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Most of y’all came through for me in yesterday’s poll, as I knew you would, because y’all rock. As of this moment, 90% of you think Fred’s a rude bastard and the remaining 10% are split pretty evenly between “Don’t be such a touchy bitch” and “I don’t care, I just like to click things.”
Roxy said in my comments yesterday: We’ve developed this system that has worked pretty well for us. Whenever I try a new recipe, we sit down and eat it. Later on in the evening or the next day, if I’m on the fence about whether I want to fix the recipe again, I ask for comments on whether it’s a keeper. That’s when I can accept some negative feedback on the dish – i.e. too spicy, fine but a little bland, etc. It helps when others say they liked it but not as well as another similar dish – especially if the other dish is much easier to fix.
But doing it right then, when I’ve just finished fixing it? Not gonna happen. I boycotted cooking for two weeks after negative comments about a meal. Now we’ve come up with this admittedly uber-polite system but it has been working great for several years. Of course, if they love the meal, there’s no need to ask because there will be positive comments during dinner. Positive comments are always welcome:)
Which exactly describes how I feel. Wait a little while and then politely suggest that the chicken was too chickeny or it could have used some of this or that, or whatever. Just not RIGHT after I’ve finished making dinner, because I’m already cranky from the hating-to-cook portion of the day and not ready to hear ANYTHING negative about dinner.
(Unless I say something negative first, then feel free to pile on.)
On the other hand, last night I made ratatouille for Fred (I didn’t eat any of it, because I cannot abide green peppers in my food) and when he took a bite and suggested that the zucchini needed to be cooked more, I just shrugged and added a note to the recipe. I don’t care – I’m not the one eating it.
I never claimed to make sense.
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If you’re “following” me on
Twitter, you may have read yesterday that I poked a bird. A dead bird. A dead baby robin, to be exact. On purpose. With my finger.
I was walking back to the house after grabbing the mail out of the mailbox when I looked down and saw a dead baby robin.
“Awwww,” I said, bending over to look at it, to be sure it was dead and not just hurt. There were ants all over it and it wasn’t moving, so I was pretty sure it was dead. And then I saw, sticking out of it or stuck to it – I wasn’t sure – something that looked very much like an acorn.
“Odd,” I said, and leaned closer for a better look. It still looked like an acorn and I wondered how it had gotten stuck to the baby bird (now, when I say “Baby”, I mean more adolescent-y. Like it was probably old enough to fly from the nest, which is probably how it ended up dead on the ground, trying to fly. That’s my hypothesis, anyway.). Before I could stop myself, I reached out a hand and poked the acorn with my index finger.
And it SO was not an acorn. It was soft and mushy and felt kind of… organy. I pulled my finger away, squeaked in horror, and ran into the house to wash my hands with boiling water.
When Fred got home, I made him come out and look at the baby bird, and Dr. Fred looked it over and decreed that it had “Pooped its guts out, probably while it was dying or shortly thereafter.”
Then he picked it up by one leg and took it over to toss it in the ditch with all the other small dead things we find.
Ah, me. Life in the country, so educational. I hope I don’t poop my guts out when I die.
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I’d make a longer entry, but I’ve got watermelon rind to pickle and laundry to do and beds to make and a bathroom to scrub down and kittens to flirt with. I’ll see y’all tomorrow.
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Nest = empty.
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Previously
2006: If you could possibly NOT lay three inches from me and spend 63 hours slurping on your asshole so that I am driven into a homicidal rage and forced to run you out of the room, I would very much appreciate it.
2005: They’ll be fine, they’ll be fine, they’ll be fine, they’ll be fine…
2004: And I’m not even a George Michael fan. Though “Faith” rocks the casbah.
2003: No entry.
2002: Fred: “It’s dick in your mouth good!”
2001: No entry.
2000: You know, life would just be so much simpler if I were already queen of the world and in charge of punishments and such.]]>