Home-Making is Just a Euphemism

For "taking care of other people's crap because you love them." In some cases, luckily not mine, that sentence would end at "crap." Not a good way to end a sentence.

I was completely side-tracked from my fair attempt at home-made mashed potatoes (not from a box!) by my devious roommate iterating her craving for salty chips-and-salsa-heaven from Chili's, which I believe has been stated multiple times is like an injection of heroin into my veins (that Jesse will never touch with a needle).

I think I didn't clarify enough that no, he did not drop out of the one school that teaches you to be a the person OSHA cracks down on to enter the school that teaches you to be the person OSHA is there to protect. (Jesse's point of view). Indeed, he is going to Chiropractor U from 8am-5pm, then Pokester U from 6pm to "10pm", which is in real-life 7:30 or 8:00. Not a schedule I envy, though I'm going twice a week from 9am to ACTUAL 10pm starting Monday.

This schedule is the reason that I finished the mashed potatoes last night, in a huge batch so there would be leftovers, only to realize that he doesn't have school again until Monday, so why the hell did I bother? Because I CAN'T WASTE POTATOES. Apparently, they are a precious commodity to my sensibilities. They were already chopped before Margaret waylaid me with her bribery and her batting tortilla-chip-dreams-filled eyes, and I couldn't just leave them, all alone, with no one to fulfill their destiny. P.S. My mashed potatoes are so damned good. I even put spinach in them for beauty. Handmade, love-filled chicken piccata with lemon-caper butter sauce over sauteed mushrooms, spinachy mashed potatoes, steamed brocolli, WHO SAYS I CAN'T COOK.

I usually do. I just hate cooking. My evening in the kitchen didn't end until 9:30, whereupon, being too sick to go on, I stared melancholily at the ever-running dishwasher and the PILE of still-dirty dishes and said "damn damn damn". So I left the roomies a note promising clean-kitchen fulfilment on the morrow, and zonked out sans cold medicine, hoping that maybe tomorrow my sexy (phlegmy) voice will have scooted and be replaced with my normal, piercing tone. P.S. No luck. I still sound like a black-and-white era film ingenue with a cigarette in a holder and a veiled hat.