Friday, May 29, 2009

Death by Cupcake

Cupcakes will be my downfall.

A girl I work with asked me today if I'd ride with her to the Cupcake Shoppe in Raleigh so she could buy some cupcakes for her mom who just got out of surgery. I was desperately thinking of an excuse to get out of it - because I knew the moment I walked through those doors I would end up getting a cupcake.

And I reallllllly don't need to eat a cupcake.

But who was I to deprive this work pal of my charming company on her voyage downtown? So I agreed. The whole way there I told myself I would just buy a cupcake for Chad. Because I'm nice like that.

I walk in the doors, and was like - well maybeeee I'll buy one cupcake, eat half and bring the REST for Chad.

But then I see the choices, smell the smells, look at their pretty little piles of icing.

I was a goner. Done for. Put a fork in me. Hasta luego (I don't even know what that means.)

Smiling Cupcake Shoppe employee: "What can I get for you?"

Me: "Just a lemon zinger (Chad's choice - -I Blackberry messaged him on the golf course to get his order... again, I'm so nice)....anddddd a chocolate cupcake with peanut butter frosting."

DANGIT! I didn't even mean to order it. It just spewed from my mouth. And I don't particularly LIKE chocolate cake... just proof the Devil got a hold of me.

And I ate every last bite of it. Chad will be lucky if his lemon zinger makes it home...

PS: I think every blog should have a picture of cupcakes on it. Cupcakes make the world smile.

An update on my... domesticity?

Is domesticity a word? My little red squiggly line isn't showing up to show it is a misspelling so I'm keeping it.

So anyways, for those of you who know my mom - the woman is a domestic diva... especially in the
kitchen. She is an absolutely amazing cook. I also love cooking...more so than baking - though my lonely looking Kitchen Aid beckons me to bake something soon. I strive to become a really good cook - branching out and making different things, learning new techniques, etc.

I had major anxiety throughout my
college, post-college life worrying that I would never be close to as good of a cook as my mom. Talk about pressure.

Well a good, wise, knowing husband probably would have kept this little tidbit to themselves, but mine is not one
that holds back. So this is a conversation that we had shortly after we got married:

Chad: "A guy at work today asked me if you were a good cook."


Me: "Well, what did you tell him?"

Chad: "I told him your mom is a GREAT cook. And you're learning."

Wrong answer buddy. But it was probably for the best. I took it as a challenge to prove my own culinary prowess.
Fast forward to last night:

Me: "Do you think I'm a good cook?"

Chad: "Yes."

Me: "Better than when we first got married?"


Chad: "You were on a linear path and now you're growing exponentially."

Then he said something about my cooking being to the tenth degree and I stopped listening because I don't like math - and math analogies make no sense to me. I do that a lot with Chad - he starts to answer things on my level and then starts adding in all this crazy talk I don't understand so I drown him out by singing little songs in my head. But sometimes I'm nice and tell him, "You can stop talking now. I have no clue what you're saying anymore."

So back to my domesticity: either I really am getting good, or Chad has learned the art of pacification lies. And yes, I just made that phrase up.

Honey, can I help?

On most days, there is nothing I'd like more than to hear Chad say, "Honey, can I help with dinner?" However, the other night I had about 9 minutes left on the elliptical and about 10 minutes of crunches. I knew dinner wasn't going to take long to fix, so I just said, "No honey, it's fine. I'll start on it when I'm done." And yes we do always call each other honey. I blame our parents- they do it too.

Anyway, for some unknown reason - Chad was really jazzed to begin dinner. Sheesh - it was only like 5:45. Perhaps it's because he knew I was making Pioneer Woman's 'Marlboro Man's Favorite Sandwich.' He was pumped to be getting a "man dinner" because I usually stay far away from meat. I can't help it. Pasta + veggies are all I need in my life. Unfortunately, Chad was raised with a good Southern mama - and his dinners usually included a meat, a starch and two types of veggies. It makes it fun when I go to the in-laws for dinner because I get to fill up on the side dishes (the woman makes a mean butterbean). Once she learned that I'm not the biggest meat eater, she began making dinners of salad and baked
potatoes - just for me. Chad is bitter and insists she NEVER used to do that, but she likes to make me happy. I really do adore my mother-in-law... love her like my own Mama.

Okay focus Caroline - meat. Yes, the man likes his meat. We have a guy in our Bible study group that has a coworker nicknamed "Bacon." Chad LOVES that. He asked me to give him a pork nickname. So sometimes when I'm extra-loving, I'll call him "Porkchop." He likes that.


So back to meat sandwich. Chad was determined to start dinner. I give him a simple task - I ask him to slice the onion into strips. He asked how to do that - so while on the elliptical I'm trying to demons
trate that you cut off both ends, cut it down the middle, put the flat side down, and just slice it through. Harder to type - but I promise I was doing the hand gestures and everything. So Chad goes into the kitchen to Iron Chef those onions.

He finished slicing his onions, and goes to get the Pioneer Woman website up on the computer so I could follow the directions for the rest of the recipe. He screams from the kitchen, "Oh no! I did the o
nions wrong." I can't help it - I am laughing while I'm typing this. He walks over to my mat and holds up an onion slice that looks like one of those petals from an Outback Bloomin' Onion. I don't even know how he did it! I don't think I could carve onion petals if I tried! It was like masterfully cut - just not the way I told him to do it. Bless his heart. He does try so hard.

