With that, I scraped the remaining blueberry banana mixture into the garburator and tossed the little bastard a box of Cheerios.
The kitchen is closed.
I had one frying pan – well two – if you count the rusty, cast iron one, last used during the Gold Rush. The non-stick variety that crashed and burned this morning was no longer non-stick – in fact quite the opposite. It was the original T-Fal non-stick pan, which – when I inherited it – was already past its prime.
Add to this, my stove is apartment-size, despite sitting in a full-size hole waiting to be replaced, someday, by a full-size, stainless steel range and matching hood. My pint-size stove has two settings: hot, and really fucking hot. I blame my stove for why I burn everything, including toast. And bridges. My stove also has an automatic timer, which means it basically shuts off whenever it bloody well feels like it, as it did this morning, several times, mid pancake.
Living here is like Little House on the fucking Prairie, minus the constant sex with Charles.
At least I could feed the dog I nearly decapitated moments ago. It was then that I realized the can opener no longer opens anything – it just whirls around making little hair-like ribbons of aluminum that fall to the floor like tinsel amidst the disappointment of Christmas morning. Consequently, the can opener went out the back door where it landed with a soft "ping", bouncing off the frying pan before settling next to the fresh hole in the lawn, dug by the other dog, now waiting nervously for breakfast. I poured the remaining Cheerios into the dog bowls and went back to bed.
Bed, as it turned out, was now my laundry room with a mammoth pile of clean laundry lying where I wanted to be – so I opted instead for a hot shower. The shampoo bottle I use to prop the window open so the steam doesn't peel the wallpaper off, fell out the window and into the neighbour's yard which left me with just conditioner, or the little bastard's Old Spice Hair & Body wash that smells like insecticide and the armpits of teenage boys. I shaved my legs even though I ask myself every morning, why bother?, then pulled a pair of men's elastic-waist gym shorts and a Wrigley Field t-shirt out of the pile and headed to the computer.
There's gotta be more to life than this.
Cousin Sarah left for Toronto yesterday after several, stressful days of making a five-bedroom house fit into one large U-Haul and a Toyota Sequoia. Add to that; 2 dogs, 3 cats, 3 children, 3 ponies, a bunny, and a fish and I was just about out of mind. Cousin Sarah was fine. I was the crazy one.
It wasn't so much that Sarah was leaving, it was that she was leaving me behind. Me, who lives like a nomad, with scaled-down possessions that have nothing to do with the minimalist movement. Just movement. I want to be ready to go, when someone yells "go!". To this end, I quite often find myself standing near the cashier at a store, holding on to a lovely throw pillow or a functioning appliance, when I ask myself, "do I really need this?". The answer is usually, a resounding "no".
As a result, I may as well be cooking beans over a campfire in my backyard, wearing the little bastard's hand me downs, smelling like a 14-year old with a perpetual boner.
But I'm going to Italy again. Maybe. Soon. Who needs a frying pan and a can opener when they're holding on to the winning ticket for a trip to Italy? CAA have recently launched A Big Taste of Italy in Support of the Littlest Patients – a month-long fundraising campaign in support of the IWK Health Centre and Janeway Children’s Hospital foundations. All net proceeds from this campaign will go towards these two wonderful organizations that have stitched up my little bastard on several occasions. To purchase a ticket, head into your local CAA office or call 1-800-561-8807. Tickets are $10 and include an instant $10 coupon to East Side Mario's. Buda-bing. There's dinner taken care of.
I wonder if they make pancakes.