My boss has just been insufferable and my job feels like a shit-stack again. I'm trying really hard to figure out what's worse than working with a bull headed old man who suffers from constant low blood sugar. It's like riding a manic roller coaster without a safety harness to strap you in. Every time he calls my name I want to curl up in fetal position. It's usually so he can fuss at me for something relatively pointless.
No I didn't know you needed that file because that deal was made 6 months before I started here and I didn't even know you were working on it.
I'm sorry I wrote a check for the Coke guy. I won't next time.
I'm sorry I didn't write a check for the Coke guy, but you told me not to. Ok I'll ask next time.
I'm sorry I asked if I could write a check for the Coke guy.
I know, automated phone menu's are so impersonal, and stress you out immensely. Want me to deal with it so you don't have to? No? You want to be in control of buying a server you know nothing about? ok. I'll just sit here ineffectually while you scream at "Billy" in India some more about how America is going down the tubes.
Do I have to stay and watch all twenty minutes of this sprawling guitar rifff acid rock you tube video? I have 700 projects you've given me to finish and I don't want to stay until 6 again. I do? ok.
Needless to say, every single fiber of patience and understanding has been fried away this week. I know it's December and we're broke so he's feeling more stressed than ever, but COME THE FUCK ON ALREADY. So last night, I decided to slow things down a bit and make some comfort food: casserole cookies, steak and potatoes.
What's a casserole cookie? It's chocolate chip batter with every sweet thing in baking pantry thrown in, and because I'm lazy, I just dump all the dough into a 9x13 pan and bake it. So it's like a casserole. But it's a giant cookie. Got it? Good.
Buuuuut, I forgot about the best part of making casserole cookies is that you have a GIANT bowl full of cookie dough. And there are few deserts that I love more than home made, raw cookie dough.
And while I normally reserve one of the beaters for myself,
"for every pan of cookies you make, you get to eat one spoon full of dough. that is The Baker's Rule."
Suddenly I remembered how depressed I've been all month, so I decided to take The Baker's Rule very seriously.
But since I'd only made one pan, and therefore would only get one spoon full, I decided that to amend The Baker's Rule to the size of the spoon full will be dependent on the size of the cookie made on the pan. And I made a Giant Cookie:
So gleefully, I ate like, half the bowl of cookie dough.
|I had probably 5 servings total|
And I was so happy. So happy gaining 15 lbs in my awesome apron:
But 2 hours later, when I was sitting at the table, staring at the perfectly mid-rare, slightly charred, delicious smelling steak I worked really hard on, sitting on the plate next to a pile of whipped garlic and chive potatoes, and I experienced no sensations of hunger, no sensation of desire, I felt it. I felt it in the deep pit in the stomach of my soul:
The Baker's Rule had betrayed me. The Comfort Food Gods had led me astray.
I choked down a few bites of steak and potatoes, all the while feeling like I was going to burst at the seams like that Guy in Se7en,
because it's blasphemy to deny a perfect filet and there was a principle at stake (hah, pun)
I went to bed feeling utterly disgusting. Well, I didn't go to bed so much as I passed out because all the blood rushed from my brain to my stomach to help digest the horror I put it through.
Lesson learned: sadness and cookie dough don't mix--no matter what chick flicks tell you. I swear. I'm like, one cut-out Cathy cartoon taped to my fridge away from being Really Sad Girl.