So, the oven has begun working again.
Additional support for my Unified Theory of Inattention.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Wednesday
What happened today:
I learned that the impression I've been harboring is, in fact, correct. It's not a good idea until SOMEONE ELSE comes up with it. Good to know; takes the pressure off.
I need to just stop thinking--everyone else is happier that way.
I learned that my boss at CHFJ, while nice enough, has the attention span of the average slow-witted six-year-old. She wears this weird multi-colored ring, though, which distracts me when I talk to her. It's like I'm a bird or something. On the bright side, I find that if I only half pay attention to our conversations, they're less one-sided.
I went to the gym and did not desire to vomit. I call it progress.
I got shoes! For the wedding! They are fucking adorable! I danced about the house! Jessica Simpson is a talentless pop tart, but wow. She slaps her name on some cute ass shoes.
I absolutely aborted this recipe from Gourmet. I don't even know why I bother with recipes for anything except baked goods, anyway. It's like a have a constitutional inability to follow them, or even remember to buy the right goddmamn ingredients. Which is how I wound up with "crushed tomatoes" (what I would call fucking tomato sauce, if I hadn't bought the organic shit) instead of diced tomatoes, and wound up substituting gin for vermouth. I knew I didn't have the right liquor at the house, and I thought about stopping to buy it. Thank god I didn't though, because I remembered the recipe as reading sherry. Which, yeah. Not the same. The gin was fine, though. I guess. Next time I'm going to just ignore the fucking recipe entirely.
Two minutes for the garlic? My undulating right buttock.
And finally? Oven rebellion. As we were wrapping up dinner--an entirely stove-top affair I might add--the oven began to beep in a truly annoying manner. And the oven latch which is put in place for the self cleaning function had decided to engage itself. So, basically, my oven locked itself in its room like a petulant teenager.
Meanwhile, the shitty LED display showed some error code, a quick Google of which indicated that it is some kind of error having to do with, you guessed it, the door latch.
We finally unplugged it to make the beeping stop. It's like The Boy says, "It's the fucking appendix of the oven." I have used that self-cleaning "feature" exactly once, right when bought the house. I don't really get the point. I don't frequently spill grease and shit in my oven, so it I guess I don't feel it's that dirty. Further, it's regularly hot as hell because it is a goddamn oven after all, so I figure it's already reasonably sterile. If I had need of a kiln I might have an opportunity to put this to use. As it is, this is sizing up to be a plot to make me part with money on something lame. Like a new lock sensor or some horseshit.
*sigh*
I'm going to bed.
I learned that the impression I've been harboring is, in fact, correct. It's not a good idea until SOMEONE ELSE comes up with it. Good to know; takes the pressure off.
I need to just stop thinking--everyone else is happier that way.
I learned that my boss at CHFJ, while nice enough, has the attention span of the average slow-witted six-year-old. She wears this weird multi-colored ring, though, which distracts me when I talk to her. It's like I'm a bird or something. On the bright side, I find that if I only half pay attention to our conversations, they're less one-sided.
I went to the gym and did not desire to vomit. I call it progress.
I got shoes! For the wedding! They are fucking adorable! I danced about the house! Jessica Simpson is a talentless pop tart, but wow. She slaps her name on some cute ass shoes.
I absolutely aborted this recipe from Gourmet. I don't even know why I bother with recipes for anything except baked goods, anyway. It's like a have a constitutional inability to follow them, or even remember to buy the right goddmamn ingredients. Which is how I wound up with "crushed tomatoes" (what I would call fucking tomato sauce, if I hadn't bought the organic shit) instead of diced tomatoes, and wound up substituting gin for vermouth. I knew I didn't have the right liquor at the house, and I thought about stopping to buy it. Thank god I didn't though, because I remembered the recipe as reading sherry. Which, yeah. Not the same. The gin was fine, though. I guess. Next time I'm going to just ignore the fucking recipe entirely.
Two minutes for the garlic? My undulating right buttock.
And finally? Oven rebellion. As we were wrapping up dinner--an entirely stove-top affair I might add--the oven began to beep in a truly annoying manner. And the oven latch which is put in place for the self cleaning function had decided to engage itself. So, basically, my oven locked itself in its room like a petulant teenager.
Meanwhile, the shitty LED display showed some error code, a quick Google of which indicated that it is some kind of error having to do with, you guessed it, the door latch.
We finally unplugged it to make the beeping stop. It's like The Boy says, "It's the fucking appendix of the oven." I have used that self-cleaning "feature" exactly once, right when bought the house. I don't really get the point. I don't frequently spill grease and shit in my oven, so it I guess I don't feel it's that dirty. Further, it's regularly hot as hell because it is a goddamn oven after all, so I figure it's already reasonably sterile. If I had need of a kiln I might have an opportunity to put this to use. As it is, this is sizing up to be a plot to make me part with money on something lame. Like a new lock sensor or some horseshit.
*sigh*
I'm going to bed.
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