The story of one girl's epic battle with oatmeal

A slightly more serious line of thought. So I’m a little late to the party but I’ve officially decided what I’m giving up for lent. YES I know its Easter. (I proclaimed that, “He has risen indeed” at least three times today.) We all know that the Lord works in mysterious ways and perhaps my brain is the most mysterious of them all. So here is the deal.

I hate my current job (with a capital H). Sad story, but true nevertheless. One of the things I hate the most, besides the awful chaos and mismanagement of every possible product we have, is making the oatmeal in the morning. Since I’m ALWAYS the first one there I have to start the oatmeal so it will be done. We make those long cooking oats, you know the ones that taste really bland until you add about half a cup of brown sugar, nuts and raisins (all served right beside it). Anyway, so I have to put in the oatmeal, add water, and put it in an industrial Crockpot (ON HIGH) so that it can cook the full hour while I prepare other things.

It took me about 2 months and Andy (my morning coworker) not getting out of bed one morning, for me to even attempt the oatmeal. It makes me nervous. People are very serious about their oatmeal. On a scale of 1 to 10 it rates right up there with World Peace and the brand of toilet paper you should use in some people’s lives (I know I don’t get it either. Why not buy the packets with the delicious, and cute, strawberries and cream swirls that you can nuke for a minute throw in a tablespoon of butter and call it a day). So the first time I did it I followed the directions exactly which yielded about ¼ of the amount I needed. Not good. So from there on out it was left to eyeballing it.

Well as ridiculous as it sounds, nearly a month later, I still base my morning success on how well the oatmeal was received. (Who knew I would at 26 base my value on my oatmeal making skills). Here are a few tips I’ve learned along the way (in case you ever find yourself in my predicament:

1. An open lid every 5 minutes does not allow for heat to maintain in the cooker so I have to just throw it in and give it a whirl for the first forty minutes.
2. If you open the lid at 5:45 and it looks a little thick all is not lost, just add some hot water and stir it in.
3. When you don’t turn the heat up all the way it takes longer to cook.
4. People always prefer the thing that requires the process. I don’t know why but time has value (even for oatmeal).
5. Go with your gut and commit! 9 times out of 10 if I just stick with what I dumped in first, then I’m good to go.
6. Some people like it soupy, some people like it thick. Neither way will please everyone so just do what you think is best and take the compliments with the criticisms.

While this list is not comprehensive of the things I’ve learned while making oatmeal, it certainly is representative of a multitude of my life areas. I’m always so nervous to do things in my life. I drag my feet allowing others to do it until the proverbial coworker doesn’t get out of bed and then I’m forced into a corner (does that even makes sense?). But as it turns out EVERYTHING is a process and not an event and that is what makes it good. I’ve got to just throw in all my cards, go with my gut, turn the heat up full blaze and let it cook with the faith that I’ve done it right (or that I can add some hot water too it in the five minutes before people start rolling in). In the end, it may not please everyone but not everyone has to eat oatmeal, and the truth is that some people like the end product quite a lot.

With my job search, enrolling back in school, facing death with friends, and being hurt by people I love (and probably hurting them in return) I feel like I’ve been doing a lot of simmering in the industrial crock pot of life. It’s been tumultuous (still is). I’m not really sure how it’s going to end up but it will either be thick or soupy and somebody is going to eat it or they won’t and tomorrow I’ll start the whole process over again and see if I can do better. God is good that way. That’s what I’m taking away from this. But because I don’t want to forget this lesson I’m going to start my lent tomorrow. I think I’ll start with doing away with the most simple way I cheat myself of the process and stop eating out (although I’ll still allow myself one Sabbath because I love my friends and don’t want to have to say no all the time).

So for the next forty days I’m going to stop eating out and hopefully spend time (when cooking) reflecting about what God’s got cooking in my pot. Maybe this will be helpful, maybe not (at the very least it should lend to my budget!). Who knows what God has in store? Regardless, I’m going to go with my gut, toss in what I think, close the lid and leave it closed. Hopefully when I reopen this lid on June 5th I’ll have something that is worth sharing!

