Friday, June 10, 2011

Some days are like this ...

About 110 minutes until boyfriend leaves for work. Forgot to do something that eats 20 more minutes. Fake karate chop someone in your path, spend a minute in fake combat. Have to pee, have to pee.

See shady men standing on a corner and think: "Not today, boys. If you kidnap me, I'm going to spill urine all over the shag carpeting in the back of your white van." Unlock car. Get into car. Drive to along a street that has timed lights that reward drivers who go the speed limit. Unfortunately, this time suck called travel has you going 5 miles-per-hour over the speed limit so you must make your car perform ellipses at every intersection.

Also unfortunate: "Bad Romance" is on the radio. Still in rough draft status of the karaoke repertoire. This drive won't allow for a full run through of the song and there isn't time to sit in the car in the parking lot of the grocery store growling "j'ai ton amour, et je veux ton revenge/j'ai ton amour, I don't want to be friends" into a thumb microphone.

The co-op closes in a matter of minutes. Have the aisles always been this thin? A woman with one of those comical mini carts has stepped back to consider the bean selection and you need Vegetable Broth. You've already exchanged insincere apologies three times in produce. A customer is leaving here with cart-web bruising on her upper thigh. (Probably you. You bruise easily, you pussy).

The coffee grinder. What the hell. Is this thing breaking down every individual bean, molecule by molecule? These hippies. The guy who generates the coffee grinder's power by riding his bike in circles in the parking lot must be on a break. But chickpeas are on sale. And if you didn't have all this time standing aimlessly in front of the coffee grinder you'd have never saved a combined total of 13 cents or whatever. Coffee is done.

The woman in front of you in line has a story about everything she purchased. Nice. She seems unwilling to give up her premiere spot as the customer being served even after she has paid and her special time with the cashier had expired. Then it's you and it goes quickly, painlessly, except your friend is behind you in line. Someone you like running into and so you say: "Oh hey! Chuck and I were just laughing about your Facebook status about Judith Light!"

Still have to pee.

Get home with about 60 minutes. The closest thing to the pot you need has been stuck in the back of the refrigerator filled with Thai Chili since, well, chili season. By now it looks like the pot has struggled through a long winter of IBS. Take to it with first a spatula, then a sponge.

Vegetables must be chopped and some of them peeled, and then comes a new house law about how some vegetables are peel-optional and that is just the way it's going to be. Your boyfriend is still in bed, oddly enough at this hour, and this frantic pace, this ticking clock, this full bladder has you considering doing the unthinkable: Screeching "Chuuuuuuuuuccccckkkk!" up the steps while sticking a fork in sweet potatoes and scooping Curry Powder by the tablespoon-ful. That's what your mom would do, and this compulsion has never struck before and you hope it is not hereditary. The idea of loud voices within a house gives you hives. Anyway, it's a moot point because he comes downstairs a few seconds later.

Food is done 15 minutes before he leaves. It even tastes good (with salt). You are fucking Super Woman.

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