I'd like to think that a massive group of you is anxiously awaiting my every word, but I know all 6 people that read this blog and they know why I have not written in it every day, so I try and pretend that it is ok to start a project and then suck at it.
I got a phone call from a friend recently. "Are you ok?" she asked. I looked down at myself. I was laying on my sofa, somehow balancing the computer on my chin, and there was an indistinguishable dusting of some kind of food across my front. I had no idea what time it was, but I was pretty sure whatever time it was I was late for class. "Yes. I am ok." I replied, wondering why I was only wearing one sock. "Why?" Her answer? I hadn't blogged in awhile. "I always know something is wrong when you skip a week." GAH. SO TRUE.
I'm still depressed! Why is this happening?! Aren't I supposed to be skipping to school right now, making new curtains for my one room house and patting myself on the back for my resilience? Instead, the guy at Blockbuster knows my name and my weekly food order. THEY HAVE FOOD AT BLOCKBUSTER. I SHOULD NOT KNOW THAT.
I go back and forth, honestly. Good days and bad days. We all have them. Mine just seem dramatic and in technicolor, but I'm also just a generally obnoxious person. I had a good night out recently. My in-laws have been trying to set me up on a friend date with the daughter of one of their friends. They have been so insistent about it, and the one time I met her I really liked her, SO WE FINALLY TOOK THE PLUNGE! (I feel like I should record our meeting anniversary or something.) We went out and had a great time. We had some beers, I monopolized conversation, she resisted my pleas that we go do karaoke, and we enjoyed one another. She had brought along a friend, here for the semester from England, and I had brought along a friend too. We all got along famously, and it was like the perfect scene from a girl-centric novella. I loved every second, but ESPECIALLY the second I realized the English girl looked EXACTLY LIKE PIPPA MIDDLETON.
This seemed like the perfect time to try out my own English accent on her. It was only natural, really. Looking back, I am very lucky that she was a lovely individual and accepting of crazy Americans. She seemed to enjoy the night, but I'm sure she heard enough about "OHMYGOD THE TRAGEDY OF PRINCESS DIIII!" for one English lifetime. When I recounted the story to Brett on the phone, I could literally hear the palm-slapping-his-forehead sound from thousands of miles away. He would repeat things I had said, but with increasing panic. "You said tally-ho?!" I don't think he realizes that it was probably the most fun night ever. At least for me.
As I was avoiding studying by cleaning my apartment today, I decided that I should bake a pie. I wanted life to return to something somewhat normal. In the fall, when living with Brett, which is what one usually does when married, I would go through my grandmother's cook-book and bake for days on end. I figured that my listlessness came from the adjustment of a whole new lifestyle, and to fix that, a pie cooking in the oven could do wonders.
Yes, in theory it could, but I did not take in to account my kitchen. Or lack there of. I have a coffee maker, and that takes up about my entire counter space. When I open a bottle of wine, it has to be done in another part of the room, because I can't move my arms in a normal way. It is essentially a toy kitchen, an easy-bake oven on top of a microwave. It is useless.
The pie took me about 4 hours to make, because once I dirtied a dish I had to wash it to make room for another dirty dish. My flour had worms in it. (That has nothing to do with anything, but I just cannot fucking believe I had worms in my flour.) New flour bought. Apples cut. Pie assembled and balancing on the end of my trash can because the oven's door takes up the width of this hallway/toy kitchen.
I think it will be worth it in the end. I'm sitting here typing and smelling...something. I hope it is pie cooking. But it does not smell like pie, so I'm not hopeful whatever cooking in the oven will be edible. I tried. I didn't even have a diva like breakdown and call Brett demanding he remember the days of a kitchen with counter tops. I shoved the thing in, ignored the smell coming out, and hoped for the best.
That is all we can really do, right? You have to hope for the best, and not take a vacation from your blog because you'd rather cry and watch entire seasons of Mad Men in one go. You write. You go to class in REAL CLOTHES. You bake a pie and you call your husband and you try to be gentle on yourself for having a hard time adjusting. I'll be fine, we'll be fine, and maybe someday I will be less selfish. My Dad called me today to tell me that my brother is graduating from boot camp, and I said to him, "That is amazing, but I really have to take a moment and tell you that I FOUND WORMS IN MY FLOUR."
So, I have a lot of work to do, clearly.
Thanks for sticking with me.