The urge

It's happening again.

That urge.

The urge to reach out and talk to an ex.  The urge haunts me like that monster in my closet who wouldn't go away until I turned 9.  That big, scary, ugly, boogy-man creature that just pestered my mind and tormented me so it was hard to fall asleep in my youth.  What the heck is a boogy man any way and how come my parents could never describe him?  I digress....

I hate this urge.   I know I shouldn't cave in.  I mean, I really, really know better.  I swear I do. 

But, it is easier to act upon the urge rather than just accept things the way they are which is just downright currently craptastic.  My current state of being is burgeoning on a miserable state of mind.

My typical self conversation goes something like this...

"Screw it.  I should just call him and explain that I don't hate him any more.  And tell him I forgive him. And that I believe him and accept his apologies."

"Wait, no.  I deserve better.  Or do I?  Is being alone worse than being with someone who prefers frozen pizzas from Wal-Mart and a DVR movie over a nice meal out on the town without a stupid gift card or coupon?"

"Crap.  Sometimes being frugal is better.  I mean, did I really need that 2nd pair of boots?"

"Wait, no.  Sometimes spending money can buy you an immediate place of zen-li-ness.  My new boots bring me a constant state of well-being."

"Crap.  I'm better off without him.  Seriously.  His house should be featured on A&E's Hoarders.  I don't need that burden."

"Wait, no.  Some people aren't as anal retentive as I am about folding clothes, how a tooth brush should be properly stored and what the right way to hang toilet paper is.  BTW, the correct manner in which to merchandise TP in the home is the OVER technique."

"Crap.  I miss our long nights on the couch making each other laugh.  Belly laugh in sync."

"Wait, no.  There's some good stuff on Reno 911!  And, the always satiable Entertainment Tonight is bound to make a fool out of some D-list celebrity which will inevitably make me piss my panties laughing.  Seriously, Bristol Palin on Dancing with the Stars?  (I would have preferred Levi Johnson)."

"Crap.  I miss his hugs."

"Wait no.  My body length pillow is fine enough."

"Crap.  I miss his phone calls."

"Wait...yes.  Should I call him?  No.  Wait, yes.  No.  Wait, yes.  Oh hell, I don't know..."

"Get it together.  Seriously.  I'm starting to think I have voices in my head.  Wait...do I?  Oh holy hell...Shit.  Do I?  Or is it just paranoia?  Do I hear something?  No.  Wait, yes.  Was that a voice?  Yes.  Oh shit, I'm scaring myself.  Oh, wait...it was the neighbor outside talking on the phone.  Thank gawd.  I was starting to worry myself....or was I?  Now I'm just paranoid.  Or am I?"

And then I decided it was time to hit the hay and start this internal drama all over on the flip side.

Epic meltdown

There's a bucket list of things I want to check off or master before I turn the ripe old age of 40.  Suffice it to say, I've got 6 years to get my ass into gear and begin crossing off small milestone accomplishments.  Let's just hope that I don't begin with the first item at hand at the age of 39 and then stress my self out over the course of 12 Accomplishment-inducing Months.  Let's hope the little bit of procrastination that was bundled up nicely in my DNA doesn't get the best of me.

I'll share my complete bucket list at a later time when I've gained the inner confidence to put my secret dreams into a public venue and not fear the quiet mocking and smirking I can sense across cyberspace.  However, there is one "goal" I am willing to publicly express with my followers.

I'm 34 and learning to cook. 

I just never had the desire to ever make magic with a souffle, 3-layer gourmet devil's chocolate cake or Thanksgiving turkey.  The thought of touching raw meat absolutely turns my intestines inside out and the gag reflexes start to kick in if I can't cut up meat within 3 minutes after pulling it out of the trusted old fridge.  Besides, cooking for that magic number "1" is just sorta pointless to me.

My microwave has been an instrumental part of my diet over the last decade.  I had heard you can microwave a potato and get that fresh-out-of-the-oven baked potato taste - needless, I was intrigued.  I could cook a potato in record time and not have to wait 35 minutes for it to be a golden brown in the oven?  Genius. 

So, there I was.  In the kitchen with my brand new microwave and my large potato that was soon to be cooked in this modern marvel within record time.  My toppings were patiently waiting on the counter to be loaded onto the steaming potato.

Sadly, I had to Google how long to "cook" a potato in the m-wave.  Finally, after digging through a few food sites with cooking recommendations, I popped that sucker into the new m-wave.  Pushed START and headed back to my office to just check a few emails.

And this my friends, was the output of my cooking adventures.

This is an epic meltdown of not only a potato but pieces of my brand new microwave.  Lovely.

Needless,  1.) Learning to cook might be swiped off my BEFORE 40 BUCKET LIST.

And more importantly, I am pretty sure my grandmothers who always made delicious meals for there loved ones EVERY SINGLE DAY would be mortified to learn the COOKING GENE never made its way into my body.