sweaty balls

Today, it doesn't take much to piss me off. I guess it was a long time coming after my 65-hour work week, including a 14-hour shift on Thanksgiving at minimum with no break. After 4 hours of marginally good sleep today, through the barage of mass texting and a few unneccesary phone calls, I woke up to a house full of 20-year old teenagers gathered in the hallway talking shit about whoever the target is for the week. Oh yeah, thanks for even asking if I wanted to go do something with you since we didn't go see Kelly Clarkson tonight because you couldn't afford to buy the tickets even though you just went out and bought and iphone the next day.

Yeah, being awake is awesome. Oh look, the dishes from Thanksgiving are still stacked on the counter and in the sink. Nice, and what was that you were saying, Baby Sister who isn't going to school and doesn't pay rent in my house? You have so much extra time on your hands, you want to volunteer at the hospital or senior center because it makes you feel good. How about you volunteer to wash the fucking dishes since you don't pay rent.

Well here's one for you. Dishes that sit and fester in the sink for 4 days after Thanksgiving, which by the way we had salmon and not turkey cause no one wanted to make a big bird, smell like ball cheese. Yeah, ball cheese. Ok. You ok with that? Sweaty ball sac. As if the rotting dishes weren't enough, it was time to cook the pre-marinated tri-tip that you literally pull out of the package and put in the oven, which my father who has lived 70 years on this earth, cannot seem to cook on his own:

preheat oven to 425*
remove tri-tip from packaging
place fat side up
cook for 1 hour

Degree of difficulty: -1

Fine, I'll cook, I'll clean, I'll pay the rent, and I'll do it all in the 2 hours I have before I go back to work again cause someone else is sick again on her Monday.

7:24pm, leaves me with 16 minutes to take a shower, change, make gravy, and throw dinner in tupperware so I can rush off with it to the batcave for another night of incompetence in epic proportions and political demands.

7:31pm, while getting dressed and blow-drying my hair simultaneously, I hear the rattle of a pan hitting the floor. The roast. If the roast is sitting on the floor with the dog pacing in circles while my father tries to both hold on to his walker and save his dinner, I am going to hit something with a rolling pin. Luckily it isn't. It is my father, picking up the crusty salmon ball cheese smelling teflon baking sheet that was supposed to soaking. Apparently he flung it sideways while scraping it with a spatula while insiting that the gouges in it are from cleaning and that's how you clean a pan. With a metal spatula. That was the last straw, people had better be tiptoeing on eggshells while wearing kid gloves and sporting skates for the layer of thin ice that is coating my house right now.

In hindsight, and now that I write this all out, I guess it actually does take a LOT to piss me off. I knew this was coming. I've been too entirely in a good mood lately.

HappyfreakingHolidays.