My super power is cutting onions with my eyes closed

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If you know me, you know that my cooking isn’t the best and I am not the most confident person in the kitchen. No one should be surprised when I say my favorite cut is the “rough chop.” Every other type of cut is an inferior type of cutting because it would take me too darn long to do and wouldn’t work out anyway. Or I would accidentally chop a finger off.

The rough chop is the best chop.

Unless I’m cutting onions. Then I dice them like a pro because at one of my jobs, my former boss insisted that I learn to dice an onion “properly”. Mostly because he saw me dicing onions one day and I think it terrified him with how bad I was with a knife. So he showed me how to dice an onion and then stood over me while I perfected my onion dicing skills. Apparently it was imperative that all onions be nicely diced so they would look pretty on a burger bun.

Presentation is everything, after all. Even when you’re working in a tiny burger joint that thought blue cheese was a good idea to stick on burgers.

But that’s another story because I definitely threw up when I learned how blue cheese was made.

Anyway! Back to onion cutting.

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Cutting onions makes me cry. It makes a lot of people cry, but it especially makes me cry because I use my onion eyes as an excuse to let any and all emotions out. I’m crying anyway, so I might as well make it a good cry, right? Right.

But sometimes I want to ignore my emotions. I also mostly don’t want that horrible stinging pain that you get in your eyes whenever you cut onions. It’s not a fun feeling because it’s hard to get rid of. Sometimes I’m an idiot and rub my onion juice covered fingers in my eyes and I make it worse. Other times I try splashing water in my eyes and that just makes a mess that I won’t clean up. Then other times I try putting my face in front of a fan because a manager once told me that a cool breeze will help dry onion eyes out. And I believed him so I still do it because the pain is so bad that I’m willing to believe anything even though I quit that job years ago. In my opinion, there is no winning with cutting onions.

UNLESS YOU CLOSE YOUR EYES.

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Which is exactly what I do. My former boss made me cut so many onions that I’m basically a pro at onion cutting now. I could win championships if there were championships. I am so good at cutting onions that I can cut them with my eyes closed. Literally.

First I chop the ends off and then peel the skins away and cut the onion in half.

Then I just close my eyes and think of England while I chop and dice my onions to perfectly diced pieces. Nothing bad ever happens. I make sure my knife is sharp so the cuts are easy and clean and I just carefully move everything around until the job gets done. I’m confident, I’m positive, I’m upbeat, and gosh darn do I love onions so I need to be a pro at cutting them anyway.

Nothing says professional more than “I can do this with my eyes closed.”

Honestly, cutting onions is one of the few times that I feel truly confident in the kitchen. Which might be why I try to use them in every recipe that I try. Plus they’re tasty. They might be the one thing that adds a little pep to a potentially bland or poisonous meal. I mean…I still have no idea how to use spices, but at least I know how to add onion to almost anything that I make?

We all have our super powers and cutting onions is one of mine.

That and setting fire to soup.

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Where the hell is my coconut oil?

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 I love coconut oil. It’s so wonderfully versatile and I can use it for lots of things that I normally would use other less convenient things for.

Skin sensitive to most shaving creams? That’s me! I use coconut oil to shave my parts. No bumps. No fuss. And everything winds up silky smooth and wonderfully moisturized. It’s better than using hair conditioner which is what I used to do. It just put my conditioner to shampoo ratios off. It was slightly inconvenient.

My waterproof makeup is actually waterproof? Not an issue because it sure as shit ain’t coconut oil proof. It also keeps me from having to keep makeup remover for the makeup that I rarely wear.

I need an oil to cook my food in? You bet your sweet patootie that I’m reaching for coconut oil.

Dry skin or psoriasis flare up? I’m grabbing coconut oil to moisturize myself.

Lubricant? Yup. Coconut oil works wonderfully. But not with certain sex toys or condoms because coconut oil can break certain materials down. I’ll let you do your google searching on that. I’ve checked and my coconut oil is great with my current toy collection and I love it.

Basically, if duct tape can’t fix it, I think you should try coconut oil.

