This is not about now.

It's about yesterday night; suffice to say that yesterday night I was majorly pissed, and not in the happy drunk sense of the word.

Actually it was a lot like the kind of pissed that women get once a month (fucking PMS, I think I'll devote a whole post to that next time it happens), except it wasn't that time of the month, and it really was the-drop-that-makes-the-vase-overflow kind of total freak out.

Ever notice how many of the (slightly) good posts around here are about food? Well, it's going to be one of those again.

Did I mention that I am busy lately? As in, extremely busy. As in, what my brother does times 1000. So then, why exactly is it that I always get asked to do things? My brother, all jokes about his stupidity and clumsiness aside, is not a dunce. He knows how to use a computer, use a CD burner, and if it's one of his good days he'll even remember the water has to be boiling before you drop the rice in.

So why am I the one who gets to babysit/cook/play Technical Support all around?

But I'll do it. I'll cook the fucking pasta, cut the fucking ham, get out the fucking parmesan, I'll dress the fucking table, and I'll still get sniffed at by their Brotherly Majesties of Couch Potato Country for whom ketchup is the highest good. No, there's no ketchup and yes you'll just have to eat it dry with ham & cheese. May I remind you that it's not half as bad as the last time you tried  to make dinner? Ya ain't happy, ya can do it yourself, punks.

It's not like I could have been angry nicely, like mum & dad with their business partners, who send each other 3 page emails which basically mean "Take my proposition, frankly I don't give a damn you don't like it" and "Fuck you, my dear".


I got upset. I snapped at them and got in a murderous mood. Once they'd left the table, I did the only thing I can do when emotionally distraught, because I do not have a friend to phone and whine to. Call it what you want, feeding of the hungry heart, whatever, it just means I stuffed my face. I just plunged my hand in the pasta pot and stuffed a fistful of pasta down my throat.


I half hoped I'd choke on it.

Sad thing too, because it was really good pasta, al dente & everything. I had timed the five minutes like it was my reason for living (and as dinner depended on it, it probably was), but I hadn't thrown it against the tiled wall to do the 'al dente' test. Looking back, that might have lifted up my mood, causing everyone to have a much nicer evening, but hey, it was bound  to come out at some point.

And so this story ends, with the scene of me alone at dinner table being kept company by dirty dishes and a pile of postal junk, morosely shoving pasta down my throat as if it could solve everything.

*Sigh*

Dare not say I'm not pathetic now.

On boosts, blasts, boogie & bogus (or as it's more commenly called: driving)

So, let's start this by a simple pros & cons list of today.

On the good side of the news: I was forced to drive on the highway this afternoon, and I didn't kill anybody or freak out (too much). Highway's actually easy.

On the bad side, I still can't drive. In fact, I so can't drive that I jammed the engine right after getting off the highway. Because I had to stop and couldn't start properly again. Also, I jammed the engine repeatedly on my way to the highway, the most memorable time right before getting on the Opvelp crossroad. I mean right before. I must have spent at least 10 minutes, if not a quarter of an hour turning on the engine, trying to start, jamming the engine, and starting again. About 5 minutes into this process, of course somebody came up behind me and stood there waiting, which of course had me überstressed. And he just stood there, waiting, while I was just jamming and re-jamming the engine under the Sunday afternoon sun. And he waited, and I got frustrated, and my dad watched incredulously, wondering how it was possible to jam an engine that many times. In the end daddy got out of the car and went to stand in the middle of the crossroad, looking at me with an 'air' of defiance, like 'drive-over-if-you-dare' style.

And then, of course, I started and got over the crossroad, to the top of the hill, without jamming. Tears of fucking frustration, people. Dad walks overs, hands in his pockets, cocky smirk plastered all over his face. I get out of the car. He shouts: "Oh no you don't!" and then "Tu vois quand tu veux!" La ferme, merde.

"Grmbl mumble stumble..."

"What?"

"I said 'I don't want to go on the highway'."

"Why?"

Well, for obvious reasons, whaddaya think?

"Highway's easy! Straight line! You do just the same, only thing is it goes quicker."

Oh, right, because that's really reassuring, Papa.

Damn guy thinks he's always right. Even shittier: most of the time, he is.

So this time again, yes. 

Also, we didn't go out driving just to drive. We had to pick up my brother who was waiting on a carpool parking. And he waited. With a friend. And he saw me jam the engine, what, 10 times, like 300 m away from the damn parking? Nicely humiliating, just what one needs on a Sunday afternoon.

Dad drove us home, making a point of explaining virtually everything that's going on inside the car every time you touch a lever, push a pedal, punch a button or turn the wheel. Once we were home he threw my brother out (well, kinda) and took me out into Bierbeek's fields, randomly shouting 'Stop! Gently.' to have me do emergency stops & starts without jamming the engine. Operation's success: about 50%.

Next step, parking.

Yeah, well let's talk about that later, okay? 

As dad says "You're not actually supposed to leave half of the car on the road when you do that. And watch out for my scooter."

Starving my brothers

I have just decided my brothers won't get to eat tonight. If they're hungry, they'll cook themselves. I am not, and I am not their housekeeper. If my brother is hungry, he'll stop being busy soon enough. I am busy too. I'm watching great TV on my laptop, contemplating maybe studying a bit of Latin or looking for some Dutch subtitles.

I am not hungry. I am not their babysitter and I'm most definitely not their mother. Lazy pigs.


Oh, who am I kidding? Of course I'm hungry. As if I'm ever not hungry. But since I am supposed to lose weight and I refuse to be a housekeeper, I might just as well make a statement out of this. I'm not eating, you're not eating. Or you'll be eating very bad, because I know for a fact none of you can cook. My TLB is the only person ever who managed to screw up scrambled eggs. Scrambled eggs, people!

Imagine what he's going to do with the pasta. It'll probably end up looking like mashed potatoes and tasting like water. I seriously pity that spaghetti.