I killed my Twitter account.
I wish I could say it felt good, that it felt like a burden had been lifted, but that’s not altogether true. I feel a bit like I threw my car keys into the ocean. But that’s silly, isn’t it? Mostly I don’t feel much of anything.
Do not fret. I’ll be around!
I never understood how people missed flights. Connecting flights, sure, if your initial flight rolls in late and you’ve got to haul ass to get to the gate across the airport in some unreasonable sliver of time. But that first flight? I just always figured you had to be a real slack-ass to not be able to get to the airport two hours early like me, Little Miss Perfectpants.
Until this morning, when my eyes popped open and looked at my phone clock and BAM HOLY FUCK IT’S 6:03 AND MY FLIGHT LEAVES AT 6:45 WHAT THE FUUUUUUUUUU. And I made a valiant effort, throwing together the rest of my travel gear into the suitcase and taking what Ray has informed me was a fatal shower — the deed that did me in and made me miss the flight. But I can’t get on a plane unshowered on the trip out; it’s bad luck. Maybe on the trip home. Anyway.
I drove like a meth addict and got to the Delta counter at 6:41, at which point the counter man told me the plane had already left. I felt like an idiot and wanted to cry, of course, like a little baby who didn’t get her way. But I went to special services and the sassy but nice lady hooked me up with a 2 p.m. flight, which has a layover in Minneapolis but that will get me to Portland at 7 p.m. If all goes according to plan, of course.
So I’m just sort of killing time until then. About to drink lots of coffee and maybe even take a nap. I feel terrible that I basically lost a whole day — and especially because I inconvenienced my hosts. But now I promise I won’t give anyone a hard time for missing a flight. And I am going to write Steve Jobs SUCH a strongly worded letter about the iPhone alarm that just decided it wouldn’t go off today (I triple checked and it was set correctly for the reasonable hour of 4:30 a.m.).
I spent some time in the kitchen today, performing an alchemic miracle that resulted in this modest dish (I’ll pause so you can ooh and ah and gasp at the sheer brilliance that is supper bake in a box), which contains chicken, which means that I have roughly eight to forty-eight hours before the gnarly teeth of salmonella poisoning consume me. I mean, I cooked it ’til it was nice and white but still, I’m paranoid that every bite I took is going to bring me closer to toilet-clenching death. The clock is ticking. Go, guts, go!
That’s the thing with me and cooking, really. I don’t trust myself. To this day, when I make macaroni from the box, I have to have that box on the counter within sight so that I can obsessively re-read the instructions to make sure I’ve not left a crucial step out. And I know how to fucking make box macaroni. But without those instructions nearby? I’m liable to take the boiling pot of pasta water and drain it by pouring it over my face. I am that cookingtarded.
It’s an issue of comfort, most likely. I just haven’t put in the time required to be familiar with the most basic cooking functions — the time/heat it takes to properly cook certain meats, the amount of water needed for any number of dishes, what this plus this equals and how to construct an honest-to-god meal using any number of available ingredients. I’m a picky eater and the foods I do like tend to be real crappy, so I’ve just not been all that curious about how meals are made. Most people overcome this little life speedbump when they’re, oh, TWELVE but somehow I’ve avoided the confrontation with my own ignorance by cracking wise and convincing myself that I will always live in a place where I can have food delivered to my house practically around the clock.
But here I am, leftovers in the fridge, appetite mostly sated, and it’s nice. (No shit! sings the chorus led by Sister Obvious.) I’ll keep cooking things out of a box until I get my kitchenlegs and then maybe I’ll move on to real cooking. Like boxless macaroni.
On the phone just now, verifying my account with Bluehost.com, my new hosting overlords:
Nice lady: Domain?
Me, groggily: theogeo.com. That’s t-h-e-o-g-e-o-dot-com.
Nice lady: Okay, b-o-g-o, that’s b as in “boy”—
Me, groggily: No, ah, t-e-o … t as in … … uh … “tea”?!
Nice lady: Oh, t as in “tiger”?
Me, groggily: Yes!
Nice lady: Okay, t-e-o-g-e-o—
Me, groggily: Crap. There should be an h in there too.
Nice lady: Okay. Where?
Me, groggily: t-h-e-o-g-e-o. Sorry! I just woke up. I haven’t had coffee yet.
Nice lady: *polite laughter*
I just turned down an invitation to a social gathering because, ahem, “I’m already in my PJs.”
Sweet Jesus. I am eighty years old.
Maybe I am dead. Because this is the first substantial stretch of time during the five years this blog has existed that there’s been nothing going on that I absolutely had to write about, even though there’s been plenty going on. It proves, at least for me, that blogging is strongly habitual and that if you truly devote yourself to the laziness within, it can overcome anything.
All kidding aside, I’ve been a lazy piece of shit since getting back from vacation. I always go through post-vacation depression. Always. I think this particular bout of nonsense has been compounded by the fact that I was mind-numbingly busy from mid-April until just this past weekend. I like being busy but once the work/play obligations clear up, it’s like coming down off of a drug. There’s withdrawal then recalibration. And in between there is a lot of crap food and a lack of exercising. Cue the self-esteem issues, and we’ve gotten ourselves into a lovely little circular rut.
I realized today while transferring important dates from my 2007 calendar to my new 2008 calendar (yes, I said new; I suck at life and just now got one AND it cost me $6.50!) that the cats were born on April 20, not April 11 like I thought a month ago. I suppose it doesn’t matter anyway, but you’d think I would be able to remember that they were born on 4/20. You’d think…