Which brings me to my main issue. It’s kind of expensive and I can’t bring myself to buy more than one jar at a time. So I’m left randomly toting my lone jar of oil around my home as I need it. Along with the jar I have to carry a clean spoon for scooping out the oil because I know I shouldn’t just be shoving my hand into the jar as I need. I know where my hands have been and I don’t need that in the stuff I rub on to my face and lady garden, and use to make/burn my food.

And because I’m me and usually don’t think things through, my coconut oil is usually in the last place I used it. Kitchen. Bedroom. Bathroom. Car. It’s somewhere. Your guess is as good as mine about where I left it.

Which is exactly why I wound up running out to my car at 11pm one night wrapped in only a bed sheet.

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 This happened last week. I got home from personal training and as usual my body didn’t want to move because my trainer is great at what she does. So I laid on my floor and did none of what I should have done. No eating, no showering, no cleaning up the awakard pile of dirty socks that I could see accumulating under my bed. Nothing. It was great.

 Eventually I got up and dragged myself into the shower. As I scrubbed and washed and conditioned I noticed that my legs were…kind of hairy. The patch that I had missed shaving before was even longer and thicker while the rest of my legs had grown a stubble that any 5 o’clock shadow would be jealous of.

I glanced out onto my bathroom counter. No coconut oil. I stepped out of the shower and looked in my room. Nothing. I wandered out into the kitchen and didn’t see a thing. I was already dripping all over my apartment so I did another quick wander and didn’t see my coconut oil. I tried to remember where I last had it, but couldn’t remember where I had left it or used it last.

There was a vague memory of using it on my elbows in my car. Plus it wasn’t in any of its usual places, so by process of elimination, my coconut oil had to be in the car.

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 Naked, wet, and alone. I stood in my kitchen and had a very brief debate with myself. I love freshly shaven legs. I was looking for my coconut oil anyway, and I would probably forget about all of this later so…

I wrapped myself up in a bed sheet and ran out to my car in search of my oil. It was 11pm so no one saw me. It was just a dark and empty street with a very vain woman rooting through her car until she found her coconut oil.

Which I found in my gym bag on my passenger seat. Along with a weeks worth of dirty socks.

 That night I shaved my legs and cleaned out my gym bag. That was the extent of my productivity for the rest of the weekend and it was amazing.

Trying to make friends

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All my life, my friends have been built in. My younger sister is 15 months younger than me and she’s always been my wingman of mayhem. Then I grew up on a rural area where most of my family lived on the same street as me. Plus I went to a small school so the 5 other people in my grade were instant friends. Then I started playing sports and my teammates became my friends. Basically my whole life has come with friend making opportunities!

Except now that I’m almost a full-blown adult, I don’t have many friend making opportunities. And…I don’t really know how to make friends. Seriously, how does one make friends when you’re no longer in forced group situations where you have to bond with the people around you because you live with them in dorms, are on the same team, or get forced into horrible group projects together?

I have no answer to that question.

So I’ve been winging this “make new friends” thing since the new year.

It mostly happens when I go to the gym because that’s where I’m the most surrounded by people. Which can be awkward because everyone is sweaty, wearing headphones, and occasionally grunting out reps. It doesn’t help that I’m also usually sweaty and occasionally grunting out reps too.

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It started with this one lady at the gym who sat next to me one day while I was stretching. She sat next to me to stretch too. We were both sweaty and looked worn out. So I smiled at her while I stretching my groin and she awkwardly smiled back. Before I could work up the courage to say anything, she got up and left. This is basically how all my almost friendships have started at the gym. I smile at someone. They smile back. They move on. I smile at someone else, they smile back, and then they move on too. I look like a serial killer with all of the people that I awkwardly smile at. Or maybe I look like a brown Gym Time Barbie.

Except I’m not a serial killer. Or a brown Gym Time Barbie. I’m just trying to make friends!

Sometimes I just jump right into talking to people.

When I see someone more than a few times and know that they’ve seen me, I wave at them and say hi. Then I shyly ask them how they’re doing. They say they’re doing ok and then they move on. So I wave and say hi to someone else. They usually move on too. Again, I feel like a serial killer awkwardly trying to pick their next victim. I also feel like my gym could totally hire me as a greeter with how great I’ve gotten at saying hi to people.

Except I’m not a serial killer! Or a gym greeter.  I just want to make friends!

