Daily Diatribes

I see my numbers are dwindling here, so I guess I better post. Things have not let up around here; in fact, I have been busier than ever. I had an interview on Thursday to be admitted to the graduate program at UAB. I haven’t heard anything yet. I think I really wowed them however, especially when I scratched my leg during the interview and came up with a handful of blood because I scratched off a scab. That’s me, always the consummate professional.

And let’s not talk about my chin. In spite of my murderous schedule, I cooked for my family twice in the past week. That’s two times more than I’ve cooked in the past month. One night I made Italian sausage and one night I made black beans and rice. I dearly love beans and rice. I could totally be a Mexican and not just because of my skin color or my passion for tequila. I love all aspects of Mexican cuisine!! Black beans and rice is Cuban, so that’s close enough for me. I’ve had a mix in my pantry for months and Wednesday night was the perfect night to make it. I even had a package of smoked sausage in the refrigerator. Easy dinner!!!

I started the beans and rice and then sliced up the sausage and threw it in a frying pan. The sausage looked a bit funny to me, but it’s sausage, right? Considering what it’s made of (lips and assholes, to quote John Candy) it’s no wonder it looks funny. Still, it seemed a bit off. Pretty soon, the kitchen filled with cooking smells, and there was a hint of something different. Not necessarily unpleasant, just different. And I was convinced it was the sausage. It was sizzling in the pan and I leaned closer and sniffed, but it smelled ok. I puttered around in the kitchen a bit more, my mind still on the sausage.

It’s smoked, I thought, so it can’t go bad. And it was vacuum sealed for freshness. Still, it had been in the refrigerator for awhile. And just what WAS that smell? Was it sausage gone bad? Or was it the seasoning in the beans and rice? I kept going back over and sniffing, but I couldn’t identify the source. Finally, a little light bulb pinged over my head. I needed to PICK UP the frying pan with the sausage and smell it. That way, I could get it really close to my nose and really get a sense of what the problem was.

The problem wasn’t with the sausage. It was with my brain. Why does my brain send me stupid signals like “pick up the frying pan and sniff it” when my brain knows full well just how incompetent I am?? The fact that I was having an argument with myself regarding the fitness of the sausage should be indication enough that I am not quite right in the head. Why does my brain egg me on??

I picked up the pan and brought it towards my face while simultaneously lowering my head for the BIG SNIFF. Naturally one of my multiple chins rammed into the side of the frying pan and the strange smell was immediately replaced with the smell of my searing flesh. I dropped the pan back onto the stove and howled. At least it hurt, so I knew it was only a minor burn. Small consolation for the woman who just burned her chin on a frying pan. What a dumbass.

At first, I didn’t think it was going to be too bad. It was right across the bottom of my chin, so I thought the natural fat roll there might mask it. Unfortunately, when it scabbed over the next day, it was (and still is) clearly visible across my chin. Causing everyone who meets me to ask “what happened to your chin?” I have concocted the following story to explain it: I was out shopping when I witnessed a commotion. A very large man threw an old lady to the ground, snatched her purse and ran away. Without a thought for my own safety, I sprinted after him. I closed the gap between us and flew at him, tackling him and bringing him to the ground. In the process, I slammed my chin into the pavement. However, I was able to hold him until the police came and the old lady was reunited with her purse, which contained her social security check and her General Motors stock certificates. I have been labeled a hero and will receive a commendation next month.

Doesn’t that sound MUCH better than burning my chin on a frying pan? So if you meet me on the street, please don’t ask about the chin. I’m trying to maintain a modest and humble demeanor about my heroics.