Today I’m a baking machine.
A blog I have recently started following posts beautiful things that are often, cruelly, within my baking skill range. I have been wanting donuts for the last few weeks but so far the husband and I have resisted walking up to the Dunkin’ Donuts that is at our new corner. Unfortunately, today I found a recipe for donuts on this new blog, and not only were they donuts, they were baked, which meant they were possible in my kitchen, and that I can have two when they are done cooling.
Me: I made donuts!!
The husband: Oh good! I am psyched.
Me: They are silly looking but tasty. I mean, I think they’ll be tasty.
The husband: Are they cream-filled glazed?
Me: What kind of skills do you think I have? I baked them in muffin pans and popped out the middles with an apple corer.
To protect my self-esteem, I will only link to a picture of the donuts from Mama’s Gotta Bake but if you love me, you won’t click it, you’ll just admire my sad little Quasimodo duffins and wish you were here to eat them with me, even if the frosting that I intended to be a lovely spring green did turn the color of Grinch.
Currently in the oven, awaiting its blog debut, is a chocolate pound cake that will eventually have a glaze when I get to the store for the required chocolate and cream for said glaze. Yes, it’s from Mama’s Gotta Bake and no, it won’t look like hers. I’m ok with that, since if it’s any good, there’s a chance no one, not even the husband will see it.
It seemed like a shame to warm up the oven for just one recipe so I chose to make two. Also, I couldn’t pick between chocolate pound cake and donuts.
Yesterday I was an interviewing machine.
I’m still waiting to hear from the good congressman’s office after interviewing twice with them last week, but yesterday the chief of staff did email me to send names and contact information for references. Unlike every other job I’ve ever applied for, I’m pretty sure he’ll actually contact these references. I don’t know what it says about employers in general but of all the times I’ve given references or been listed as a reference, I have only heard of references being called twice:
Once was when a man in a trench coat, with a badge and business card from the FBI, came to my work to grill me about a brother-in-law’s background and character qualifications for a security clearance.
The other time was when the little sister got a job at Victoria’s Secret right out of high school.
Yesterday I also went in for training at a crisis pregnancy center I’m interested in volunteering with. Depending on how the job situation works out, I’ll have a lot of time on my hands or not much time on my hands to help, but their needs are flexible and I’m excited to volunteer there in some capacity.
After the pregnancy center, I went right to an interview with one of the dog walking companies that called me back. The interview, to which I boldly wore a black t-shirt and gray cotton pants, was a series of scenarios to which I was asked to apply my problem-solving skills.
Me: The interview was a dozen problem-solving questions, like what would you do if you got to a house to let the dog out and the key doesn’t work?
The husband: And you told them, “I’d leave and never come back”?
Me: I said something about making sure I have the right key, checking under the mat for a different key, calling the office, etc.
The husband: Oh. That’s a better response.
Me: They were the sort of questions that I had to answer when I interviewed to work at Subway in high school.
The husband: Was the person interviewing you younger than you are?
Me: No, thank goodness.
The husband:Well that’s a start.
Me: Yeah. They wanted to know what I would do if I was about to walk a dog and a guy showed up on the front porch, saying he had an appointment to fix the refrigerator.
The husband: And you told them, “I’d take the upstairs and he’d take the downstairs and we’d clean the place out”?
Me: No, I told them I got a bachelor’s degree so I don’t have to think about shit like that.
The husband: Really?!
Me: No, but I kind of wanted to. Sigh.
The husband: At least it’s not Subway.
This afternoon I am going to be a painting machine. If I make it to the hardware store I can spruce up our bedside tables with a crisp white. I am nearly done with the yellow on the little oyster’s giraffe clothing rack, and when the green underneath it is sufficiently covered, I can do the brown dots. Pictures tomorrow when, who knows? Maybe I’ll be a cleaning machine. Or an employed one?