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Sadly it’s hard to make friends when you’re either smiling weirdly at people or scowling because you’re doing one exercise or another that requires concentration. Smiling is hard when I’m trying lift heavy things and put them down. When I’m doing that I feel like I either look constipated or look ready to actually murder someone.

My resting bitch face game is strong.

All of this just makes making friends harder! Either I’m smiling or I’m scowling and either way I’m convinced that I look like a murderer.

But all of my trying hasn’t been in vain! I’ve managed to strike up a few conversations with one lady who sometimes works out at the same time as me. We usually end at the same time so we chat to each other while we get ready to leave. We laugh about how we struggled through another workout and how it feels good. We make jokes about being sweaty and sore. Then we go on our way. I never thought I would get so excited about consistent small talk with a person, but I am. It’s nice being able to chat with someone at the end of a brutal workout. It’s like having a sister in arms!

Except without the murdering that might come with being sisters in arms. I already feel like a serial killer with all the smiling at strangers that I’ve been doing in 2018.

All of this has taught me that despite my criminology background, I have a very weird concept of what a serial killer looks like. It’s just honestly how I feel with all the smiling and awkward waving at people that I’ve been doing. I’m now probably that weird girl at my gym that everyone is scared of because she always has that weird smile on her face and maybe her face is stuck like that. All of their parents warned them that it would happen and now I am proof that if you make a face then it might get stuck like that. Though if my face were to get stuck anyway, I would want it to get stuck in a friendly smile.

In conclusion: I am 31 years-old and I know how to do lots of things. I can meal prep for myself, do my own laundry, bake a cake as long as it comes from a box, and buy nice wedding gifts for friends. What I don’t know how to do is make friends. Instead I am just that awkward sweaty girl that weirdly smiles at people and randomly waves at others.

So…how do you make friends?

My 31st meal prep!

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I just did my first 31st consecutive meal prep! I mean, I took a week off when I took my mom to Las Vegas for her birthday, but even then I prepared snacks for our drive to the airport. So, that’s 31 weeks of me cooking for myself, not poisoning myself, and generally eating way healthier than I used to. Mostly not poisoning myself. I am really pleased that I haven’t poisoned myself in well over 3 years. I’ve set a lot of fires, flooded my kitchen twice, and exploded some muffins, but I haven’t poisoned myself in a while. 31 meal preps is a big deal for me because I don’t like cooking so my weekly meal prep is a special kind of torture for me, but every week I get ‘er done and I’ve learned some stuff along the way.

Mostly I’ve learned that there are consequences for my actions and they are often swift and just. Like this past week when I decided to make pancakes muffins and get a little experimental with them. The recipe called for milk, but I didn’t have any milk. Nor did I want to sacrifice any of my chocolate soy milk.

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Which is also something I’ve learned while meal prepping: how to buy exact amounts of what I need so nothing goes to waste. So sacrificing chocolate soy milk for pancake muffins and not having a breakfast shake for one day just didn’t sit right with me. I wasn’t about to use my chocolate soy milk. I also didn’t want to go down the street to buy milk because I only needed a little bit.

So I went rooting through my fridge to find a potential milk substitute.

The other lesson I’ve learned about meal prep is to only buy what I need. If I buy more than I need I wind up with science experiments in my fridge and since I’m an arts student, no one cares about my science experiments. OK, some people might care about my science experiments, but mostly because they might be biohazards that I’ve accidentally cultivated in my fridge.

This is one meal prep with several lessons. I swear most other meal preps have gone a little more smoothly than this one. The other lesson I learned was that I should stick to my meal plans and not deviate because then I wind up rooting around for a dairy substitute to put into pancake muffins. All I had on hand was my chocolate soy milk and Greek yogurt.

After some quick google searching, I decided to use one of my yogurts. I had one spare yogurt that I was probably going to eat as an extra snack, but I figured that I could sacrifice it for my pancake muffin experiment.

I measured out my dry ingredients and things seemed to be going ok. There were no explosions. Then I gooped my yogurt into my dry pancake muffin mix and stirred everything together with all my other wet ingredients. I stirred, whisked, and did all of the things that the recipe told me to do until I had what looked like pancake muffin batter that I dumped a couple handfuls of blue berries into. I was actually really proud of myself for mostly following the recipe.  I mean the only part of the recipe that I didn’t follow was the part where I was supposed to use milk, but yogurt is just clumpy milk right?

