About Lynn the Carpool Mom and the Horny Spatula

This past weekend was a parentless weekend. My mom left for a week-long trip to Japan on Friday and my dad went to Saraburi for a weekend trip with a bunch of old high school friends. As the only mature and responsible adult around (*cough, cough*), I was left in charge of the house as well as various other duties, such as being my brother's personal chauffeur.


I woke up at 5:30 AM on Saturday morning, spent an hour and a half in early morning traffic driving J to school for his Catholicism retreat, and another two long hours on my @rse driving back before finally reaching home at around 11 AM with nada feeling left in my behind. I wasted time on the internet, studied a bit, and at around 2 PM, climbed back into my car and got stuck in another two hours of traffic as I again drove back to J's school to pick him and three of his friends up.


Now, I have absolutely nothing against 14-year old boys and girls. After all, 14 wasn't that long ago. Just because I turned 21 a couple of days ago doesn't mean that 14 is so very foreign to me and I don't remember what it was like to be 14. I, however, am not too fond of 14-year old girls who, upon stepping into my car and hearing the first few notes of Jay Chou's Ye Ye Pao De Cha song, emit piercing, banshee-like wails of glee that do not abate in the slightest for the entire hour and a half journey to their house in Ladprao. I also don't like it when hormonal 14-year old girls jump and bounce around in their seats to Jay Chou's rapping because it makes my car shake up and down like a rabid kangaroo on steroids. And I especially don't like it when they reach forward from the backseat - sharply elbowing my left cheek in the process - and jab away at the stereo buttons so that they can go to track 4, Dragon Fist, which simply gets them bouncing and springing away even more (think a dozen kangaroos on steroids plus a pogo stick). Jason's other friend (we'll call him Bob) was much more civilized in comparison and thankfully devoid of any signs of adolescent barbarism. Indeed, he turned and yelled at the girls (we'll stick to the mundane names and call them Jill and Jan) and told them to "shut the hell up!!" and to "stop shaking the f*cking car!!".


Bob's my hero.


So, now I know how carpooling moms feel. I know I probably sound like a stuffy old fart, but haven't Jill and Jan's parents ever taught them any manners?


Anyway, after I woke up on Sunday morning (if noon is considered morning), I decided to put my culinary skills efforts to the test and make J some brunch. I'd talked to Patrick the night before and he'd suggested eggs, so I took up his suggestion because, pfft, eggs are as easy-peasy as they get, right?


Apparently not.


(My mom took the digital cam with her to Japan, so I had to resort to other methods instead. Here it is: Lynn's Cooking Fiasco [an MS Paint story])



It started out innocently enough.

A simple frying pan and a couple of eggs.







Cracked those babies and as the first egg started frying away, I thought to myself, hey, this isn't so hard after all!








Then the spatula I accidentally poked the yolk a little too hard and, uh, well, it broke.
Damn yolk went slipping and sliding all over the place. :(







Evil, evil spatula!

J and I dubbed this "the spatula with pointy horns prone to poking yolks", aka "the horny spatula".




Sigh, but that's okay, we'll just have scrambled eggs instead! Yeah, no problemmo, just whip it a bit here, and toss it around a bit there...

Is that the phone?
Doooorrrkk! Get the phone!! Where are yoooo??
Forget it, I'll get it myself.




15 minutes later.

Damn.
What's the number to Pizza Hut?






I think I'll leave cooking to the professionals from now on and slink back to burning making toast instead.


Last bit of randomness: I love Dido's Life For Rent album. White Flag, Life For Rent, Mary's in India, and Sand in My Shoes have been running around my head non-stop this past week and so far there haven't been any signs of them leaving anytime soon. Dido's voice is soothing and the lyrics simple and honest. Melancholy has never sounded quite so achingly beautiful.



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