On Being a Hot Mess
On being hot:
I knew.
I KNEW that moving to the desert would be hot. Duh.
I KNEW that it would be sweltering from May through October.
I KNEW that summers would be sinfully scorching.
But little could actually prepare me for living in a constant state of slippery stickiness all. day. long.
Too often do I debate about whether or not I should take off my pants before driving home.
On being a mess:
My job requires me to get messy, Ms. Frizzle style. So far, many a day has been spent literally up to my elbows in sweetened condensed milk or red velvet brownie batter. Sometimes, it isn't until hours after I get home that I find buttercream crusted on one forearm and blueberry muffin batter in my hair. Sometimes I sneeze cinnamon. Or just coming home smelling of cocoa, with powdered sugar under my fingernails and *maybe* there's melted chocolate smeared across my bum, which no one but the skeevy old guy pointed out.
Now put the two together and that's my life, currently.
I knew.
I KNEW that moving to the desert would be hot. Duh.
I KNEW that it would be sweltering from May through October.
I KNEW that summers would be sinfully scorching.
But little could actually prepare me for living in a constant state of slippery stickiness all. day. long.
Too often do I debate about whether or not I should take off my pants before driving home.
On being a mess:
My job requires me to get messy, Ms. Frizzle style. So far, many a day has been spent literally up to my elbows in sweetened condensed milk or red velvet brownie batter. Sometimes, it isn't until hours after I get home that I find buttercream crusted on one forearm and blueberry muffin batter in my hair. Sometimes I sneeze cinnamon. Or just coming home smelling of cocoa, with powdered sugar under my fingernails and *maybe* there's melted chocolate smeared across my bum, which no one but the skeevy old guy pointed out.
Now put the two together and that's my life, currently.
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