WRONG.

I don’t know what went wrong, but the pancake muffins…turned into an overflowing, gloopy, molten mess in the oven.

At first my kitchen smelled amazing. I was a baking master. I was going to be Canada’s next top chef. My life was good and I was excited for blueberry pancake muffins.

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Then my kitchen started to smell familiar. It smelled like burning, but that was usual for me. There is always something burning in my kitchen because elements are never as clean as they should be. Everything was fine. Until my kitchen started to smell like smoke.

Because there was smoke coming out of my oven. My pancake muffins had flowed out of their holders and had turned into the before mentioned overflowing, gloopy, molten mess. Thankfully there wasn’t a fire, but the batter had started to bubble and pop. It was also in my ovens element making sizzling noises.

It was all just a smoky, burning mess and all I could do was turn my oven on, let everything cool off and continue on with my meal prep.

In the end, I didn’t get my pancake muffins, but I did finish my meal prep. In this case, I think that’s all that matters. I didn’t have a fun snack, but the rest of my prep was finished.

I have a bruise on my boob

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For the last few weeks at the gym, this random guy has been giving me a fist bump every time he sees me. I’ll be walking to one part of the gym and he’ll be walking to another and he’ll casually hold out his fist to me and I’ll casually hit my fist against it. It make me feel like a total bad ass to casually walk past this dude and tap my fist against his. Normally when it happens I am pouring sweat, my heart is racing, and one muscle group or another is shaking. But no matter what, I can almost always walk past this guy and be a total smooth criminal while knocking my fist against his.

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Except for tonight. Tonight gym dude decided to change things up. I was just walking out the room where fitness classes are held when he was walking by and instead of holding out his fist for me to bump, he held his hand up like he wanted me to shake it. So I let him grab my hand in a grip that I’m positive shattered all of my fingers and let him pull me in for that weird hand shakey hug thing that guys do.

As he pulled me in for a hug, all I could think was “be cool, be cool be cool be co-”

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And then his shoulder slammed into my boob and I felt like my world had just shattered into a million pieces in the worst of ways. I was positive that he had popped my glorious right chesticle with his body slam. My D-cup had either exploded into nothingness or was in the process of swelling into a DDD-cup. I wasn’t sure, but I could feel pain radiating out from where he had body checked me so something was going on with my now abused fun bag.

It hurt so bad that I wanted to cry on the spot. Instead I continued to tell myself to be cool while he told me that my squat was looking better and I whimpered a quick thank you told him to have a good workout. He was completely unaware that he had just destroyed my poor boob and told me to have a good rest before walking off to another part of the gym.

Now I have a bruise on my boob and I still feel like a total bad ass because I’m totally a casual gym fist bumper sort of person who occasionally dude hugs people without being a total spazz. In a world where I feel out of place and not the most confident, there is this one guy who is a shining light. Every time I awkwardly tap my fist against his, I feel like I belong. So, yes, my boob hurts right now, but I still feel like a total bad ass.

How I learned that you should take the hoodie off the hook before putting it on

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I wish my personal style could be described as “bed bug.”

My personal style can be described as “frumpy athlete”. I wear socks with my flip flops, comfy leggings, and giant hoodies. If I’m at work then I wear a comfy top that barely passes for “business casual.” Everything is big and chunky and comfy and warm. I feel like I’m perpetually in the cocoon stage of what should be my metamorphosis. Do I look good? Probably not. But do I love feeling I’m cuddled by a fire 24/7? Heck yeah, I do!

Personally, if I could get away with going to work wrapped in a giant comforter, I would.

That’s totally not the point of this blog though.

The point is that I wear hoodies and like any good adult, I sometimes hang my hoodies up when I’m not wearing them. I have lots of those little hook things you put over the top of your door for all of my hoodies because I have more hoodies than sense. Normally I come home, take my hoodie off and then hang it up. Then when I leave the house, I pull a hoodie down off a hook and put it on as I walk out the door.

Except this one time where I decided to crawl up into one of my hoodies while it was still on a hook. It looked easy! Just slide my head and arms on up and keep on walking. One fluid, and smooth motion. I was a genius. Why didn’t I think of this before? Why did I waste time taking my sweaters off the hook and then putting them on? So there I was, crawling up into my hoodie and sliding my arms into the sleeves and…

VOILA!

