Category Archives: My Life

No Drama for this Mamma Please!

Standard

Isn’t it amazing that even as we get older, no matter how hard we try, we always end up in the middle of someone’s drama.  Whenever you get a group of women together, there will always be drama. I mean no matter how hard a person may try to be the nicest, most outgoing and friendly person, someone will find fault in them. Maybe they are jealous that you have more friends than them, or you are cuter than them, or maybe just because they are bored with life and need to have something to fight about.

Twice this year out of no where, I have gotten calls from people whom I thought were friends, whom I changed my mind about since. You know how the story goes. “So-in-So said that you said blah blah blah.” Even if you try to defend yourself, it does no good, because then you just look more guilty, even if you aren’t. These type of situations really piss me off.

It just happened to me today. I got a call from someone out of the blue, and it was as I said. “Someone said you said that you aren’t happy with me etc etc.” When I went to explain that, “#1 I wasn’t the one who said what she heard and that I was obviously misunderstood, but that I had heard some  other people discussing her and #2 it wasn’t me who had an issue with her yadda yadda yadda.” So then this particular person wants to know who was talking about her. At that point I cut it off. I told her to just be mad at me, because I wasn’t throwing anyone under the bus or perpetuating the situation. I mean for God’s sake, I am a 40-year-old woman, wife and mother of five children. I am not some young teenager who is going about gossiping. Quite frankly I am the type of person that if  I have something to say about you, I will say it to your face.  That is unless I like you enough to just say nothing at all and let whatever you did to piss me off slide.  In fact, I am a really nice, big-hearted woman unless I am unjustly wronged in some way, and then I can be the biggest bitch you ever saw.  It took every fiber of my being this afternoon not to tell So-in-So to go take long jump off a short pier.  But, boy was I mad.  There is nothing more frustrating to me than to have someone tell me, that someone else told them, something I supposedly said, and it wasn’t true.  I have flash backs to highschool and the cliques and gossiping that occurred there.  Grow up people.  Get a life!  Stop starting trouble for others just to make your life more entertaining.

God, I hate Cooking!

Standard
Making bread in bread machine.

Image via Wikipedia

Today was a perfect example of why I should not ever enter the kitchen with the intent to cook a meal. 

Mid-morning, I whipped out my handy-dandy bread machine recipe book and decided to try to make French bread. I gathered all the ingredients and poured them into the machine, turned it on and walked away, thinking that I had just made the easiest bread ever.  Ten minutes later, I go to look at the progress of the bread and notice that the rotating hand inside the machine which is supposed to be mixing up the dough is not moving.  I call to my husband with an SOS.  We tried everything, but couldn’t figure out what was wrong.  So, I poured the bread dough, which wasn’t actually dough yet, into another bowl and tried to get it to form into the right consistency.  It was a disaster.  I finally got mad and threw the dough back in the bowl and stomped out of the kitchen.  During my tirade, my husband had decided he would  disassemble the bread machine to see what the problem was.  After tinkering with the machine a bit he discovered a belt had come off and that was why the machine wasn’t working.  He diligently worked on getting the belt into place, which wasn’t easy as the belt was very stiff, but he finally got it back into place.  Yeah husband!  At this point my dough that wasn’t really dough yet had been sitting out for about 30 minutes, but, unwilling to throw it away, we decided to put it back in the machine and see what happened.  The machine timer started and dough was on its way to finally actually becoming dough.  Entire time for bread would be three hours.

During the afternoon, my husband and I started to prepare Kabab Hala, which is basically steak, cut into thin strips and fried in a skillet with onions, garlic, tomato sauce and lots of spices, which is served over white rice.  After my husband cut up the meat, he handed it over to me to add spices and start cooking.   I started adding the spices I like.  I noticed I was out of black pepper in the shaker, so I searched out another container in the spice cabinet.  Unfortunately, the ignorant people who designed that particular spice receptacle, made the holes way to big.  Knowing my luck with cooking, I wasn’t about to try to sprinkle any on the meat from that container, so I poured some in my hand, pinched some and sprinkled it that way.  Once that task was done I moved on to opening the tomato sauce.  I was about to pour the tomato sauce into the skillet when I had a nose itch.  Forgetting that I just had black pepper in my hand, I rubbed my hand across the top of my nose and face.  Instantly, my left eye started to burn and tear up.  I had gotten  black pepper in my eye. I yelled for my husband and he came running in to take over on the meat, so I could wash out my eye. 

While I was recovering from the incident with my eye, the timer on the french bread went off.  I opened the bread machine and dumped the bread upside down and out of the cooking pan.  Judging from the look of it, I had just managed to cook the hardest bread ever.  I mean you could have really hurt someone if you had thrown it at them.  I just stood there staring in disgust.  My husband, trying to save the situation says, let me cut it and see what it tastes like.  He saws through the loaf and takes a bite.  “Um, it’s really good, honey,'” he says with a mouth full of bread.  I can tell from his expression that he is lying.  I just squinted my eyes at him and shook my head.

“I know it sucks, but thanks for trying to make me feel better,” I said.

“You have the worst of luck when it comes to cooking,” he replied.

I am the only person I know that can follow a recipe to a “T” and still have it turn out crappy.  “God I hate cooking!”

Attack of the little lizards

Standard

Finally, it rained enough today in Las Vegas, that it cooled down substantially.  I thought I would take advantage of the cool weather and go outside and sit on one of my lounge chairs in the back yard.  I was about to sit, when I looked down and there were two lizards already enjoying my chair.  I started screaming bloody murder when one of them proceeded to jump from the chair to the ground in front of my right foot. The other one had stayed put.  My husband, thinking that I was being accosted by someone, comes flying out the back door to find me standing on one foot like a flamingo statue with a look of horror on my face. 

“What the heck is wrong with you?” he yelled out. 

“It’s a lizard!” I screeched, pointing at the lounge chair.

“A lizard?”  he asked.

The lizard on the ground darted past my foot and I again screamed.

“Stop yelling the neighbors are going to think I am over here killing you,” Yehia said.

My son, Omar, who had been inside playing joins us outside to see what the commotion is all about.  He looks down and sees the lizard on the chair.

“Cool, let me get it mommy,” he said.  Omar creeps up on the lizard that is still perched on my chair and proceeds to try to scoop it up.  The lizard takes off running and jumps off the chair to the ground.  My son does not give up easily and chases it up and over and under again until he finally has the lizard by its tail.  He is looking very proud of himself, when the lizard again tries to jump out of my son’s hand, thereby losing its tail.  It lands on my sons shirt front, where it then proceeds to run up and down and around him and up his back.  It at was at this point that my son starts to scream and twists around in circles.

“Awww.  Get it off,” Omar yelled out.

“Get that thing off him Tina,” my husband shouted standing at a distance.

“You get it Yehia.  You are the man,” I replied.

“I’m not touching that nasty thing,” he said making a face.

All the while my son is running around in circles trying to get the lizard off of him.  Finally, the hero of the hour steps up to help.  My four-year old, Farrah reaches out and knocks the lizard to the ground, and in his haste to get away, Omar accidentally steps on it.

You would think that would be the end of the poor lizards life….but it wasn’t.  Farrah picks it up and flips it over.  The lizard is still moving.  She exams him thoroughly.

“Look mommy, I see it’s penis!” Farrah announced proudly.  I nearly choked on my own tongue when she said that, but of course I had to have a look.

“That’s not its penis, Farrah,” I replied.  “It’s part of his guts.”

Upon hearing that news, Farrah wrinkles up her nose and unceremoniously chucks the lizard across the yard, tailless and squashed.