This morning when I woke up I felt like a fist had punched through my mattress and clutched at my spine in a twisting, crippling sort of arthritis death-grip, so I stayed home to work on a project that I don’t need to be in the office for, and I wore pink pajamas and ate painkillers like they were Pez. Which sounds kind of great except for all the hideous pain. The tops of my feet even hurt. And you’d think that I’d be able to waddle over to the kitchen to make myself a healthful, revitalizing soup (because I know how to), but the thing is, my kitchen looks like this:
Which is depressing as hell. At this point I think it would be easier to just move and buy new everything. And that’s only the view on one side.
And every time I walk past it I try not to look because it’s causing me a fair amount of stress, and not just stress because of all the mess, but also because I know that I’m too lazy and unmotivated to do anything about it, which is a testament to my weak character and lack of desire to grow or change. For example, now? It’s lunchtime and I’m eating a bowl of Wacky Mac and blogging about not wanting to fix my kitchen because it’s disgusting and I am powerless against my own laziness. And when Nick gets home, one of two things will happen:
- Nick will come home and not do the dishes.
- Nick will come home and demand that I help him with the dishes.
And he could say “it’s not me, it’s you,” and I would totally understand, because it IS me, and why am I having a melt-down over dishes? I am glad it’s not 1950 and I have a job that I can use an excuse to be a slacker when it comes to helping out at home. I would be the worst housewife ever. We’re all lucky that there is no wine left in my house, or I’d be hobbling around on THAT crutch too.
So. I am going to work on this work project until it’s complete. Then, I am going to ingest a cocktail of arthritis meds and painkillers, and then put on some NOFX and get really angry about the mess and hopefully make some meaningful progress, because I have been lusting after a bright green spring pea soup, and tonight is the night and there’s nothing I can do about it until some pots are clean and some counters are clear. Or Nick will get home and I’ll burst into tears and cry about how hopeless our lives are and he’ll just take care of it because he’s nice like that. It could go either way. And then I’ll make and write about the pretty green soup.
Okay. Back to work.
One thought on “Emily vs. Kitchen”
Oh gawd. We might need an intervention of some kind. Re: the dishes, not the painkiller cocktail.