I feel the need to write about how my night went tonight, if only for the fact that I haven't had a night this fucking stupid in a long time.
I'm going to preface it by saying that the raw diet didn't last 30 days, but I did learn a lot that I can apply when cooking my food. I do still try to eat as much raw as I can, but my pans are once again getting used. I think this is in part to the fact that I didn't have much equipment available, and with Mo not working I didn't want to run out and buy a dehydrator, spiral slicer, and a food processor; three items that are needed for almost every raw recipe.
Now back to the subject at hand...
My evening actually started out really nice. I met a friend of mine on Marine Drive and we had ourselves a nice little skate with the sunset. We logged 7.33 miles in 1 hour and 7 minutes. Not too damn shabby. I planned on taking Rowan to Fred Meyer right after and picking up ingredients for dinner (chicken enchiladas). Little did I know, my night was about to go down, and go down FAST.
I made it to the store parking lot and reached for my wallet, then realizing it wasn't there. I searched all around the car and concluded that I must have left it at home.
Well, fuck.
So I drove home (Rowan tantrum #1) and searched the house for it. No dice. I searched the car. No dice. I went back in the house and searched again. No. Fucking. Dice. I finally unfolded the stroller and found my wallet in there. Halle-fuckin-lluyah!!
I drove back to the store and got Rowan inside. As we passed the Jelly Belly stand, he pointed them out and I asked him if he wanted them for a potty treat. He got really excited, you guys. I mean, this kid got some serious fucking conniptions over those beans. So I told him we'd come back after getting the rest of our stuff to get them. After I got everything checked and in the bag (forgetting the jelly beans AND the rotissere chicken for the enchiladas... but I wouldn't realize it until later), I opened my wallet only to realize my fucking debit card is not in it. "Well where the fuck is it?!" I asked myself. I handed my bag over to the U-Scan chick and explained my card was in my car and I needed to go get it. She rolled her eyes and I could practically HEAR her think: "Likely fucking story, deadbeat."
So I packed Rowan up and went back to the car to look for my card. I searched the whole damn car, no card. Fuck. So I plugged Ro into his carseat (Rowan tantrum #2, now with biting!) and drove BACK HOME AGAIN to look for my card. I went inside and there it was, mocking me from the kitchen counter top. I growled inhumanely, swiped the card off the counter, and stomped back to the car again. I debated leaving Rowan home this time but he was still in his seat and I didn't want to deal with another tantrum by my leaving. "It'll just be a quick in and out deal this time." I thought to myself.
Back at the store again, we walked inside and this time I remembered the jelly beans and the chicken I still needed to get. So we went back to the Jelly Belly display and Rowan picked out the flavor he wanted. I filled the back and we proceeded to walk away. We got about 10 steps when he realized he ACTUALLY DIDN'T want that flavor. (Rowan tantrum #3) I picked him up and said he picked this flavor and he'll stick with it. That's when he knocked the bag out of my hand and spilled the beans (HA! hahaha.) all over the floor. At that point, my frustration level was
code fucking red. I managed to carry my crying toddler to the deli to pick up the chicken, and because this is the BEST FUCKING NIGHT EVER, they were totally out. "Fine." I said to myself, trying to breathe and find my zen spot or whatever, "They make shredded chicken in those plastic tubs. They aren't the best for me and they are loaded with sodium but they will work for dinner." So again, I carried my squirmy, screamy toddler over to the meat section and guess what? THEY WERE ALL OUT OF FUCKING SHREDDED CHICKEN.
This warranted an emergency call to my husband.
He picked up the call on the third ring, and the conversation went like this:
Mo: Hi honey.
Me:......hi.......
Mo: You're having a bad night, aren't ya.
Rowan: Potty treat?
Me: Like you wouldn't fucking believe.
Mo: So how about this... how about you just pick up dinner somewhere. Anywhere you want. And that way you don't have to cook.
Rowan: Potty treat?
Me: Excellent. Burger King it is.
You guys, I fucking love Burger King.
So, excited by the opportunity to get my favorite fast food, and already planning my meal, I went back to the U-Scan to finally pay for my bag of food I had tried to pay for earlier. Rowan brought up the potty treats and I had to firmly tell him he spilled them and was mean to me so now he can't have them. (Rowan tantrum #4).
I somehow managed to finish up and as I'm carrying my stupid heavy bag in one hand, and holding Rowan's hand with the other, he brings up the potty treats again. (Rowan tantrum #5). He decided to collapse his knees in protest of us leaving without his precious fucking jelly beans and as he hit the floor he screamed out "OWWWWIEEEEE!!! OWWWIEEEE!!!"
Great.
Fucking great.
Now as I'm trying to get him to stand up again, people all around me are staring with a mixed reaction of sympathy and horror. I looked like a fucking child abuser. I once again picked him up and lugged him the rest of the way out the door, through the parking lot, and to the car. I managed to get him plugged back into his carseat and drove away to Burger King. (Rowan tantrum #6, you know, the fucking potty treats...)
I'm so much happier now. Now that I've stuffed my gullet full of delicious burgery goodness. I don't care how many grams of fat and calories are in those things, I feel blissful.
So there really wasn't any point to this rant, only to express why this was the worst night I've ever had, and why there is a hot bubble bath calling my name right. this. fucking. second.
Peace out.
(ps, Burger King got my order wrong. **insert maniacal, insane, angry laughing here**)
World on the 29th. Every year, thousands of people all over the U.S. (and I think the world...) gather in public places to dance Thriller. There's always at least 100 peeps in Pioneer Square here in Portland doing it all at the same time. I've always wanted to do it, but could never find the time to actually learn the dance.