Rum Balls: The Aftermath

To follow-up on the last post RE: CCL’s rum balls, here’s what happened:

So we were all in the kitchen getting our individual desserts assembled and on the table, when the rum balls made their appearance.  CCL ended up doing something to thicken the dough enough to where the balls did hold a round shape.  She kept pushing them my direction, clearly expecting me to take one.  I, of course, did not.  Then, disaster struck—colleagues from another floor came in to get their dessert. 

This particular group is comprised of four girls I really like & have a good friendship with.  Obviously, I wanted to warn them, but CCL was standing right next to me.  As one person (we shall call her Jane) went to get one from the Tupperware tub CCL had put them in, she happened to look at me.  I gave her the “do not touch it” look and very tersely, yet in a very subtle way, shook my head so that CCL wouldn’t notice.  Jane was confused, so she grabbed one and put it on her plate.  CCL left the room & I explained that she probably doesn’t want to eat it.  She went to put it back, but then CCL came back into the room and she left it on her plate afterall.  I figured that was no big deal—she’d just end up throwing it away later & in the meantime, make CCL feel better that her food was being eaten.  (Even though CCL was telling every single person to not take them, as she wanted to take them home and eat them all later.  My thought on that: Why bother bringing them in then?!)

Well, my figuring of what Jane’s actions would be was incorrect.  As I was walking down a hallway, the four girls accosted me all at one time, asking me why on earth I didn’t tell them how horrible the rum balls would be.  I told them that I’d tried to warn Jane & figured she’d pass on the word.  Again, there I go assuming.  But, what’s even better is that—despite my warnings—Jane ate one too!  I said, “What were you thinking, woman?!  I told you not to eat it.  Ya’ll have to learn to trust me.  I will never lead you astray when it comes to food.”  They did a feeble repentance for having doubted me, but I’m going to say that suffering through the rum ball was enough of a penance & I’ve now forgiven their faith-lacking ways.

When I further explained to Jane as to why she wouldn’t want to have eaten that (I tried to spare her details the first time around as, despite my dislike for CCL, I don’t want to spread those bad feelings throughout the office.  People can make their own decisions as to whether or not they can deal with her; unfortunately most, however, can’t cope with her on a daily basis.), poor Jane about had a heart attack.  Something about me stating it was probably thickened through the use of cat hair, that CCL had to first clear the papers off the stove before beginning her cooking process and that CCL uses trails as a navigational means to get through the piles of stuff she has on her floors made Jane a little uneasy.  Nay, sick.  She screamed, “No. Take it back!  Take it back!”  I said, “No.  And had you listened to me & trusted my advice you wouldn’t be on the verge of hacking up a fur ball.  The woman has to use picnicking food nets over her own food to try to keep the cat hair out.”  (One can then imagine what happens to un-netted food in her kitchen as it cooks.)

It turns out that Jane & Friends were not the only ones to not care for the rum balls.  While we were all eating & conversing in the conference room, someone made a comment about them & that led to someone else commenting on how it was like an overwhelming fire ball in the side of their mouth.  Others started commenting too, until it was pointed out that CCL (who was in the room and listening to this) had made them.  Then there was silence.  However, I was internally chuckling at all of them.  Because I, dear friends, know what happens to food that is prepared in CCL-type homes. 

Afterall, I served as a missionary…eating dinner at the homes of various church members each night.  We had no control over who signed up to feed us & I will forever be marred by Easter 2003’s dinner…it led to that family permanently being dubbed “The Hairy Ham People”.  That should give you an idea of the meal & the consequences of them letting cats climb all over their kitchen...to the point they’d even let them eat out of the pots as food was being cooked.  They thought it was cute; I thought it was vomitous.  And ever since then, I run far, far, far from any CCL-prepared dish.  Unfortunately, my doubting, faith-less colleagues weren’t so wise.  Which reminds me: I must now pop up to their floor to make sure everyone survived the night…

Potlucking with CCL.

Many years ago (seven, to be exact) I started working at a bank.  The lady who was the trainer—we shall call her Pat—was a little eccentric, but not overly so.  Little did I know, she was a CCL.  I learned this when I started at the bank branch I was assigned to.  One of the other tellers told me that whenever there was a potluck, it was best to avoid anything Pat made.  I asked why.  She explained that she once borrowed a crock pot from Pat & that when she gave it to her, it was filthy.  And, what’s best, is that there was cat feces in the pot itself!  She said the house was disgusting and that there were cats everywhere, but she took it, cleaned it and then never used it.  At that moment, the images of that both scarred me and made me more aware of what potential dangers lurk out there at a potluck.  Ever since then, I have been very conscientious when attending potluck meals. 

