Thursday, May 5, 2016


I bite at making real life decisions. 

I go through all the grief stages over things like job-ing and child bear-ing.  And I'm not even joke-ing here. 

Of late, I've spent a precious many hours on a scouting mission to replace my eyesore of an oven that decided 615F is an admirable temp to bake a pan or two of cookies.  To which I say "Nay, tis not."  So we could go through the laborious process of having a tech come out to diagnose what we already know is the problem, which is likely to involve someone tromping throughout my house while wearing shoes before pulling the guts of the oven out on a price per minute basis.  Or, we could just chuck its 18-year old almond-and-black colored bum self to the curb and start over again, which likewise ends in hours = lotsadollas spent.  So, I've been working in minutes here and there to swing by the few appliance joints that we have around here as well as surf various retail and outlet sites in the hopes of saving $40 somewhere. 

It took a solid seven days for me/us to even figure out what kind of stovetop I/we want.  The answer - neither.  Thanks but not thanks, I'll just take a gas line plumbed to my kitchen for a cringe-worthy amount of cash and we'll go from there.  What...that's not a feasible option?  Fine.  I still want neither. 

And now I'm on the suck-it-up-and-just-pick-something search for an appliance that I'm not at all excited about, which is frustrating given the amount of time I spend dancing with it.  It's like going to the prom because you love dressing up, going out to eat and socializing, but then not really wanting to dance with anyone when you're there.  But you do, 'cause you spent a lot of money on that prom dress, hair do and limo.  Plus, you really like the outcome of it, which is to say glorious pictures of you looking your best. 

So I'm planning on marching into one of those stores, credit card in hand tonight with the intent to sign on the line for a brand new, shiny piece of metal that I'm already feeling anxiety about lest I break its shiny glass top. 

The whole thing came about when I had my absolute favorite chocolate chip cookies in the oven last week after the boy sent me one of those "Sixth period was rough today" messages (rarely happens that he sends me an SOS in the middle of the day).  This, of course, makes me want to sympathy stress eat with him, and if his favorite is chocolate chip cookies, then by all means, let's mix up a batch.  I was 2 pans in before the oven went nutsy on me.  Good news: Some of the cookies were salvaged.  Bad news: It was like the set of a horror movie...chocolate chip briquettes everywhere.  Eight days later, on the day when I'm going to say "Yes, I want that one, and it can't come soon enough," the boy just sent me another message saying "Extra cookies in the break room...bringing some home."

Lesson learned:  When the oven goes down, it's BYOCCC (bring your own chocolate chip cookies) if 6th period has been an arduous adventure in teenage wrangling.  

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