Top Chef, Obama and Icky Stuff About Me

I've been exceptionally lazy of late. I guess that's obvious to the tens of people who read my blogs. It's not that I have nothing to say. If anything, there so much stuff running through my head it's impossible to sort it out and settle on one subject. I'm also going through a phase when I think there's nothing I have to say that's so important it needs to be said in public. Better to just talk to the cats.

JP's been saying for years that I suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD), but I'm skeptical of anything referred to as a disorder, because "disorder" sounds like a minor malady that's been blown out of proportion by spoiled, self-indulgent Americans and the pharmaceutical companies that want to make money off of them. Anyway, I don't think it's SAD as much as it's that I fucking hate winter, even NC winters, because I hate to be cold. This year has felt more like central PA, which is just pissing me off. My energy is low and I don't want to do anything. Even cooking is a chore these days.

Here's what's on my mind, in no particular order of importance, some serious stuff and some not so much:

I'm tired of hearing that Obama's administration is a failure. I'm not happy with everything he's done. I think Bush and Cheney should have been put in handcuffs and hauled away on inauguration day, and Gitmo should be closed immediately. So there is that. But Obama's been in office for...what... six weeks? He can't take on everything at once. Give him time. I still believe in him.

Keeping in mind that it's a reality show, i.e. why do I care?, Hosea didn't deserve to win Top Chef. Also, he's a punk.

Hell's Kitchen is still the best comedy on television.

I've heard that Raleigh wants to ban smoking in its parks. I want to know if there are buildings in these parks so I can go inside to smoke.

I barely drink alcohol anymore. I wouldn't mind that so much if it were because I'm no longer young and my body is telling me to stop it, because that's a self-adjusting thing. I could still drink as much as I'm in the mood for. But I don't drink because of the painkillers I'm on. It's almost impossible for me to have more than one beer without waking up the next day feeling like I've been on a binge. I have no control over my spine. It's only going to get worse. And this awful condition is ruining my life. I'm still in pain, I'm stoned all the time, I can't sleep and I can't even have a frakking beer. And I'm pissed.

I've been living inside my own head for so long I don't know how to get out. I wonder if my life would have been better if I'd never left Harrisburg. There are things that wouldn't be any different. Certainly I'd still be dealing with my stenosis, and you can't beat time, you know. My 53rd birthday is next Friday, and that's something I can't do anything about. But I came down here sure that I could only do better professionally. I had a pretty good resume, and there were tons of jobs here in 2000. Instead it's been what can easily be described as a professional disaster. In the 8 1/2 years I've been here, I've worked a total of 2 1/2 years. I doubt I'll ever have a normal job again, and I readily admit I'm not the kind of person who makes things happen for herself. It's hard for me to cobble together a living by doing a little of this and a little of that. I mean, what the hell would I do? I love to cook, and catering the occasional event is something I can do, but I don't ever want to do it for a living. I've been told I make the best cookies and brownies around, but I'm not aggressive enough to go from one bakery to another, trying to talk them into selling my stuff. I'm afraid of 1) bothering them, and 2) being told I'm not really that good. Like most people, I think I'm a fraud, passing myself off as better than I am.

Many people have said I should be writing. Not just my husband, who, seriously, if he thought I sucked at it, would tell me so and also to stop deluding myself. But, crap, everyone wants to be a writer. Everyone thinks they're good enough, but most of them aren't. And again, I don't have a clue how to start even trying to get paid to write. And maybe I'm not good enough either.

I don't know how I ended up where I am. I don't know who I am. When I left Harrisburg, I was already starting to move away from being the party girl with crazy hair and weird clothes. My friends in Durham barely know that part of me. But what have I become? On a good day, I can bake a pound cake and a loaf of bread, do four load of laundry (that gets hung outside, like in the stone age), and make dinner. On a bad day, I manage to feed the cats and make the coffee. I spend the rest of my time on the couch. Every day, I am housewife and a damned gimp who can't drive anymore and  barely leaves the house. And I have no idea how this happened.

You know what I think about writing something like this? I think I sound like a self-involved whiner who wants everyone to pat me on the head and tell me I'm awesome. And I think that opening this vein is not cathartic. And I feel like baking a poundcake.