So I gave up on my crunches. He was obviously desperate for a sandwich and tears of frustration (or probably onion cutting) were in his eyes.


Regardless, an onion slice is an onion slice - it didn't make a lick of difference. I sliced the onion petal-like slices length wise to make them a bit thinner. We proceeded to finish the recipe - minus him fussing at me for trying to cut the amount of butter in the recipe. I succeed, by the way.


The sandwich turned out great - not exactly my cup of tea but Chad was in heaven. He brought leftovers to work and showed some of his coworkers the Pioneer Woman website so they could make their own!


A day in the life, I'll tell ya...


A haiku moral of the story:

If man wants to help

Onions will be cut his way

That's okay with me

Thursday, May 28, 2009

Poor Greg

There's a guy that works down the hall from me in my building -his name is Greg. Greg looks like a Tim, so I always have to think hard before greeting him in the mornings. Example: I see Greg/Tim walking down the hall. The conversation in my head goes something like this "Is his name Greg? Or Tim? Greg? Oh yeah. It's Greg. Greg. Greg. Greg".... he approaches: I say "Heyyyyyy, good morning..." I never even end up saying his name. I have too much anxiety about calling him the wrong name.

Anyways - Greg. Yes, it's definitely Greg. I just double-checked his sign on the door before writing this post. So Greg had a good-sized office right down the hall from me. Floor-length windows. Similar to my own digs. Well the other day they started doing some work in our teeny mailroom. I asked what they were doing. They said that they were moving Tim into it. Oops - Greg. Moving Greg in. Into this teeny tiny office - that if he stood up could touch it wall-to-wall with arms extended. It's like a closet almost - with a glass door.

I feel so bad when I pass him in his new office closet. I wonder what must have happened to cause him to get a downgraded office. I better watch myself.

Poor Greg. First he was born with the wrong name. Then someone moved his office into a mailroom. I'll count my blessings.

Flavored Yogurt

I was not lying to you people when I said that I think of really, really random stuff. I think this is why I have problems falling asleep at night. Two nights ago I think I kept myself up for about 2 extra hours (putting my bedtime at like 10:30 pm, right Han?) - thinking about what I would name my child if it were a boy. Note: I am NOT pregnant. Don't get excited Mom. But names were racing through my head all night. Drives me crazy. I can't shut it off either. But after 2 hours of mind racing, I usually try and thrash around the bed loudly in hopes Chad will wake up so I can talk to him. He doesn't. I think he's onto my game.

But that's neither here nor there.

Here is yogurt. Saturday afternoon I was at the g-store (my hip term for grocery store since gro-cer-ey is entirely too long to say. Three syllables - outta my life). Yoplait has about a gazillion different flavors. Since it was 1) around lunchtime, 2) I had just worked out and 3) not had anything to eat all day - the choices were lookin' pretty appealing. I believe my selections included: cinnamon roll, strawberry shortcake, and another dessert-ish flavor like creme brulee (just kidding, that is not an option so don't get excited).

Fast-forward to Tuesday morning. Grab my yogurt selection for the day - cinnamon roll. The pretty pictur
e of a cinnamon roll with icing on the package has me thinking - this is going to be great! I have my first bite - and I'll be honest, I was pleased. It did taste like a cinnamon roll. But then I starting thinking - WHY in the WORLD to I want to be eating cinnamon roll-flavored yogurt? It's like a liquid cinnamon roll. And HOW do they get yogurt to even taste like a cinnamon roll. It's not like a fruit-flavored yogurt where there are actual pieces of the fruit in there. It was entirely too much for me to process for a Tuesday morning after a holiday weekend.

A haiku moral of the story:
Oh cinnamon roll
You don't belong in yogurt

Stick with strawberry


Third Time's the Charm


Third time’s the charm. That’s what they say right? I’ll look at it that way – and not that I’ve failed/given up twice already.

I’m trying to say I’ve started my third – yes that is correct, my friends – my third blog. I’ve started two before but never invited anyone to view the posts. I wanted to make sure I got the hang of it first. I’m so insecure about things – when I do it, I want to do it right. I want to be good at it.

It’s like when I finally joined Twitter (follow me @cmbarnhill) – I asked my best friend Kelly almost every day for the first week if my tweets were okay. Too much work stuff? Too personal? Boring? My need to be validated is pathetic. My poor husband. Maybe I’ll ask him when I get home why he married me. Shoot – more validation.

So anyways – here goes nothing. My third, beautiful, creative, insightful blog. You’re just desperate to read more, right? I know it. You’ll be checking this blog more times a day than PerezHilton.com.

This blog will be my little hodgepodge of musings. I might discuss something crazy in the world of public relations (as I work in a very cool industry). Maybe I’ll give you a little glimpse into the life of me and my smokin’ hot husband. He really is. Maybe I’ll ask him when I get home if he thinks I’m smokin’ hot too.

But I think most of the time, I’ll just be giving you teeny tiny glimpses into my mingle-mangled mind. I’ve got a lot going on up there. It would be cruel for me to withhold them from you.

Right?

So thanks for reading. Cheers to three!