Yesterday, I was going to make a pot of my incredibly good (if I say so myself) chicken soup, and I wanted to check the sheet of paper to see how long I should boil the chicken.
| See, here’s the thing. I can cook, but I’m not a talented cook, and I have no innate cooking skills. I don’t experiment with recipes much – I like to follow the instructions closely – and I like to know that something needs to cook "for ten minutes" as opposed to "until brown", because I think that brownness is subjective. HOW brown? Light brown? Medium brown? Dark brown? Almost-burnt brown? Don’t tell me "until brown", people! I like having concrete instructions to the point where if a recipe instructs "Cook for 8 to 10 minutes", I will set the timer for 9 minutes, and go off to do something else until the timer goes off. It’s just the way I am, okay? And I’m old and set in my ways, so don’t try to change me. |
The sheet of paper? It wasn’t there. It wasn’t on top of the fridge, it wasn’t on the floor, it wasn’t anywhere at all. After searching for it for five minutes, I found Fred, who was sitting in front of his computer, and said "Have you seen the sheet of paper Farmer Rich gave us?"
"Yes," he said. "I threw it away."
You can imagine the temper tantrum that followed. I NEEDED my sheet of paper, people! And the entire time, Fred had a smirk on his face, so I half-suspected he was fucking with me, that he KNEW how important the sheet of paper was to me and had simply hidden it somewhere. Finally, he went out into the garage and dug into the garbage can to find it.
It was soaked with juice from the pole beans we’d had with dinner the night before.
"I’ll go rinse it off," he said. Again, with the smirk. I assumed that he knew that rinsing a piece of paper would make it disintegrate, and I sat down to put on my shoes to go for my ass-kicking hill walk. He came back into the garage.
"It fell apart," he said, and threw it away. Bastard.
Luckily, my chicken soup came out excellent anyway.
* * *
Sunday, Fred and I were in the computer room, each sitting at our own computer netsexing each other (just kidding! We were actually netsexing complete strangers…heh. Kidding on that one, too), and Fred said in a deeply concerned voice, "Bessie, it appears that you’ve been hacked!"
I turned around and saw this on his screen:
"Oh my GOD!" I screamed, and turned around to view the offending page on my own computer. I was horrified. A man’s naked ass! Next to a picture of my beloved baby!
I got to the page on my computer, and saw no naked butts.
"It’s not showing up on mine," I said, clicking the "refresh" button.
"I know," Fred said proudly. "I was just fucking with you."
It appears that there is a site (well, used to be a site – the guy took it down) where you could go, enter a url, and have that page come up with nekkid hairy asses wherever there’s a picture. I’ve gotta hand it to Fred, he definitely freaked me out with that one!
* * *
I spent the morning running errands – including spending an ungodly amount of money on Mother’s Day cards – so I think I shall spend the afternoon (what’s left of it, anyway!) sitting on the couch and reading the rest of The Nanny Diaries, which is a pretty damn good book.
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