I want to be buried in a red polka-dotted dress.

I think Kevin is trying to kill me.

That's okay because the same may or may not be true about me. I can't confirm or deny it and if an attorney asks I blacked out and don't remember anything.

I don't know why other women can work, raise kids AND put a decent meal on the table 7 nights a week.

I've managed to establish a sandwich night, Chick-fil-a night, a night (or two, or three...stop judging me) out, which leaves just a couple of nights where I have to cook.

I have a couple of staple meals I always make, so in reality I'm covered.

But I get it in my head that I want to be that wife/mom who can bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan. DAMN YOU ROSE OF SHARON.

Last week, the two meals we actually cooked included burgers and a staple, chicken parm.

I let Kevin grill the burgers.

And just after I broke a tooth on one, the National Hockey League called and asked why we took all their pucks. They were pissed.

Fast forward a night.

I make chicken parm. all. the. time. It's fun now, cause LB can gum the pasta and Kevin can engorge himself on garlic bread and breaded chicken.

In my haste, which may have been efficiency, I'm not sure. But what I am sure of...this is not my fault officer. I think the chicken came out...not done. Who can tell when it's covered in that red sauce!

So I microwaved the shit out of it just to be sure.

And, in reality we had rubber chicken that was tainted by the thought we had already ingested bites of raw chicken.

Which ruined the whole meal!

It's here I started to get suspicious.

Later that week Kevin served little sister a ham sandwich on moldy bread.

I'm actually the one who made the sandwich and Kevin wasn't even home. But I'm certain he knew the bread was moldy and left it there for me to eat. Even though he never makes sandwiches, I'm sure this will hold up in court.

This week, I decided to try again. It's called strong-willed, Kevin...NOT stubborn.

It was a crock-pot meal.

Brown sugar chicken.

I got the recipe from here.

Okay, after you stop judging me on the amount of sugar in this recipe, would YOU have turned away from this kind of praise for a meal.

This meal was going to make me a hero, and all of LB's friends were going to want to come to our house cause I'm the cool mom that serves awesome dinners and doesn't make faces when they belch.

I burned it.

OMFG you should have smelled our house coming home on Tuesday night.

I didn't know you could burn candy chicken in a crock pot. But I'm here to tell you...You. Can.

We had Chick-fil-a last night.

We're having pizza tonight.

I may never cook again.

Except.

I have a triathlon on Sunday with the sisters and I offered to cook the pre-race meal.

I hope we all live.

I am making no guarantees and have low expectations for my performance on Sunday.