One can imagine, then, that our office’s annual Thanksgiving potluck lunch is met with some trepidation when I consider that CCL will be providing a dish.  Typically, she just brings something in a sealed jar or a bag of something I know she just bought at the grocery store.  And I’m just fine eating those items.  It’s when she says she’s making something that I really become worried.  If it weren’t for the fact that she tells me over and over and over again what dish it is she’s making, I may just avoid the whole affair altogether as a precaution to not unknowingly stumble upon something that came from her kitchen. 

She has described her kitchen as being her home’s security system because there is no way anyone but her would know how to navigate their way through the trails she has on the floor, weaving through her piles of garbage.  Thus, if anyone were to open her back door and walk in, they would immediately be detected.  So it was not a surprise (at least to me) when earlier this week she told another colleague that she needed to clean all of the papers off her stove if she was going to make something for the potluck.  (The colleague’s reaction to the paper comment: “On the stove?!?!”)  On one hand, I feel as if I should accidentally knock her dish off the table, in an attempt to prevent the untimely death or severe illness of others; on the other hand, she is making rum balls & told me today she added too much rum to them, so I do know that the alcohol content is high & may have killed off any germs.  It’s such a dilemma, but I wasn’t worried about avoiding them myself…until she informed me that she made sure to not make them with nuts so that I could eat them.  I’ll instead have to remind her, should she question my not eating them, that I don’t drink alcohol and can’t stand the taste of it in anything.

Meanwhile, she debated multiple times today as to whether or not she should add more powdered sugar to them to try to reduce the liquid content and make them moldable into balls—or if she should just dump it into a pie pan, sprinkle it with powdered sugar and then let people scoop it out onto their plate as rum dough.  Doesn’t that just sound delicious?  Mmmm mmmm.  Heavenly. 

I’m just hoping she remembers to utilize the nets she bought specifically to try to keep the cat hair out of her food.  Afterall, no one enjoys a pile of rum dough plopped onto their plate with a hair ball in it…

Ummm...

Today's CCL quote got a total snort out of me (quickly muffled with my hand, so as to not let her hear me). 

While on the phone with a co-worker from another office: "Yeah, my heart's desire is to be a trophy wife."

Perhaps to Dale, Jr.?

Ew. With a capital Ew.

Greetings, neglected blog readers! 

It has been a busy, busy time, so I haven’t had much of a chance to share the latest CCL antics—but trust me, they have been a plenty!

Someone remind me later to tell you about her fantasy of slaughtering her parents.  In the meantime, I’m sharing today’s fun…

I should back up by stating that my intended plan each Monday is to come in to the office & as soon as she starts griping, I will cut her off & tell her I am tired of general negativity around me and thus, only interested in surrounding myself by positivity.  The problem is that Monday mornings are always mayhem & my well-intended plans go by the wayside & before I know it, I’m stuck in the black hole known as CCL’s life.  Perhaps I need to set a calendar invite to remind myself of what it is I need to do right off the bat some Monday morning. 

This morning, as is the case every Monday morning, CCL was all-consumed lamenting the horrible weekend she inevitably has each week.  I was kind of hoping her anti-anxiety medications would help lessen how horribly she views her every waking moment, but they haven’t done much.  As I was pondering this the other day, combined with thoughts of her therapist visits & recalling how she so many times complains that none of it is helping, I was reminded of something—drugs and therapy can only do so much.  Until she decides to make changes in her life, it will be the same routine.  This weekend, however, she made a change—she cleaned.  And not just any room—the cats’ room.

The gripe came because she says she threw out her back while carrying a 42-lb. bag of cat litter up the stairs so she could get their room cleaned out & change out their litter.  In casual conversation, I pretty much learned that she doesn’t clean out the cat litter & just kind of lets it sit and stink.  Now, that is absolutely disgusting in my book, but what makes it even worse is envisioning just how much awfulness must exist in that room if it takes 42-lbs. of litter to swap it all out.  My dogs’ food bags don’t even weigh that much—and it’s enough food to last the two of them a whole month.

Last week or the week before, the complaint was about how she bought a recycling bin over the weekend, but it turns out to be a little too wide for the space she wanted it in—but she has no more floor space or counter space in her kitchen, so she wasn’t sure what to do.  I have already decided she’s a hoarder, but that info pretty much sealed the deal—and this latest revelation of just how horrible her house must look & smell completes the big picture for me.  And, dear friends, it is not a pretty picture.

Sigh.