In which I say "gorram" a lot. And then I lick the spoon.

Don't get me wrong. I love the holidays.
Like, I tear up when I sing songs about the Baby Jesus. I LUV da Baby Jesus something fierce.

So, today, after the folderol that occurred this afternoon, I manage to start cooking. I made the batter for chocolate crinkles. I made the centers of the peanut butter balls (Buckeyes) with the recipe that I STOLE from my dear Dorie. I'm making the brownies from Black Apple... I have a few things going on (and, all the mean time, I'm yelling at the kids' door for them to just take a dang nap!!!!!).

I am NOT Martha Stewart. Not in the least.

• Martha does not do her cooking in an untidy kitchen.
• She doesn't do it wearing sweats.
• She has her hair properly coiffed. Not uncombed like a savage heathen.
  (No offense to any heathens among you. I'm using hyperbole. Please don't be offended by the use of cliches. You know that I love you.)
• Martha has a proper double boiler for when she's dipping the PB balls. She doesn't just place a random glass pie/casserole dish on top of a saucepan and hope that it works.
• Martha also doesn't say "dammit" or "gorram" every gorram time she burns her arm with the steam coming up from the makeshift double boiler.
  (Which in my case is rather often. The cussin' and the burning of my arm. It's a Christmas miracle that I have any skin left on that arm.)
• She also isn't a complete flub at putting parchment paper into glass baking dishes for the brownies (At least the recipe is easily doubled and only really dirties one dish in the preparation. And they're soooooooo good).

Yes, it's a good thing that my children are mostly in their room so they don't hear me say gorram about eleventeen gorram times.

And then, as I'm getting the brownies in the oven and licking the spoon (BECAUSE I CAN!), I try to think if I've eaten anything today besides the tidbits of cooking, (Oh, yeah, I had a very good sandwich earlier) (But the fact that I have to HAVE this conversation with myself is what brings me to the inevitability of my future where I will contract Type II Diabetes. )

And I then I lick that spoon some more. Because if I'm gonna suffer Diabetes, I might as well enjoy my life (and all the sugar, sugar, sugar, simple carbs, sugar, simple carbs, sugar) as best as I can.

Before it's all ripped away from me ... leaving me alone and senseless. Like Bertha Rochester, but not so violent, I hope. More forlorn, I think.

Pitiful, huh, that my future will be that of some crazy woman in a Gothic novel.

If I wasn't so spent what with the spider that was in the sink this morning as I was doing the dishes (BUT IT WAS THERE!!! AND IT COULD HAVE BEEN A BROWN RECLUSE AND THEN, IF IT BIT ME OR THE KIDS, WE'D HAVE ULCERS OR SOMETHING ICKY ON OUR SKIN!!!!!!), the aforementioned folderol, and the fact that my children APPARENTLY HATE ME BECAUSE LISTENING AND OBEYING IS JUST TOO MUCH TO ASK OF THEM!!!!!!!! ARRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

I can't wait for Michael to be home so he can pet my hair and call me his pretty little tulip and I can pretend that I'm dainty and sweet and lovely. And then he can bake all the cookies, so I don't have to look at any baked goods for a good hour or so.

I'm tired of yelling. I'm tired of my kids not napping. *sigh* I'm tired of spiders being in my house. EVER. If I wanted them in my house, I'd go out and buy engraved invitations for them. Have I done that???? NooooOOOOoooooo. Why don't those dang arachnids get the point? *sigh*

Though, I do feel a little self-righteous that spellcheck didn't know the word folderol (I did have to check the spelling. I was wicked-close. So there!)

Then I remember how many times I've said "gorram" ... thus cementing my place in Hell.
(I joke. Repentance is still possible. Thanks be!!! ... And that's one reason we celebrate this season.)

But, yes. I think I'm ready for a nap. Or some brownies. .... Or eggnog. Yum. I think I need some posthaste!