I was so pissed off last night, and for a fairly insignificant reason. Work has been rather hellish (not sure if that's "again" or "still") and yesterday was no exception. I had to throw away most of my lunch, which was a small soup, because phone calls and crises kept erupting in between the seemingly incessant march of conference calls; after the 4th reheating and re-cooling I decided not to bother trying any longer and tossed it. So I was hungry.

When I got home, we needed to make a grocery run. I'd been craving Eggs Benedict so when Alan said he wanted a sub from the deli, I figured I'd make them for my dinner. The whole way home I was looking forward to my eggs - comfort food anyway, but particularly yummy after my disastrous attempts at lunch.

Once all the stuff was put away, I tried to poach my eggs but even after a long while they weren't progressing. In particular, the tops weren't cooking. I turned the heat up just a little, from one line to the next on the dial - you can see where this is going, can't you? Not five seconds later, I had freaking hard way-overcooked nasty eggs instead of lovely soft-poached ones. Alan urged me to just cook two more, which seems simple enough but I was starving, it was already after 8PM and by the time I cooked two more, the muffin, ham and cheese would be cold and it would be even later, so I tried to eat them anyway. I managed to choke down most of one, but I was so irritated and disappointed that I cut the other in half and gave one portion each to Sprocket and Mister Fusspot.

It was such a little thing, but I wanted to cry. So many things are going wrong and going badly, it seems like a couple of poached eggs are little enough to ask out of life. Little enough, but still beyond my grasp, apparently.