Since we're starting a brand new month today, all-clean-slate and all, I feel the need to come clean about my woeful inability to do the following:
1. Make a decent cup of coffee. Honey, I have tried. I've even followed recipes. I cannot do it. At all.
2. Set my own alarm clock. The damned thing completely confounds me. If I have to reset it, I get Marcus to do it. Or I rely on my iPhone alarm. I know how to set my iPhone.
3. Make an omelet. It always turns into scrambled eggs.
4. French braid. Alex has the perfect head of hair to do it, too.
5. Frost a cake. I can't do this and make it look like anything you'd want to eat. Give me a poured glaze any day. Or powdered sugar! I can sift powdered sugar.
6. Paint a wall. Ask Marcus. I am the Streak Master. He always has to come back after me to make it all look right.
7. Run. At all. Which is weird, because I can walk really fast -- as fast as a lot of joggers -- for an extended amount of time. But as soon as I kick it up to a slow jog, my heart beats out of control, and I can't catch my breath and it's just very, very ugly. I've always been like this, too. Personal trainers stare at me in disbelief. It's a bit shocking. (An aside: if you'd like to see my latest relationship with working out, click here.)
I have made peace with all of these things (even though I'm sure that Marcus would love if I would set my own alarm clock or made my own damned cup of coffee). On the positive side, I can cook Trini food like a champ, hem a pair of trousers, and know all the words to Copacabana. So, you know, there's at least that.
Song: Son of a preacher man, as performed by Deni Hines. You were afraid I was going to feature Barry Manilow, weren't you? Never fear, kumquats, I might make you listen to me sing him at karaoke, but I'd never do that to you here on the site.
Have a great February, everybody.