The Epic Failure

So today was a Monday, in every sense of the word.

I may or may not have taken my recreational drug of choice last night, which is commonly called Tylenol PM on the streets.  Every now and then a mama just NEEDS ONE, especially if she is married to a good man who suffers from enormous sinus congestion and sounds like a jet engine at close range while he sleeps.

(Dear Sinus Infection, Enough already!  You’re exhausting me, and I’m not the one who has you.)

Sometimes when you mix a Tylenol PM with sleep deprivation, you get a grown girl who sleeps through the morning, which HAS NEVER HAPPENED TO ME BEFORE.  I woke up, and the boy had already showered.  As in, the boy’s alarm (which is next to my bedroom door) went off.  And the boy got up, and showered, and walked around the house, and his mama was passed out cold.  Thankfully, the boys’ daddy has his act together, and he got up with the children.  I came stumbling out of bed, with my hair disheveled and pointing in eighty-four different directions, and a case of the morning breath which could have killed a horse.

(Thankfully, I had no beauty pageants to compete in today, so FANTASTIC.)

I did manage to shove some odds and ends out of our refrigerator into the boy’s lunchbox, because heaven forbid that he should be stuck eating a hot lunch, when everyone knows that the cooks are out to poison the 6th graders with tainted food.  They all swear by this statement, and only the 6th graders with mothers who are sleeping off a Benadryl hangover on the sofa and couldn’t get up eat hot lunches.

And then, with the boy sent off to school, and Hubs sent off to work, I opened the refrigerator to discover HOW HILARIOUS!  We had no milk.  We had no Coffee Mate.  We had no half-and-half.  And that sorry state of affairs made me want to take a second  Tylenol PM in THE DAYLIGHT HOURS and just call it a good effort and getting through Monday morning, but I’m done with it all now.

And then I put Thing 2 down for his morning nap at 8:30.

And he woke up at 8:55.

And really?  I might as well have just poked a bear with a big, fat stick, because someone was quite unhappy that the nap was over in twenty-five minutes.  Thing 2 was upset about this, too.  I think we both cried a little.

And then I did a load of laundry.  Sometimes, when a girl is distracted by forty-two other thoughts dancing around in her brain like a kangaroo on a pogo stick, she forgets and puts Tide into the washing machine TWICE.

Suds would be an understatement, but I give thanks that they stayed inside of the Whirlpool and didn’t come out onto the floor.  I had to rinse and spin, and rinse and spin, and then YES!  We’re bubble-free around here.

At least I had something spectacular planned for dinner, because I am now a dues-paying, full-fledged member of the Pinterest family, and I had found a recipe for Italian shrimp that promised to win blue ribbons in state fairs.

Just look at that pan, as depicted in the Pinterest photo.  (Which means I can take absolutely no credit for the photo, because HELLO!  I didn’t snap the photo!)

Oh, I had enormous plans for dinner, and Hubs and the boy were going to rise up and call me blessed.

So I followed the recipe, exactly as it said to do, because if there is one thing I am fantastically good at, it’s reading.  I taught myself to read at the age of three, and I never looked back.  I’m a reading junkie.  Reading a recipe presents no threat to me.

Following the recipe wasn’t even a threat, because listen!  The steps were easy.  As in, easy enough that your 4th grade niece could pull it all off.

And then I slammed that 9″ x 13″ baking dish into the oven for the required time, but WHAT DO YOU THINK, NANCY?  Well, I think the shrimp isn’t done, because it was rare enough to still be swimming on its own.  Back into the oven it went.

When I pulled the pan out a second time… just a few minutes later… this is what I had:

(And I did take this snapshot, because YES.  That’s my well-loved baking dish from the Pampered Chef.  It’s older than the boy and has seen some casseroles over the years.)

My first reaction was SOMEONE STOLE MY SHRIMP!!  I was stunned.  How did my shrimp disappear?  There were two entire bags of big shrimp in that baking dish, and when I pulled it all out, there were lemons.

It took me a couple of seconds to regain my senses and start sifting through the slop.

The shrimp had apparently cooked down to dots that were smaller than pencil erasers.  Those shrimps were SHRIMPS.  Literally.  They were shrimpy enough that ladybugs could have eaten them without choking.  I found all kinds of microscopic shrimp dots in my pan.

I think we’re going to chalk this one up as an epic failure.

(Dear Pinterest, You did me wrong.  You didn’t strengthen my cooking confidence at all.  I may unfriend you altogether.)

Here’s looking to a drug-free night, people, and TUESDAY MORNING.  Because Monday makes me want to sing out, “Hey! Won’tcha play another somebody done somebody wrong song, and make me feel at home…”

I’m sad that I even know the words to that song.  I’m as old as eight tracks, apparently.  And I can’t cook shrimp.  And I can’t measure laundry detergent.

Tuesday is looking more promising all the time.

Y’all have a fantastic evening.  And if you gulp down the  Tylenol PM tonight, fingers crossed that you actually wake up before your children get themselves ready for school in the morning.

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