My Mental Health
Now, some of you have been concerned about my mental health for years. But, it was only this morning that I, too, became concerned.
Let me explain.
Last evening I discovered a box of Duncan Hines cake mix in the pantry. Red Velvet. Yum. So I mix it up and bake it. Then I decided to make some icing for it and found some very old cream cheese, some old sour cream, a canister of Godiva hot chocolate, and some frozen pecan pieces. Sounds like a great icing in the works to me. Except I over-guessed at how much milk to add. Runny, I reckon, and thickening remedies (more powdered sugar and some flour) were only partially effective. So, with the new spatula I bought at Alleghany Cares for 50 cents, I iced that sucker up. The icing ran down the sides of the cake and over the plate. Placing the whole shebang in the refrigerator only slowed the advance of the brown icing avalanche over the blood red cake.
When I awoke this morning, the kitchen looked as if a cave man have been there the night before. OK, so technically, one had and I should have said Neanderthal. But you get my drift.
Now here comes the part about my mental health, folks.
Sez I to me, "Cave Man, you need to do something about the kitchen."
And, I did ... with no one scheduled to visit in the immediate future and no deadline imposed by such a visit. No one holding a pot of boiling oil over my head. Not even a hint of pressure from the outside world. Cleaned it spick and span, top to bottom.
That begs the question of whether (a) I have become a dyed-in-the wool househusband or (b)I have simply gone stark raving mad.
How does that song go?
"I know there ain't no heaven but I pray there ain't no hell."
As for me, I'm praying it ain't the former because I know the latter, at least, can be fixed.
Right, dear?
Let me explain.
Last evening I discovered a box of Duncan Hines cake mix in the pantry. Red Velvet. Yum. So I mix it up and bake it. Then I decided to make some icing for it and found some very old cream cheese, some old sour cream, a canister of Godiva hot chocolate, and some frozen pecan pieces. Sounds like a great icing in the works to me. Except I over-guessed at how much milk to add. Runny, I reckon, and thickening remedies (more powdered sugar and some flour) were only partially effective. So, with the new spatula I bought at Alleghany Cares for 50 cents, I iced that sucker up. The icing ran down the sides of the cake and over the plate. Placing the whole shebang in the refrigerator only slowed the advance of the brown icing avalanche over the blood red cake.
When I awoke this morning, the kitchen looked as if a cave man have been there the night before. OK, so technically, one had and I should have said Neanderthal. But you get my drift.
Now here comes the part about my mental health, folks.
Sez I to me, "Cave Man, you need to do something about the kitchen."
And, I did ... with no one scheduled to visit in the immediate future and no deadline imposed by such a visit. No one holding a pot of boiling oil over my head. Not even a hint of pressure from the outside world. Cleaned it spick and span, top to bottom.
That begs the question of whether (a) I have become a dyed-in-the wool househusband or (b)I have simply gone stark raving mad.
How does that song go?
"I know there ain't no heaven but I pray there ain't no hell."
As for me, I'm praying it ain't the former because I know the latter, at least, can be fixed.
Right, dear?
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