Status Updates: I'll Tell You What I Want You To Know

If you know me, you know that I like to make food. Usually baked goods, but not always. On the days I go crazy in the kitchen, my Facebook status updates may lead you to believe I am Emeril Lagasse or Alton Brown. At the very least, you may suspect me of secretly competing in some contest sponsored by The Food Network: a couple of months ago, I made a lemon meringue pie without cracking open a box of lemon pudding. Last week, I made Oreos from scratch just to say I did it. This morning, I made pumpkin bread.

I also make homemade bread, black bean soup, applesauce, pies of all flavors (chess pie, I love you), dump cakes, cobblers, tortillas, scratch meatballs, cinnamon rolls, scones, egg noodles, and fish tacos. And those are just recipes I've mastered. As it happens, I have an entire list of foods I would love to learn how to make: empanadas, paella, arroz con pollo, gyoza and the ever-elusive perfect pie crust. You know the one, just like grandma used to make. (Incidentally, I recently discovered the secret to this is leaf lard, which I am now on a quest to purchase. Wait. What was I talking about?) Some of this crazy cooking is born of a desire to eat healthier, consciously and more like humans are meant to: whole foods, raised somewhere resembling a cottage farm, without corn syrup. Some of it because at some point I realized that all food comes from somewhere--not just out of boxes and bags in the freezer section (mmm, college food). And some of it is just showing off.

That's right, I said it. I am a show-off. I live for the challenge. I am over-educated and under-employed. If I don't invent things to do, then I find myself sitting on the couch, looking at the laundry and remembering Sisyphus. Surely hell is better than purgatory, if purgatory means washing the same underwear every week for the rest of my life. If Dante Alighieri were here, you better believe we'd talk about it.

The natural result of all this cooking and posting to Facebook, whatever the occasion--celebrating my pie or showing off the pants I sewed for one of the boys or yet another photo of my kids doing something funny--is that I appear to be made of gold. I am gold and everything I touch becomes golden. I am made of perfection. Right?

Excuse me while I go laugh until I cry.

Me? Perfect? Oh, you guys. I am as far from perfect as Pluto is from the sun--and probably farther. It's all smoke and mirrors, FOR REAL. So here it is, a gift: my imperfections, as I see them. Buckle up, because we're gonna be here a while.

I am impatient: I cannot wait for anything, ever. I was the worst pregnant woman in the world because OMG NINE MONTHS. It takes NINE MONTHS to grow a baby and think of the time we're WASTING! I hate lines, I hate traffic, I hate stupid questions and obnoxious children. Today at the fabric store I nearly died of apoplexy, brought on by the extreme slowness with which the cashier was ringing up my items. She counted the spools of thread three times, she remarked on the number I was purchasing, she counted them one more time, she remarked on the weather, counted again, looked at the clock, mentioned she was actually off duty, and then asked me to bag my items. Quietly seething, I started sliding things into the plastic bag she handed me, while she keyed in everything individually, tick tick tick on the computer keyboard. I found myself imagining who could do this faster: me, Skylar, chimps with typewriters, molasses, a rock.

I cry when I'm angry: this has always pissed me off. I want my rage to be cold, calculating, controlled. I want to say witty, relevant things through clenched teeth. I want to be utterly collected. I want to be Jack Nicholson in A Few Good Men. "YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!" I want to scream, and I want people to quiver because I'm right. That is so not how it goes down. I get mad, I cry, I get madder because now I'm incoherent, and then I leave the room. Mission: aborted.

I am terrible at math: go ahead, ask me a question. I will either need scratch paper, a calculator or a Calculus-English dictionary, depending on what you want to know. It's very likely that I will not be able to help you, just as I was unable to help the special education kids I used to teach. Related: I am terrible at saving money.

I love stupid movies: the dumber, the better. If it has Jim Carrey, Will Farrell or was produced and directed by Mel Brooks: I AM SO IN.

I do not like to talk about my feelings: I am afraid you will judge me. I may love you more than I love myself, but good luck getting me to say it to your face. Instead, I will email you or bake you cookies or unnecessarily inconvenience myself to make things easier for you. I will hide behind a joke or a sarcastic comment. I am also an awkward hugger.

I am a terrible English snob: if you write something badly, I will secretly think you're stupid. Unless I know you and love you, in which case I will overlook it. (To everyone on my Facebook friends list: it's all good. I don't mean you.) You also get a free pass if English is not your first language.



I do not like leftovers: period, end of story, Charlie is on his own to eat them all. Unless it's leftover cookies.

I like to pick fights: when I am cranky or hormonal, I sort of relish a good argument. I think it cleanses the air, and if it doesn't do that, then at least everyone else is as miserable as me so we're even. See above: I was an awful pregnant woman.

I always want everything my way: I think this comes from being the oldest child, or maybe it's just that my ideas really are better than everyone else's. That's probably it.

I cannot take noise: Charlie does this thing with his toenails that makes a dreadful tick-ing noise, and it makes my skin crawl. The wet noise of a dog licking its parts makes me want to punch myself in the face. Jack does this humming under his breath thing that makes me feel as if I am going to implode. My dislike of noise also means I hate crowds and concerts and sometimes my children.

I eat too much sugar: yeah, I do.

I freaking love GLEE: I don't care if you don't. I LOVE IT. And I will brook no unkind words spoken about my show. If you don't like Glee, well, you can suck it.

I don't floss as often as I should. I can't match my clothes and I don't care. I hate cleaning. I hate wiping butts. I hate whining and small, yappy dogs (except Wolfgang, he was the exception to that rule) and sometimes I will pretend not to see cat puke so I don't have to clean it up. Sometimes I want to give my kids away. Sometimes I wish I was someone else, doing something else, anywhere else.

I am simply telling you what I want you to know.