Devilish Digs at a Doo Doo Head


Never use your blog for rants!!!
Never use your blog for rants!!!

See my conscious knows what’s up, but I’m just gonna go ahead and ignore fairness and justice and all that ish and vent to my little heart’s content because you know what? Venting is good for the soul. Venting helps get me through the poop ya’ll refer to as life. If those inflicted by my venting have an issue, they can hash it out with me in the comments section. There’s where the fare comes in. Nuff said.

So here’s the deal. This rant is about Jersey and the wonderful domesticated devil he has created in me. I used to be hard core cool man. I was the chick that didn’t care what her dude did. Little things never bothered me. Little things were cute. Now little things annoy the living ear wax out of me and cause me to have to call my dearest friend at 6am in the morning and ask how one man can eat a WHOLE lasagna in one day.


I went to work. I had a craptastically LOOOONG day. I worked out, much to my chagrin. I then came home and instead of relaxing…getting in a nice shower…writing a bit…I passed all things nice and went directly to jail (i.e. the kitchen) and started preparing an elaborate and beautiful lasagna. I sprinkled goat cheese on the top for added flavor for Chef Boyardee’s sake!

While I appreciate the fact that FINALLY a dude digs my cooking, I’m not so thrilled that a meal that is supposed to last a couple of days only makes it through the night. WTF!? I live with a 170 something pound man who believes himself to be 300 pounds.

I don’t know where this crazed “must eat, yum yum!” Cookie Monster mentality comes from. Was he starved as a kid? Is he secretly a greedy hot mess of a man who thinks he should eat it before I eat it all? I eat like a bird, yo. I nibble and delight in taking leftovers for work. Can a girl get a leftover?! Heeeck naw! She sure can’t because that ish is in the tummy of Jersey! The tupperware sitting in my cabinet sings spiritual negro hyms…all alone. Never getting used cuz there’s only one dried up stick of celery left in the fridge.

Friends say I should just cook crap he won’t like, but that’s impossible. The dude will dig anything I put in front of him. I made a mango chicken rice dish once that seriously tasted like Square Little 50s Mamacita with a fear of all things flavorful wrangled that ish up. He shoveled that ish into his mouth in less than five minutes and told me it was delicious. (My head drops in defeat.)

I don’t know what to do about this. What will I tell Suze Orman on Oprah’s Network when she asks me what I’ve spent my possible life savings on? I’ll tell her I spent it on food…and that I couldn’t even really eat it because I didn’t move quick enough.

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