Last night I dreamed that I posted some morose contemplation about the meaning of life. And then I wanted to punch myself in the face. Even I know that nobody wants to listen to me whine all the time. But then, what am I supposed to do with all my whining? Bottle it up, suffer in silence? Just not my style. And there are some other bloggers who seem to be doing quite well serving up a heap of fresh bitching and moaning every week. So maybe there is a future in this. Wah, my life sucks. I have a happy marriage, a healthy adorable kid, a nice house and two cups of gourmet coffee every morning. Why is life so hard?
Is it possible that I started this blog just as I was hitting bottom professionally? And now I am on my way up? I am feeling much better right now. Less, "Every day is a step closer to death and I'm wasting my time!" and more "Life is a journey and I'm making positive steps, and ooh, those pumpkin waffles sure look good."
I think it was Tiffany who once said that if anyone ever got inside her head, they would realize she spends most of her time thinking about what she's going to eat next. That may be the truest thing I've ever read. I swear, food occupies 75 percent of my brain's real estate. I really cannot understand people who go around using their spare brain space to think about politics and pandemic flu and climate change and curing cancer and helping the poor and all that crap. I'm going to a career counselor, and she asked me what things I do that leave me feeling really satisfied, and I swear, all I could think of was cooking a good meal. The other night, I hadn't planned anything for dinner and hadn't been in the store in a week, and I decided I would pull something together from what I had on hand. I made garlic soy chicken with rice, roasted carrots and broccoli. Everyone loved it and licked their plates (even the two year old) and I cannot even describe the feeling of pride and accomplishment I had. Is that pathetic? Did I just set the women's movement back 50 years?