Guys, I know it’s not attractive, but I’m going to take a sec to throw myself a pity party.
Just real quick, then I’ll be done and move on with breathing, walking, talking, eating, finding my zen, etc.
Life currently has parked me on a tubo-speed hamster wheel.
Thing after thing after thing after thing after. . . you know the wheel.
I feel like I’m letting people down left and right, myself included.
I can think of a billion things I don’t have that I wish I did have – even though I loathe such an attitude. Mr. Badittude insists on showing up anyway, and I’m having to punch him in the face each time he gets close enough for me to smell his breath.
My muscles are sore from swimming in the pool. Not exercise swimming. . . just play around swimming – you know, like throwing my kids (aka treading water), etc.
My boys were wrestling at bedtime (if you are a parent, you know what kind of under-the-skin blood boiling this can evoke).
I ate Runts (yes, the same ones from October), fudge, and Wheat Thins all within 30 minutes of the last tuck-in, then poured myself a glass of Beaujolais.
I have this weird achy spot on my neck – I thought it was a mosquito bite, but now it just hurts. I probably might die – or have to amputate my neck.
Neither is a good scenario.
Sometimes my camera supremely frustrates me. (Aaaaaand my lazy back-lighting probably doesn’t help the situation. . . . )
I made this focaccia. It’s really good. It’s, “warm bread + salty butter + homemade strawberry jam schmear = a mini vacay to heaven” good.
Plus, it’s super duper easy to make.
But my camera. . . oh how I love so many things about it.
And oh, how I wish sometimes that it was fancier and schmancier.
Does anyone feel like donating me a fancy camera. A DSLR maybe?
Heh, heh. Just kidding. . . .
No, but if you really waaaaant to. . . .
Like the Cannon they sell in a nifty package at Costco?
No, no. Really. I’m joking.
For now, my point-and-shoot does the job, and most days she does it well.
But today – today she must be jealous of the focaccia’s chewy, sourdough-impersonating inside and designer outfit or something, because she’s not doing it justice. . .
It’s a bummer.
Because this fococcia is dang diggidy good.
Oh – and PS – tell me, please do, if you come to my pity party (Yes! Of course your are invited!), what are we eating??
Nachos? Pizza? Raw cookie dough? Caramel corn? Brownies? Doritos?
Shall we throw a virtual pity party? We can all come in our jammies and bring our favorite DVD’s. Maybe we can dye our hair and paint our toes too.
Tell me then: 1) What food are you bringing, 2) What DVD is absolutely necessary for us on this night? 3) In what color our we pedicuring ourselves?
(And yes, Danguole, I took the random question cue from you, and I expect your answers pronto.)
Oh – and the focaccia – we’re talking a five-minute throw together in the morning, let it sit all day, then plop it into a pan and let it sit for an hour or so, then brush it with egg white or olive oil and bake it for about 30 minutes. Easy peasy.
It’s appropriate company for jam, soup, BLT’s, salad, Nutella, olive oil and balsamic, avocado and Parmesan, ham and cheese, tomatoes and garlic, eggs and pesto, goat cheese and honey, you name it.
I bet Mom would like this with a good book and some beautiful coffee or tea in bed on Mother’s day, for quiet, alone, tea-sipping reading time. All quiet and alone-like. With tea and a book. Alone. In the quiet. Reading. . . quietly. With tea and hot buttered focaccia smothered in strawberry jam. . . .
Wait, what? Where was I just then?