Here's a refresher.

I knocked my laptop off of the table and busted the screen.  It still works, but only when connected to a different monitor.  Classy.

I think that it looks like a bird.

The driver's side mirror has been knocked off of my car MORE THAN ONCE, and I am now on my third replacement mirror. The passenger's side mirror has also seen some action.

Objects in mirror may appear to be... cut in half.

I scratched the side of my car while backing into a parking spot in the garage at work, mostly because there were people waiting and I felt rushed.

That is why I can't have nice things.

Anyway, Mike loves me anyway, and rewarded my ineptitude with a new laptop!

Obsession

I've always loved puzzles.  I don't mean jigsaw puzzles, though I adore those, but crosswords, word searches, logic puzzles, sudokus, whatever the hell you can think of - I love them.

I have two months of magazines to get through and a pile of books.  A messy pile of clean sheets and pillowcases has been sitting on the bench at the foot of the bed for weeks because I just can't be fucked to fold them.  Not when there are puzzles to complete!  

(Besides, folding sheets is the FUCKING WORST.)

I really wanted to get me some of those fill-in puzzles, but I couldn't find them anywhere.  So I did what any rational human being would do: I ordered a set of sixteen books.

Yes, I Need ALL THE THINGS

I am on the prowl for a new work bag.  Let me rephrase:  For my entire working career, I have been on the prowl for a new work bag.  The perfect work bag. 

There are many things that must be considered when approving said bag, and there is a long checklist of qualities that must be present:

1. Must have long handles, to allow me to fling it over my shoulder, but not be so long that it hits the ground when I hold it to my side.

2. Must have several interior pockets and dividers.

3. Must have a special place for cell phone.

4. Must be cute. Birds optional, but desired.

5. Must accommodate an umbrella and a water bottle.

Now, one would think that this would be an easy task.  An easy find.  Alas.

There have been many that seem to fit the bill, but I have yet to find perfection.

The bag on the left is my current go-to, but it's too bulky.  The bag on the right is adorable, but has no compartments and isn't wide enough to fit a folder.

Additionally, I carry so much crap around with me that it's just stupid.  I blame this on my years living in DC, where I took tons of stuff with me when I left the house each morning because I rarely knew how soon I would return.  That's also where the umbrella requirement comes from - when I walked everywhere and took public transportation, being stuck without an umbrella was pretty much the worst thing that could happen.

Things I carry around on a daily basis:

keys, wallet, phone, chapstick

tea bags, gum, snacks, candy, almonds

pens, umbrella, personal care pouch-y thing

planner, book, water bottle, coffee cup sleeves

This doesn't look like much, but there are a good number of things missing, including the umbrella.  Way too many things, really.  So having a bunch of compartments is important to me - having to deal with a tote bag with its undisciplined cacophony of things would drive me to drink. 

And I really wish that this thing didn't intrigue me, because it is so ugly and tacky, but it does:

Oh, and in case you were wondering - yes, that is a potato chip candy bar in the photo above.  And yes, it is as incredible as it sounds.

PORK, Bitches

I was at the grocery store, perusing the meat - as you do - and I came across a pork tenderloin.  I have never made one of these bad boys before, and since I had also never purchased one, I have no idea if I got a deal or not. It found its way into my cart

I found a ton of recipes online, but the one I went with was... a Paula Deen recipe.

I KNOW.  I am as shocked as you are.

There was a cream cheese portion of the recipe that I ignored, because it sounded gross.  Also, I don't like cream cheese, so it would have been awkward.

The pictures are weird and the sauce looks gross.  I KNOW.  But I am not kidding when I tell you that this recipe was incredible.

Things I Learned From My Very First Car Accident

So there I was, minding my business in the left run lane, waiting for the light to change so that I could return to work, when I got kablammed.

His car slammed mine into the pickup truck in front of me and it was all SUPREMELY FUN, let me tell you.

My first reaction was to open up the door, look behind me, and scream, "WHAT THE HELL?" Luckily, the guy wasn't out of his car yet, so he didn't hear me.  

(Apparently I was concerned about looking like an asshole.  HE hit ME, you guys, and I was worried that I wasn't being nice. Sigh.)

LESSON ONE: It's okay to be mad.  

Then the guy in front of me got out of his car to survey the damage (hint: there was no damage because his trailer hitch saved his Silverado from harm.  The most harm that befell him was potentially a lit cigarette falling from his mouth when the bumper car madness began). He was also this close to screaming at me until he realized that I was just the meat in a car sandwich.

So Mr. Volvo gets out of the car and we (mostly him) held up the left turn lane for several rounds of lights until I announced that we were all going to turn into that Dollar Store parking lot FOR FUCK'S SAKE.

I wanted to call Mike, but I knew that he was in important meetings, so I called my dad.  His "dad" voice changed to his "lawyer" voice and he told me to call the police.

Holy shit, the police?

(Also, please note that I did, in fact, text Mike: "Hi!  My meeting went well!  Also, I was just in a car accident.  Waiting for the police!")   Which brings us to:

LESSON TWO: DO give details of said crash to boyfriend so that he does not call you, immediately, in a panic.

Mike was a not thrilled with my text.

LESSON THREE: DO NOT get out of the car until the police officer let you.

I've never been in an accident before - at least, not one in which I was in the driver's seat, so I was completely ignorant on the ways things work.  But I knew enough to call the non-emergency line instead of 911, and the super nice dispatcher sent over an officer.

It couldn't have been more than two minutes when I realized that a police car was parked behind us SO THAT WE COULDN'T LEAVE.

I got out of the car to speak with her, since I was the one to call, and she was all, "Ma'am, return to your vehicle. I will come to you."

But you know, in a "I will totally cut you" sort of voice.

Anyway, there wasn't much damage (compared to what I had done to the car my own damn self), so I didn't end up filing a claim.  And no one was hurt, so it really wasn't a big deal in the scheme of things.

But it still sucked, and I wouldn't recommend getting into a car accident.