"You want to go to the Island ..."

Tuesday, Feb. 07, 2006, 11:46 a.m.

During the past four or so weeks that I've been home, I've had a chance to get reacquainted with the fact that I am an utter failure as a domestic goddess.

Yeah, well, maybe some of you guessed as much (due to my favorite activity being that awesome game where you sit on the couch watching TV for hours without moving, or, when exerting enough energy to remain conscious becomes too much to handle, sleeping), but I don't think you quite grasp the full extent of my non-housewifeliness.

You see, I don't know if I've ever told you guys this, but since I'm not ashamed of it, I'll go ahead and tell you now:

I can't cook. At all.

Since I am an Independent Woman of the 21st century, this is really no big deal for me. Sure, it usually leads to smart remarks from Husband (i.e., "You want to make Rice-a-roni for dinner? Maybe we should just order pizza") and, every now and then, the melodic humming of the smoke alarm (reminiscent of the Boiling Water Incident of '04), but all in all, it doesn't bother me that I am about as close to being a decent cook as Nicole Richie is to being a sumo wrestler.

I mean, I didn't mind it when one day, as I attempted to cook Minute Rice, I stood over the burner for approximately ten minutes yelling to Husband, "Why isn't the rice getting warm?!" only to discover that I had turned on the wrong burner and was, technically, cooking air.

I didn't even get too upset when I turned the heat a little too high for my "grilled" cheese sandwich and ended up with more of a "charred" cheese sandwich.

But sometimes ... well ... sometimes I really wish that I was in possession of some of the pertinent information that many "average" housewives seem to take for granted.

Like, before tonight? If you had asked me what Beanie-Weenies do when you put them the microwave, I would have said one of two things:

1) "They heat up."
2) "I don't know."

When, in fact, the correct answer is 3) "They loudly explode, and now I have to clean the fucking microwave."

And when ignorance leads to extra cleaning, that is where I draw the line.

"Draw the line" meaning, "leave the kitchen forever and let Husband handle all the cooking from here on out so that I don't die in a freak macaroni-and-cheese-stirring disaster."

Stay tuned for our next installment, when we cover my house-cleaning prowess -- or, as I like to call it, There Are Black Fumes Coming From The Vacuum Cleaner Again And What The Shit Is That All About?!

Seeing as how Husband and I have some time off for a couple weeks, we figured that after we pick up The Truck (which, as you may remember, we have purchased from some guy in Joisey via eBay), we ought to take a little vacation.

And while my idea of a vacation is pretty simply "going somewhere other than where I live while simultaneously not having to do any work of any kind and there are usually alcoholic beverages involved," Husband is a little more indecisive (read: picky).

This is the way it went:

Me [surfing internet, calling Husband at work]: "Hey, wanna go to San Diego?"

He: "What's in San Diego?"

Me: "Lots of stuff! A zoo! And, like, beaches. And a zoo!"

He: "Ummmmmm. Nah."

Me: "How about L.A.?"

He: "Oh, that might be cool. I have friends there ..."

Me [typing destinations into Travelocity at lightning speed]: "Yay! Kind of cheap!"

He: "Let's go to Stonehenge."

Me: "I can't get a tan at Stonehenge."

He: "Then let's go to an island!"

Me: "What about L.A.?"

He: "Let's go to an island!"

Me: "Don't you want to look at this swanky hotel that we could stay at for six jillion dollars a night?"

He: "Let's go to an island!"

Me: "I am starting to sense that you would like to go to an island."

[Incidentally, don't think I didn't seize this opportunity to try to convince Husband that the reason he wanted to go to an island so badly was because he was really a clone and this was all a big plot so evil scientists could harvest his organs. Sadly, he didn't buy it.]

Hence, we are going to an island.

Specifically, here.

EEEEEE! I am going to an island next week!

This is awesome. Remember what I was doing last Valentine's Day?

Just in case you don't, let me refresh your memory:

Kuwait. Not so much fun.

But this Valentine's Day, I will be here:

I won't have to cook a DAMN thing, here. And there are no fucking camels, either.

Anyway, yeah, tomorrow we leave to go pick up the truck. Which will hopefully be there. And not have a body in it.

Wish us luck!

And, if you have nothing better to do, go back through this entry and count how many times I wrote the word "island." FUN FOR ALL AGES.