First order of business: This is now officially a “Mommy Blog”. I am still gonna post about beer and gross things and ugly crying. But for all internet purposes, this is what the internet is calling me now. It feels super lame, and I feel like it’s robbing me of my street cred. But I also need some kind of classification here so I can get more readers and be famous and forget about all of you.
So maybe help me out in the famous department and click the button on the right of this page to vote for me on Top Mommy Blogs. I got accepted to their database pretty late last month, and still managed to be the #9 Stay at Home Mom blog, even though I am just a stay at home pregnant lady right now. So make me feel better about all the mom-blog lameness and vote. Voting starts over every month, so I will be bugging you all about this monthly until you show that you’re responsible enough to remember on your own.
And in my quest to be famous, you can all help by maybe pinning my blog posts to your Pinterest and tweeting and twatting about them and telling your friends and posting them on Facebook and stuff. I’d do it for you..
Okay, onto the real stuff.
For pretty much all of my first trimester, I did zero cooking. Everything made me pukey, and I hardly ate for a couple months. I was so skinny and pretty. Le sigh. One of the few times that I did cook, I made one of Adam’s favorites, chicken corn chowder. I wanted to die the whole time because the thought of chicken made me wanna vom up until maybe two months ago? But I was a trooper, a super wife, and I wrapped a scarf around my face so I couldn’t smell the birdie carcass.
I can cook now, and the problem of food making me sick is pretty much over. Eating is my favorite pastime. So much le sigh. And cooking has led to my newfound gift of creating my very own WMDs. Let’s talk about chicken fajitas, cooking with spicy shit, and the time I tear gassed my family.
Dinners have been happening in this house. And I’m stoked because I didn’t really make dinners for a long time because I am tired always. The tiny human has been a total iron hog and made me all anemic and crap. Rude. This kid better support the shit out of me when I’m old. I don’t wanna live in his house or anything, because then I will probably have to do laundry or something stupid that I don’t feel like spending my golden years procrastinating. I expect a gucci-ass old folks home, with super hot male nurses that get paid enough that they aren’t taking their aggression out on poor old me by pinching me and stealing all the good drugs I better get when I’m waiting to die. Mommy ruined her cute boobs and her babe-bod to give you life, kid. Top shelf retirement village or I am haunting the shit out of you when I die.
So, in my quest to try to pay Adam back for all the pasta he has had to eat these past months, I’ve been trying to make food that I know he really really likes. Spicy stuff is at the top of his food love list, and the bottom of mine. Mild salsa makes me sweaty. But I am a fantastic and loving wife, so I bought a jalapeño and I got to work. I made chicken fajitas for dinner the other night, and I was super proud of myself because it was going to be ready and on the table right when Adam got home from work. Granted, he had to stay crazy late and was an hour and a half late getting home, but it’s the thought that counts. While reading the rest of this, please keep in mind that it is the thought that counts.
Now, since I hate spicy stuff, I pretty much never cook with spicy stuff. So I didn’t think to cover the pan when I threw the chicken on the stove with chili powder, a ton of cilantro, a jalapeño, and some other crap. I’m cooking and cleaning up as a go, keeping things nice and feeling very proud of the awesome meal I was making and that I cut an onion, which I never do. Onions are the worst. My first job was at a bagel place that I had to open at butt-ass o’clock in the morning on weekends, and part of my morning was spent slicing a ton of onions and wanting to die.
So I’m doing my thing and waiting for the chicken to finish cooking and the rice to do its thing, and I start coughing a bunch. My throat was really itchy and I started feeling all effed up. And I start to wonder if I am having an allergic reaction to something. Pleeeeease let it be the onions so I can have a doctor’s note to never have to cut onions again. My sister, Catie, was taking a nap in the basement, and I called down to her and told her I thought I was having a reaction. She is crazy protective of my bump and ran upstairs to my rescue and immediately started coughing on the choke-ass air. Shit, it wasn’t the onions.
We open some windows and I start to go outside, when Adam walks in. And he immediately starts coughing on the choke-ass air, too, and wants to know what the hell is going on. I COOKED YOU DINNER! THAT IS WHAT IS GOING ON. He said it felt like lucite. I don’t remember what that is, but Adam works for the guhv’ment and deals with chemicals and crap. One time, he accidentally got tear gassed, and he said it felt just like how the inside of our house now felt. And then I cried because I wanted to make a nice dinner and instead I Occupy Wall Street-ed my family.
Basically, I made fancy air that was infused with jalapeño, chili powder, and essence of ohshit. It took a while to air out the house. But apparently, the fajitas were still awesome and I ended the day still being an awesome wife. I ate an ice cream sammich to make my soul feel better, and I am at least glad that I tried this recipe before I had an infant in the house. Now, I can just store this in my box of Things to Make When Revenge is Necessary. Should my son choose to make me live in his house and do his laundry when I am 90, I’m taking Adam’s guhv’ment issued gas mask and protecting myself while reeking havoc on my good-for-nothing son’s respiratory system.