I had hung myself up on the door.

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Let me explain! I’m tall at an easy 5’10” so this situation never crossed my mind. It didn’t occur to me that my hoodie hanging off a door hanger would be too high up for me to slip off the hook once I was in m hoodie. So there I was. Hung up on my door with the rest of my hoodies. To make matters worse, I had put the hoodie on backwards so I was dangling from my door and couldn’t see what I was doing.

It took me a solid five minutes, but I eventually got myself down, got my hoodie turned around, and got myself to work. I wasn’t even late for work! I was just slightly miffed that my genius idea hadn’t turned out to be so genius after all.

 

I shouldn’t cook topless

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I don’t have a whole lot of body confidence. Which is weird because I dislike clothes and love being naked. I will wear flip flops year round unless there is at least an inch of snow on the ground and I will traipse around my home in as little clothing as possible. It’s more comfortable and just means less laundry for me. If not wearing clothes means I get to be comfy and do less laundry then I am all for it. Plus being naked is just all kinds of decadent fun.

It’s not so great for cooking though.

Ever.

No matter how often I think that it’s ok to cook in only a sports bra and shorts, it never is. I used to have some scars on my stomach from an unfortunate bacon cooking incident and a burn mark from a run in with a hot pan. I’ve burnt my hands, my chest, stomach, shorts, and even my hair and…sometimes I learn from it. Very briefly I learn my lesson.

Except I forgot all of those lessons while making soup the other night. I still have scars on my person, but I still decided to ignore them and traipse around in my kitchen in a sports bra and sweats. I had been cooking without incident for several months and was confident in my mad kitchen skills.

Everything was smooth sailing on my potato soup making adventure. Bacon was made with no incident. Potatoes were chopped and put in the pot with broth with no incident. In fact, I had followed the whole recipe without incident. I had cut, measured, and done everything with care as the recipe told me to do.

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Or at least I had until I realized that I had forgotten to add celery to the pot. The pot that was now full of piping hot liquid. The pot that was almost full to overflowing because I should have used a bigger pot. Of course I didn’t think of any of this then. The recipe said to add the celery so I was going to add the damn celery.

Without any thought, I picked up the cutting board covered in celery, grabbed my knife to scrape it in, and pivoted to start carefully scraping the chopped and crunchy green bits into the pot. Cutting board in one hand, knife in the other, everything was fine. I can cook now. I don’t need adult supervision. I carefully slid little bits of celery in a little bit at a time. I gently scraped and pushed those crunchy green bits in, bit by bit.

Or at least I did until being careful was taking too long. Patience is not one of my virtues. I’m also not known for thinking my thoughts through. At this point I was a kitchen wizard and nothing could hurt me. So instead of continuing to carefully add the celery to the pop full of nearly boiling liquid, I tipped my cutting board up and dumped the rest in with an audible scrape and SPLASH.

A splash that sent a tidal wave of potato filled, scalding broth flying up into the air. A splash that caused hundreds of tiny drops of burning liquid to spatter across my stomach and always ample cleavage. A yelp of pain and terror escaped as a line of burning liquid burrowed its way into the abyss of my chesticles and I immediately dropped my cutting board and knife to try and claw the liquid away from me.

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Let’s read that sentence again.

I IMMEDIATELY DROPPED A SHARP KNIFE TO THE FLOOR TO TRY AND SAVE MY BOOBS FROM BEING BURNED.

As soon as I let go of the knife I let out a yelp of terror as I jumped back from the falling blade.

Then I just stood there. Potato soup spattered across my chest and stomach like some weird porn, knife and cutting board on the floor, and the smell of burning potatoes that had escaped into the element slowly filling my kitchen. There was really nothing for me to do in that moment. I just stood there and admired the mess that only I could make while trying to make soup.

Really good soup too, I might add. I eventually finished making my soup and it was darn delicious even though my cleavage was a bit sore from the cascade of hot broth that jumped down there. Now for at least the next few months I’ll cook fully clothed despite loving nudity and hopefully I’ll cook with a little more care and patience.

I mean…probably not, but a girl can hope right?

RIGHT?!