Some cooks like to cook. They go to the store and wander around in delight, thinking of the things they’ll add or change or keep as is because simple is art, too. Then they lug it all home and fling themselves into the kitchen, where they lose track of stress and obligation in the embrace of prep and method and timing and temperatures and aromas. They love the process and the progress, and the outcome is icing on an already delicious cake.
Me: fumbles through the store, possibly unwashed and crying. Is confused by all necessary items not being in a convenient heap near the door. Thinks that ‘necessary’ changing from day to day is your problem, not hers. Can’t find several items and doesn’t know for sure that she even needed them. Drives home and sits sullenly in car bc unloading groceries is exactly the same as forcing her to lick pigeon turds off a prolapsed emu anus. Drags bags of nonsense to kitchen and waits three days to use any of it. Eats canned frosting and month old airplane peanuts. Cries. Cooks. Out of desperation for real food and actual flavor and texture. Loses tufts of hair and is resigned to some of it showing up in finished dish. Feels badly that the basil has gone bad but figures extra bacon is the same thing. Has home cooked meal. Repeat.
Most adults will have a system that ultimately ends with the laundry getting done, even if it means letting it build up until there are seven loads, and an entire Saturday gets sucked into the lint laden illusion of clean clothes. Many adults are so adulty that they have figured out ways to minimize the laundry load and manage to only do one load per week or, you know, whatever is considered minimal. I’ve heard rumors that these adulty adults separate colors and have different hampers for different laundry related things and Martha Stewart personally calls them up to groan in inappropriately intimate ecstasy over their lemon verbena scented monument to organized cleanliness.
Me: Buys underwear. Buys more underwear. Becomes underwear connoisseur and discovers how and where and when to get the underwear that feels like gentled tanukis caressing yearnful, asymmetrical, ass cheek dimples all day long while emailing Barney in accounting about minding his own business regarding thousands of dollars of petty cash that totally isn’t missing because panties. Realizes goal of 364 pairs of underwear is flawed because that’s still laundry once a year and also they don’t give people tenure if their pants have their own ecosystem. Does the laundry via screaming profusely and passive aggressively injuring self on the basement stairs in the hopes that a bruised knee will somehow equal fewer dirty clothes. It doesn’t, and all articles of clothing are now sentient creatures that are relentlessly derisive of poor cleaning habits.
Go To Sleep
Many people have a reckoning somewhere in the first few years of their daily grind that involves accepting the reality of a decent bedtime. They will tuck themselves in, and turn out the light, and drift willingly into slumber until it’s time to do it all again the next morning.
Me: Devises complex communication based solely on grunts and variations of side eye to buffer the shrieking agony that is the essence of every. single. morning. Convinces students this form of morning communication is both normal and the saner, safer choice. Is putrid until noon. Convinces self there is more to life than coffee and switches to wines. Remembers humanity at 8pm, and celebrates via actual productivity and legit conversation with whoever is nearest (poor hubs). Says goodbye to humanity at midnight, when all sensible participants have gone to bed, and dives headfirst into Netflix because hello lover rest here in my eager bloodshot eyeballs. Watches Season Whatever of Lost Girl. Writes seven characters for unspecified books based on the Fae and super powers and personality quirks that were clearly ignored in the show. Tries to remember what three items have not yet been purchased on Amazon. Forgets and orders another umbrella. Lies in bed twitching until the alarm clock sprays blood and futility all over the duvet.
Adults lay these things down like champs. Hubs can bounce from one errand to the next, and glide home like the day hasn’t involved 47 angry cockatrices and the cystic acne equivalent of functional activity. He drops stuff off, picks it up, reorders things, returns things, and then comes home and goes to bed at a reasonable hour.
Me: Has -9 dollars in account. Has 47 checks that need to be deposited before they all expire because they have existed for 17 years in my nightstand drawer. Has no checks left and wonders if the dog sitter can be paid in Medium blog posts that have less than ten recommends because whatever there’s a personal abundance and also your face has ten recommends. Realizes the fun things in life like eating and not getting evicted involve running an errand or two. Gets into car whilst perpetually moaning at a gritty F#. Drives to bank and allows moan to reach B flat. Stares vacantly at other drivers during stoplights, mouth ajar, moan audible through open window. Pulls into drive through. Hands bank teller a wad of signed checks and squawk-exhales needs out the window. Puts head on steering wheel and attempts to black out. Vaguely hears teller chirpily mention the account is overdrawn. Opens car door, steps out, and smushes face against glass of the bank drive through window. Screeches into glass and briefly relishes the chill of the window against fevered cheeks before security guards arrive to end the charade.
There are more but I have to not go to bed in a few minutes. So.