Epicureans and Earaches

     How is it that the only time I have to wax moronic on life and love and the lack thereof is when I'm tired and achy and walking sideways?  Here I am with all the side effects of a stupendous night out with none of the fun.

     I know this comes close on the heels of the strange phenomenon that is "Julie and Julia" and that it might appear to some who don't know me as a little shirt-tail (apron string?) riding, but I've got no time to stick to pen and paper like usual.  There are fewer hours in the day the older I get and the sad souls I share space with seem to grow emotionally/mentally senile day by day.  So I forsake scribbles and my ever-depreciating handwriting skills to word processors and Windows Live Writer.

    After all, when no one in the tangible world seems to give a shit, where else can a sad and lonely loser run to but to the safe haven of the Internet?

    So enough with the intro that I know very well will float about the ether finding nowhere to land but at least it's somewhere other than thumping about in my head with the day to day nonsense and stress and anger.

    There are many things I'm good at (drafting, thinking in 3D, doodling, inventing nonsense to pass the days), a lot of things I suck at (team sports is right there at the top of the list in spaces 1 through 5), and a couple things I haven't even tried yet but I'm pretty sure would end up helping me make an even bigger fool of myself (singing in public, learning to swim).  The list of things that I am great at is pretty damn short, and oddly enough these are the same things I've let fall apart - my writing and cooking.

     Words used to be a catalyst, a way to change circumstances and outcomes, my own witchy device of control.  I no longer write.  I complain in word form.  I type and scribble and all that comes out is a different form of the anger and discontent that weighs me down.

    Cooking and baking used to a stress-reducer and something I excelled at.  It's become a chore.  There are too many things that the others won't eat.  I try and plan meals, I try and keep things simple and keep down the waste, but one of the overgrown children I live with make that next to impossible.  Just once I'd like to cook for someone who'd appreciate it.

    Since the former seems to be broken, I decided the latter might be a good place to start.  Staring last Friday (I'm no good at planning to do things and creating meaningful anniversary dates; it either happens or it doesn't and maybe I'll remember) I started cooking what I want.  So far there's been little to no whining, but for future reference, if no one else wants to eat it, I don't care.  There's only so much meat and potatoes and peas I can take.