Well good for you.
I am... not so lucky. And I have the bruised kneecaps to prove it.
In fact, commiserate with me a moment, will you? Especially if you're a hairdresser. ESPECIALLY THEN.
I don't tend to consider myself a great cook. In fact, I don't really consider myself a cook at all. Which usually works out okay because Fiance is one of those amazing people who can be all "oh, you have stale pretzels and a half-eaten can of chicken noodle soup? hold on, let me make a 5 course meal with those ingredients" (I believe this is almost exactly how cheezit-meatloaf happened. There are not words to describe that awesomeness).
However, Fiance works roughly 12 hours a day here, so that leaves the cookin' to me. I've pulled up my big girl panties (the second, dry pair), and tried my hand at this whole domestic thing. I've had some successes (pics will take you to the recipes):
(no surprises here, they're desert/baking type things, which have never troubled me too much)
(this one was a happy surprise - I ended up shredding the chicken and we ate it on hoagies.)
And then there were a few blunders that fit well with today's theme...
I translated wrong at the supermarket. Cucumber instead of zucchini. Fiance didn't say anything because he's nice (and he wants me to keep cooking), but it wasn't all that great tasting.
These actually TASTED really good. But I used the "slapchop!" to make them. FYI: You should never investigate how to clean a slapchop by slapchopping your hand. Them blades is SHARP. Cue wave-patterned bandaids (not pictured because there's a more embarrassing pic coming up and I'd like to hold onto some dignity. But it looked just as stupid as you imagine, I promise)
I guess in the end we ate hot food each night this week and never got sick. So I suppose it's a success... in my head though I was picturing some kind of rapturous transformation where I went from this
(Crap. You know, I was trying to find that scene from Doc Hollywood where MJF is sitting at a table and a bunch of the women of the town come in and are plunking plates of great food down in front of him until the last gal who slams a plate down in front of him of just... gross, and she introduces it as "Hungry Man's Dinner. I can't cook." If you have seen this movie; that's the reference I was going for, laugh with me. If you haven't, picture a TV dinner, and go rent Doc Hollywood. Old but funny.)
To channeling my inner June Cleaver.
damn her and her impossibly clean apron.
So cue this morning. I wake up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and generally excited because TODAY we're going on a mini-vacation (I'll talk about it next week), so I knew I didn't have to cook dinner. I'm in the clear, and today's going to be awesome.
My demon soggy panties say otherwise. Them, and the electrical grid of Monterrey.
Power surges are pretty common here. Which is a fine thing to say to someone who doesn't really have a passion for a lot of electrical stuff. No matter how many times finance has informed me of this, I kind just went; yeah, okay.
Then today comes, and the soggy panties dictate that there will be a power surge RIGHT as I'm drying my hair. One tiny fire ball coming from my hair dryer and the lingering smell of burnt hair later...
That is a BALD SPOT. My hair is completely GONE right there, in the middle of my head, and I'm not above saying that I've already cried, and cussed, and flipped right the hell out about it. After those steps in the grieving process, it occurred to me that maybe the grand internets can help me out.
Do you have a knowledge of hair?!
WHAT THE SNOT DO I DO WITH THIS?!
Right now I'm rocking a comb-over. I am a female, 20-something version of Donald Trump.
While I wait for sage words of wisdom, I'm going to go burn that cursed pair of underwear ala some 60's liberation movement.