The Jerk

Let's talk about this. I mean, I could totally go complain to a licensed professional at the rate of $567 an hour, but I've got 3 kids who I'm pretty sure were genetically engineered to financially ruin me in 8 years or less and I can't let them win.

I have this friend (I've mentioned her before. The Jerk?). She's a motivated individual. On her own, people. She needs no threats from her husband, no letter from the court, no 24-hour shut-down notice. She went to college (and finished it, which is more than I can lay claim to!) and got a degree (man, I kind of wish I was paying attention back then so I could brag to you about it now). Then, she had a kid, a job, bought a house, yadda yadda, and then decided, "Hm. My life-full-of-life seems like it's missing something. I KNOW! I'll go back to school!" So she did. We have to like her, guys. She reads this blog. 

As I was saying: She's motivated. And since she called me immediately after I expressed a (then) passing interest in returning to school and encouraged me to fulfill my wildest dreams, I now have to be motivated in order to keep her from punching me (she's tall). So tonight I decided to make pizza. From scratch. Did you even know this was allowed?! (Shut up. I managed a fast food restaurant for 12 years so this whole "time for a life" thing is new to me. Give me a kitchen full of college-aged kids who are set on driving me insane and I will rock that crap!) 

I was standing next to the stove, spatula in hand, wearing a frilly apron over my incredibly stylish outfit, my freshly styled hair tucked behind one ear, a cute little smear of flour on my cheek. There were five kids running rampant through the kitchen, screaming and laughing whilst chasing the kitten. I calmly inserted my earplugs and turned up the volume on the radio (classical music, of course).

Me: [while peering at the recipe] Kids? Mommy's trying to make dinner.

[WTH is a pizza stone? I thought I was using an oven??]

The three youngest girls notice I'm about to do something other than yell and they break off from the herd to see what I'm doing. 

Kids: [forming a mob around me and jostling for the spatula] We want ice cream! We want candy! [squish kitten]

Me: Can you not break the kitten? Santa won't be able to bring another for a whole year...

At this point, these girls are all over the counters, opening cupboard doors and dumping the contents on the ground. I'm pretty sure the smallest one just pick-pocketed me. 

Me: Ladies, please. Can you go do that somewhere else? And tiny-tot, can I have my keys back?

I shoo them out and try to make haste with the three minutes I've just earned.

[knead the dough? Yes. I need it. I need a Xanax, too, but I don't see that here]

Smallest Kid: [tearing into the kitchen at breakneck speed] AAAAACK!! [sobbing, screaming & tears, standing there]

Me: What? What?! Why are you crying? WHATWHATWHAT?!

Smallest Kid: [smiles] Nuffing. [licks snot from nose, trots out of room]

It pretty much went on like this until I threatened them all with brussel sprouts and sour cream for dinner if they didn't keep from getting underfoot. I told them to go upstairs and bother the oldest two kids and reminded them the the boy got a remote control helicopter for Christmas and did they want him to fly it? Suckas! Here is my award-winning dinner:

Do you think they ate it? No. But I did, and it was super-good. I got the recipe from Six Sisters' Stuff. 

I'm branching out, doing things and keeping motivated. I may turn out okay just yet.