Yesterday I got home from work with enough time to feel guilty about sitting around watching TV until Cory got home. Although I had two episodes of Snapped recorded, I opted for productivity.
I took the dog for a walk
and sweat profusely, did a load of wash, and I thought: Hey, why don’t I just go ahead and prep dinner so I don’t have to worry about it later.
Kabobs are easy enough, I just figured getting them done ahead of time would yield some QT when Cory got home. That’s me – a forward thinker.
First, I chopped the chicken into cubes and threw them in a marinade.
Next, I moved to the onion. I cried my way through that endeavor with burning eyes and a runny nose.
Chop, chop, God DAMN, sniff, chop, chop…
Last was the red pepper, that slippery bitch. I blame it on the aforementioned watery eyes (Cory blames it on my inability to correctly hold a knife – whatever) but while I was enthusiastically chopping and visualizing my acceptance of the Organized Wife of the Year award, my huge-ass knife slipped...
…and took a huge-ass chunk out of my finger.
Like any young, married woman would do, I immediately contacted my mother.
After my mom assured me that my blunder was not as big of a domestic fail as I was making it out to be, I felt a little better.
Now if only she could have reminded me to soak those wooden kabob sticks before putting them in the oven…
Unfazed at this point in our relationship, Cory reminded me that I could have potentially burnt down the entire apartment complex. Clearly, this was not news to me, the “chef” who uses the smoke detector as her timer.
Like my man Jimmy Buffet says: If we couldn’t laugh we would all go insane