You know, sometimes I just peruse an old post or re-read my recently published entry and I cringe just a little. I think, “did I really find that funny” or “how many people were offended by that?”

But what’s worse is when I read what I had thought to be a sentence in the first place, and what it turns out to be is pure unadulterated trouser smear. Thank goodness there’s an edit function because, even though you guys have already read it, I just couldn’t live with myself if that crap was permanent.

Here’s some advice: do not read the first two months of this blog! It’s like I was just learning to write, and I was using Dr. Seuss as reference material. Without the witty banter, however.

Michelle had a really good day at work yesterday, but had to come back to my home cooked meal. I’m usually pretty handy in the kitchen, and I’m not saying that last night’s meal was inedible, but I had made an assumption that rendered my mashed potatoes eye-watering.

Before I go down that road, I’ll tell you that Michelle is enjoying her job at, uh, the grocery store. I’m not sure if I should mention the name in the blog because I’ve heard of these things coming back to bite people in the fleshy part of their glutes. Anyway, as Michelle waits for her call from her preferred line of work, she has taken a cashiers position. On top of that, she’s working in her spare time on a typing tutor I set up for her and trying to learn as much about Microsoft Office as possible.

I talked to Michelle about her work after I fed her supper. Supper? Oh, yeah! I grilled some chicken breasts, but before I threw them in the oven, I was at a loss about what to do with them spice-wise. I did a quick check on the internet but most of the ideas there would have taken a little more time than I was willing to spend. Then I remembered a friend of mine pan frying some potatoes in Italian dressing, and a light bulb went on in my head. Now, 20 Watts isn’t that strong, but I put it into practice anyway. We didn’t have any Italian dressing, but we had some Kraft Sweet Onion Vinaigrette. So, after the oven had pre-heated…

Okay! Tangent time! How can you pre-heat something? Isn’t the definition of pre-heated actually heating something before you heat it? I understand the context, but that’s what it literally translates too. Yes, I understand that it means allowing the temperature in the oven to stabilize at a certain point before cooking with it, but wouldn’t it be just as easy to “heat” the oven? Isn’t that like the word “reiterate?” Reiterate actually means to say or do again repeatedly. Iterate, however, means to utter again or repeatedly or do something again or repeatedly. So wouldn’t reiterate actually mean to say or do again repeatedly, again? Like you iterated once, had a break, then iterated again? That sounds a little dirty. I think I’ll learn French!

Digression…

After the oven had, uh, achieved its ideal temperature for cooking chicken, I put a light glaze of the salad dressing on the chicken's skinless surface and sprinkled about a teaspoon of rosemary on top of each breast (teh heh). I did the same when I turned the chicken over 10 minutes later, and once more 10 minutes after that for a total cooking time of about 25 minutes at 400°F. But the chicken wasn’t the problem! It was actually very, very good.

And the problem wasn’t the steamed carrots, either. It is possible to over steam vegetables, but I like a little bit of crispness left in them so my teeth don’t get soft and I loose that hunter’s instinct that was passed down from my forefathers and their forefathers before them. Carrot hunting used to be a very hazardous undertaking, I've been told. Today's carrots are very tame by yesteryear standards.

The problem was assuming that an electric hand mixer would mince up the six cloves of garlic that I had thrown in the mashed potatoes. I originally wanted to mash them with a mortar and pestle, but Michelle had cleverly hidden them in plane sight. Actually, the mortar was hidden right in front of me; Michelle had deemed the pestle cupboard worthy. So I threw barely chopped garlic into the pot of mashed potatoes and hoped it would mash along with the rest of the pot’s contents. It didn’t, and it was very fresh garlic. Kristen did not enjoy the chunks of garlic in her mashed potatoes, but Rylee and I would enjoy a good wince when chewing on half a clove. I love garlic, and this was no exception. However, I had learned that Kristen and Rylee had decided to partake in a cookie (or two, is my assumption) at a friend’s house before coming home for supper which made making them finish their meal all that more difficult.

All in all, it was a good meal, but lacking in the green department.

After dinner, I finally got a chance to relax a little and asked Michelle about her day. She said it just flew by which seemed to make her very happy. She was able to converse with a few of her fellow employees and said that her supervisor, some gentleman a few years her senior, gave up trying to teach her anything because she was picking it up so fast. I asked if he was hitting on her, but she just looked at me funny. I can only assume that meant yes and that I would have to make a stop at her work very soon.

She made reference to a new female acquaintance who started work at the same time as her but had actually worked there several years ago. She would give Michelle all sorts of hints about the benefits her company would provide her if she just knew where to look and what to ask. I asked Michelle if this girl was hitting on her, but she just punched me playfully, but rather hard, on the shoulder. I decided that I would have to set Michelle’s new friend up with her supervisor.

One thing that Michelle is great at is putting up with me and my whack sense of humor. I’ve made it no secret that I like to write and enjoy a good joke every now and then. However, some of my humor may venture off into the world of untested waters, and I’m afraid that I may offend someone. So every now and then I write something down on a pad that I keep beside the bed. Just as Michelle is about to drift off to sleep, I give her a little shake and ask her to read what I’ve just jotted down. If, after reading, she turns onto her side facing away from me, holding her breath so as not to laugh too loudly and wake the kid, then I know what I’ve written is funny. However, if, after reading, she glares at me with ocular daggers, grabs her pillow and the top comforter and heads to the couch, I know what I’ve written is down right hilarious.