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Last night looking out of my kitchen window, I watched a full moon rise over the pines. The yellow orb was covered for a moment by a drift of filmy clouds; it looked like an eye with a cataract.Â
I was washing dishes--again. I am sick sick sick of shopping and cooking. If there was a deli or mybloggers spoon or any kind of eatery nearby I would rarely cook. But no, I have to go to a store, shop, haul stuff out to the car, drive home haul stuff out of the car, put things in either the freezer, pantry or frige, then when I want something to eat, gotta take stuff out of the pantry, frige, or freezer, cook it, then wash pots and dishes and clean the stove and put stuff away. I am sick of it I tell you!
AND--the last time I went to the store, the checkout clerk, a Jessie Ventura wanna be, was putting cans in a bag on top of the eggs and I said--"Hey watch, and don't put anything in that bag but eggs." He said in his steroid enriched voice, "Don't worry sweetie, I won't." I hate people calling me sweetie. I said "Don't call me sweetie--old ladies don't like that." He mumbled an apology.
I want to be rich. I want to hire someone to do nothing but produce plates of cottage cheese and fresh fruits. I want to be able to sit down and eat, then get up and leave the cleanup to my chef. And that chef would be fired immediately if he slipped up and called me "sweetie."Â
susil
