Happy birthday, Harry

You know that scene in Harry Potter? It's in the first movie. It's Harry's birthday, only his idiot family isn't going to acknowledge it at all. They've moved him to that stupid ol shack, and he is sitting on the floor. In the dust, he draws a birthday cake that says "Happy birthday, Harry", complete with candles. Then he blows on the dust, and it all scatters.

Well, happy birthday, Rio.

Each year I get reminded that I've only got one friend in the world (well, in real life, anyway. If I could invite all my internet friends, I'd have a bunch of crazy people to hang around with :)). I sorta have a birthday tradition of going to a baseball game. My mom and dad and I go, plus my best friend. Then sometimes my grandma comes, but she can't make it this year, so my sister is coming instead. Sounds fun, sure. Last minute, my best friend calls to say that she has to work tomorrow and can't come. Sad. Well, we can work around this, yeah? She works until 6:00, and that's when the game starts. So she could totally come a little late, no problem. Nah, she doesn't want to do that. I asked if she wanted to come by before work for just cake. Nope. Can't do that either. Know why? She's on a diet.

I just got pwned by a diet. Lovely.

Now, I mean, I get it. She has all sorts of bills and things to pay, and she needs any extra money she can get. I'm not mad at her at all. I'm not even mad about getting dumped for a diet. It's just kinda sad that this birthday is already going belly up. I mean, I'm going to be 20. Adding on another decade. Shouldn't this be one of those big party birthdays?

Also, tomorrow is Sunday. That means church. Not like church is going to ruin my birthday, but my grandmother is. Now, this isn't the one that sometimes comes to baseball games. This is the other one. The one that we don't invite to reunions and things. Now, I could do my best to describe her personality, but I would fail. You don't know her until you've spent an hour in the car with her. In a nutshell, she is the most selfish person you will ever meet, and she acts like a four year old. EXACTLY like. There are no private conversations around her. If I am talking to my dad, looking straight at him, talking in a lower voice so that I'm not projecting to the whole dinner table, Grandma is STILL listening in on the conversation, assumes that I'm talking to her, and puts in her two cents. Now, her two cents are NEVER "Oh, really? That's an interesting story. Let me ask a few questions about it so you can continue telling this hilarious story!" She responds with, "Oh that reminds me of the time that I ..... me.... we.... I.... I.... me.... I....". CONVERSATION HIJACKING. That's it. That's what she does.

ANYWAY. So, I get all Sunday morning with her. AND she is coming to the house for dinner. AND she's probably going to sing to me. She's got the worst singing voice ever, but she thinks she has the best, and can't fathom why anyone would want her to shut up, because of course we all LIVE to hear what is going to come out of her mouth next.

Yeah. Anyway. So far, not going so great. Heh. I kinda wish this was my 21st, because I'm going to need a few shots of Jack to get me through this one, eh?

Ack. School starts on Monday, as well. Fun.

Okay, well, let's just remember that next year is going to be the good birthday. Dad is taking me to Nashville. Since I'll be turning 21, I could get into Tootsies, which is a pretty good place to have a first drink. Lots of loud country music, and line dancing... great fun. Maybe that one will make up for this one.

The Idiot's Guide to Cooking: Written by an idiot

So, there's like NOTHING to eat in this house. Well, there is, but it's all in pieces. We have corn starch and olive oil and baking sugar and all natural chicken stock, but nothing like... a can of ravioli or a frozen pizza. So, there's enough ingredients to make a delicious meal of steak and spices and what not, but someone with MY cooking skills doesn't have the slightest idea of what to do with them.

OH LOOK! BISQUICK! I've got milk and eggs! Pancakes!

Yeah. No. Have I ever told you about the time that I burned a lunchable pizza in the microwave? What's worse, is that I did it twice.

So here's me attempting to make pancakes. Heh.

Step One: Grease the pan. Easy. However, tip for the beginner, when spraying the non stick cooking spray, make sure the nozzle is pointed at the PAN, and not your NOSE. Well, at least stuff won't stick to my glasses for a while. Now, when you actually figure out which way the nozzle is pointing, you also have to get the distance right. See, too close, and the spray just plops down on one spot in a really thick, quarter-sized spot. Too far away, and you won't have to worry about things sticking to your kitchen curtains. This process seems to be trial and error.

Step Two: Add ingredients. Stir. Don't stir too fast. Things tend to flop out of the bowl.

Step Three: Place pan on heat. Pour in 1/4 cup of mix. Let cook until edges are dry. Flip. Cook until golden. Uh... yeah. Sure. Except that the heat is unspecified. Too hot, and you wind up with... well, ash. At least the fire alarm didn't go off. Not hot enough, and it doesn't cook well enough, and you go to flip it, and it breaks in half, and splatters into little pancakelets that then promptly turn into, well, ash. Also, the heat thing is sorta trial and error as well. Heat on high to get the pan warmed up. Heat on low to cool the pan down after the charbroiled pancake. Heat on medium because of the pancake that fell apart and splattered. Run out of pancake mix without having ever figured out what the heat setting should be.

Step Four: Clean up. At this point, there will be little splatters of charred pancakelets scattered around the floor, alongside splatters of batter that flew off the measuring cup when you were smacking the measuring cup trying to get all the batter out. Congratulations. The batter is out. If there are any people in the house besides yourself, or even a very talkative parrot, you should probably resist the urge to chant "Hey, batter batter batter...."

All in all, I'm pretty darned sure that, while cooking, I look like Lucille Ball or Amanda Bynes. Maybe I should start off by making ice.

Evil incarnate.

Swans are evil.

A pair of flannel leather gloves??

Long live Kal Skirata, and death to that stupid Clone Wars cartoon.

http://karentraviss.typepad.com/blog/2009/08/end-of-one-era-start-of-another.html

Bring me my Verp.