Monday, May 10, 2010

Rosanna Rosannadanna would be proud

There are certain days where events snowball into cataclysmic episodes of suckitude.

I woke up with a moderate to-do list, but I still expected to get all my chores done in time to do a bit of reading...I have a friend who's been bugging me about feedback on his dissertation. I checked the e-mail, ate my yogurt, and decided to make a cup of coffee before I delved into the salt mines. Of course, this was issue one, as it took me about 15 minutes to find my French press...and panic/anxiety is not really what you need if you're trying to start the day off on a positive note.

The house cleaning was uneventful, and I finished right at lunchtime. I was looking forward to a nice serving of red beans and rice. However, I miscalculated my food supply, because there were no more leftovers in the fridge. Mild disappointment (red beans and rice is my favorite dish), but I popped a few pounds of popcorn instead.

While I was eating, the UPS guy dropped off my latest guitar gadget purchase, which included a neat little practice amp...which would've been cool, except for the fact it was broken directly out of the box.

After lunch, I decided to assemble our new Ikea shelf. Now, I like the concept of cheap furniture, and Scandinavian design always sounds just a little dirty to me. However, in practice, "furniture in a box" really only serves to tick me off. I get angry, frustrated, and feel like less of a man. Assembling my own furniture without fail precipitates a chain of annoyances and disasters. I also lose faith in there being anything other than a vengeful, prankster deity who's more than a bit of a vindictive jerk.

I found out immediately that the shelving unit had no the rough-cut wooden boards that made the four side rails had to just sit directly on the floor. Of course, this means a trip to Home Depot, a place which makes me suspect Dante got some of the details wrong in Inferno. After wandering around the cavernous building and purchasing supplies, I get halfway home before I realize that I only bought four rubber feet when I need I turn around in a parking lot and return to the home improvement hell store.

I get back home and start in on the assembly. Everything's pre-drilled, and I have good Ikea directions, so this will be a breeze, right? Well, no. Within a few minutes, I split one of the shelf supports right down the damn middle.

After much chest-thumping, wailing, and cursing, I eventually patch the board with a carriage bolt and nut, and, two splinters later, I finish assembly...only to find out that Ikea, the Swedish bastards, only include half of the wall-mount hardware. Cue Home Depot trip three.

I finally get the damn shelving unit installed and start on the next chore: cooking for the week. Because spousal unit and I are hardly ever at home together, Monday has become "let's bust out lotsa meals for the week's lunches and dinners" day. I butcher a chicken, separate the leg quarters, and place them on the broiler tray for roasting (later to be used in salads). I then go into a cabinet to grab the salt, but a caper bottle falls out. I try to juggle the bottle and do save it, but the glass kosher salt container falls out, lands on top of a glass measuring pitcher, shatters both vessels, and spreads salt everywhere, all over my freshly cleaned kitchen.

I curse poetically and with verve before cleaning up. I then rinse off the salt-encrusted leg quarters, dry them, and throw them into the oven to cook. I also throw a head and a half of garlic in foil, drizzle on a bit of olive oil, seal up the pouch, and then throw it in the oven, alongside the roasting legs and thighs. I then cube the chicken breast meat and prep veggies for a stir fry. Just as I finish my stir-fry prep, my roasted garlic (destined for pasta-land) is ready, and, wouldn't you know, when I go to pull it, I burn myself on the oven door.

Luckily the rest of the day was relatively free of disaster...because one more thing, and I would probably have to curl into a fetal position and whimper.

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