Sometimes It Just Doesn't Work Out

Pictured above is the kale, mushroom, and sausage stew that I made for dinner last night. It really wasn't very good. My only defense is that the recipe was by Mark Bittman and it involved kale, which I was desperate to get rid of, so I thought it was worth a try. Had I read the entire recipe before buying ingredients, I probably would not have made it; any stew that quick and with that few ingredients should immediately be suspect.

Anyway, last night's dinner reinforced all of my worst prejudices against kale, namely that it's bitter and slimy and best left for the vegans. Bleegghh.

This has been a chaotic, tiring week. I brought this up to The Scribe yesterday and he told me in no uncertain terms that "if I was going to complain about how I was frazzled because of too much transatlantic travel, I would have trouble eliciting sympathy from him." Fair enough. As for The Viking, who wakes up every day at 5 AM, cycles 50K, eats nails for breakfast, and then proceeds to spend 14 hours clubbing people over the head and dragging them to his cave (figuratively, of course), he operates with a ruthless efficiency and an almost mechanical tirelessness that makes empathy with mere mortals difficult. He is trying his best to understand why the motor has run out on The Little Girlfriend That Could. He suggests more espresso, and if that fails, earlier bedtimes.

The really sad thing about it all is that I don't have a single good excuse to be stressed. I have a reasonable workday, I have no children, no health problems, no aging parents to look after...I don't even own anything! I don't own a car, or a house, or a dog. Nothing big that might break. When people talk about how great it is to be young and without a care in the world? Yes, that is me they're talking about.

The reality of the situation is I'm making myself crazy with entirely optional activities that have all become very important to me in their own way: cooking, writing this blog, making evening plans with friends, maintaining our miniature terrace garden. I have many worthy magazine subscriptions. I belong to a book club. I work out. Oh God, I'm suddenly starting to hate myself for even writing this. The moral of the story is that I am a ridiculous person. The end.

The Scribe in his infinite wisdom has suggested that I prioritize. This is a fantastic idea, but requires that I decide what my priorities are, which sounds dangerous and complicated. Maybe it's a good project for August.

For the time being, I do have one priority straight on this hot, sunny Friday afternoon: to put the week to bed and then find the nearest cocktail.

Happy weekend, kids. We deserve it.