I've said it many times: I hate cooking.
It's the worst.
Eating, I enjoy.
Cooking? Pass. If we could hire a chef, we'd do it.
As it is, we cannot afford a chef and because I stay home, the cooking lands on me.
I moan that I have to cook daily. Everyone has learned to tune it out.
I was cooking the other day and I managed to burn myself. This doesn't happen as often as you'd think. So when it does, I am not happy.
I began to curse. Profusely.
I flailed my arms, but not in a muppet happy sort of way. I was livid.
"Why the motherf*ck am I stuck doing this BULLSH*T?" I screamed to no one.
Yes, no one.
Natalie was outside.
Tommy was shut in his room.
Tom was still at work.
So I was shouting to no one, which was best, because I'd prefer my kids not to hear colorful language like that. I mean, I won't lie, they've heard me curse many times, but the stuff that was flowing from my mouth would make a nun blush.
As I was having my tantrum, I thought of Gordon Ramsay because I watch all his cooking programs.
"I'll tell you, Gordon. Cooking sucks DONKEY BALLS and I HATE IT!" I screeched.
To no one.
Well, wait. Max the Cat wandered in wondering what all the commotion was about.
I calmed down because I poured myself a tall glass of Diet Coke. Some people reach for the wine. I want my caffeine and chocolate, which I found in the Halloween pile. The neighborhood kids don't need it as much as I do, sorry.
I still hate cooking. I'll still complain about it.
Can't everyone just eat sandwiches for the week?