Yeah, neither did I.
Last night, after a workday that ended on a crappy note, I came home and roasted a chicken. This usually takes me three hours — slow roast (350F), basting every 20 minutes, rosemary under the skin, stuffed into the cavity with garlic and lemon, butter smeared throughout — and produces a tender bird that falls apart if you even look at it funny.
I don’t own a roasting pan, so I used one of those disposable aluminum gigs. In lieu of a rack, I cut a large yellow onion into quarters, then split two large russet potatoes into eighths. Poured in some organic chicken stock. After roasting, I let it rest while I watched “DietTribe”. So my question about “DietTribe” is am I a bitch for being relieved that one of the ladies weighs more than me? And you know it won’t last for long as they continue to lose weight and I continue to roast chickens smeared in butter.
I carved the chicken up, wrapped the bones in foil in anticipation of buying a stock pot so I can, you know, make stock, and put away the chicken. I will probably shred the breast to make my Filipino chicken soup with elbow macaroni and evaporated milk. I ate the drumsticks. I put away the potatoes, discarded the onions (which, now that I think about it, I should have heated in a skillet), and I would have gone to bed except that I had all these episodes of “Roseanne” on my DVR. That kept me up until about, say, 1:00. And then I started watching HGTV, home to my new obsession, “House Hunters International”. This kept me up until 2:30.
And I wonder why I woke up at 8:20 this morning.
People, I have to be at work by 9:30. So getting up at 8:20 with greasy hair is no good.
I’m glad to be back at work, bad workday endings aside. I didn’t do much on my “staycation” last week (yes, I know this word is so 2008, but I can’t help using it) and got cabin fever. True, I spent New Year’s Eve with friends, and I hung out with Kathy on the Friday after. But I didn’t leave my crappy apartment all day Saturday. I didn’t clean it, as I was feeling irrationally sorry for myself. Which has been happening more than I care to admit. Not just failing to clean my apartment but feeling irrationally sorry for myself. It seems appropriate that on the Epiphany, as opposed to New Year’s Day, that these feelings bubble up to the surface.
For what I do is not the good I want to do; no, the evil I do not want to do — this I keep on doing.
OMG, did it get all churchy up in here? Nah, it’s not quite that deep, as I myself am profoundly shallow, but really. I could have gotten myself out of that Saturday slump by getting out of the house, making myself happy with some fresh air (and maybe a stop at Molly’s Cupcakes), and I knew I should have.
But I didn’t. Instead I lay in bed at home, watching television until it was dark enough to turn on the lights at home and order way too much food from Leona’s. Sloth, interspersed by fits of wrath (at myself, at others), and topped off with gluttony.
The only solution I could come up with came to me on Sunday. I got up, showered, and actually put on outdoor clothes. I put myself on the bus downtown, figuring I could either see a movie or… see a movie. I saw “Marley & Me” and dammit if I didn’t laugh and cry like a bitch at the end when (SPOILER ALERT!) the dog dies. Also, am I on glue or was this one of Owen Wilson‘s best performances since, I dunno, “Wedding Crashers” or “The Royal Tenenbaums” or “Bottle Rocket”? I remember wiping away tears and being aware, if ever so slightly, of the sound of other people in the theater shedding tears and blowing noses.
After the movie, I walked to a nearby Trader Joe’s to do some grocery shopping. Turkey, roast beef, and muenster for sandwiches. And a chicken for for roasting.