The secret life of a caterer

So the other day at work my boss told me he had to go to the doctor because (and yes this is a direct quote) “I need to get a scope up my butt”. Let me give you a little back story on my boss. He is very nice. People (especially our guests) LOVE Craig. He is also very flamboyant and gay. I’m not talking Jack from Dawson’s Creek kind of gay, more like Will from Will and Grace kind of gay.

So anyway, he tells me he needs to have this colonoscopy. Wowza. If there is one thing that way jumps over the boss/employee boundary it is to know anything about my very gay boss’s anal region. A N Y T H I N G. I just told him to do what he needed to do and I hope it all turned out ok. He says to me, but you don’t understand Megan I’m bleeding down there. OK. Enough. NO MORE. Just take care of it Craig.

So, the next week he comes into work and tells me he has to have surgery because when they “put the scope up my butthole they found hemorrhoids…really big hemorrhoids”. Once again I feel like this is a huge jump over the Boss/employee line. However, I just simply tell Craig I’m glad it isn’t worse. To this he responds, oh well it gets worse. (Of course it does). I also have Vagina warts. (Ok. Lets be real. Vagina warts? Seriously. You don’t HAVE a vagina. And again way more information then I need. Vagina warts….) I was able to mostly keep it together and express my sympathies while quickly extracting myself from the fount of information that was my boss.

All this has lead me to the conclusion that people talk if you listen. Heck, people talk if you don’t listen. Here is to hoping I never again have to have a conversation with a boss that includes the words butthole or vagina warts.

Contemplations on being submissive (and I don't mean in the wifely way)

So the other day (this marks the first in my serious of "so the other day" blogs) I went to Funky Town with a friend of mine. Lillie is a little more mature in years (fine wine and all that) and so we got there a little early. (Actually I think we got there at like 8 o'clock which I think is really early. But we sat in my car talking while L passed more gas then I will use in a vehicle in a lifetime and chatted. Eventually the workers of Funky Town waved us in...yes I said they waved us in, hilarious). When we finally went in the place was empty and so we sat as close as we could to the dance floor but were still back a couple tables because the ones in front of us were reserved.

Eventually there three people sat down at the first of the reserved tables (a couple whose names I never did learn and a lady named Susan). Anyway after a small passing of time they told us we were welcome to move up a table because they weren't going to need the second table they had reserved. Sweet! It is always a goal when one visits Funky Town to be as close to the action as possible. So we moved up and exchanged some pleasantries. I found out that Susan was 43 and I complimented her on not at all looking her age. She assured me it was due to her fake breasts (second set, but hey who is counting). I agreed that they must clearly be the cause and wandered back to my new, shiny and much closer table.

Most of the night passed fairly uneventful (with the exception of the nerdy boys bachelor party that stole my heart...the villains!). At some point another man had joined Susan's party and the couple seemed to have left. Toward the end of the evening the new guy in the party approached me and commented on how I must feel young at Funky Town because he felt young at age 45. I politely informed him that Funky Town is solely a "dance your pants off" kind of establishment and that age matters little when I'm sweating like a man from dancing to 60's, 70's and 80's music all night long.

Susan (young boobs) came over and looked at her friend and said (referring to me), "Isn't she adorable". Her friend agreed and then she went on to inform me that he was her sex slave and that she was a Dominatrix. Ok. From then I think it best I relay the rest in conversation form:

Me: "Well Congratulations on having your own sex slave"
Susan: "You know I'm always looking for good female slaves if you’re interested."
Me: "Well as it turns out I'm not very submissive"
Susan: "Those are the best kind!" (While giving me her phone number and name)
Me: "Thanks for the offer and if I change my mind you will be the first to know"

And then we left. I guess I can cross "Get asked by a woman to be her sex slave" off my bucket list. Big accomplishment.

So I guess the moral of this story is that my milk shake brings all the S and M bisexual Dominatrix ladies to the yard.