Originally posted October 2012.
After spending Friday cleaning practically every corner of the apartment, Colin asked if I would be so kind as to clean the kitchen for him the next day.
What I said: Sure!
What I didn’t say, but should have also done: Found some sort of magical way to pull the metal stopper out of the drain in the sink so we don’t have to brush our teeth in the bathtub.
What I did: Continued my umpteenth re-read of the Harry Potter series, played with Sam, talked to my college roommate, made banana bread.
I was banking on Colin not caring that the kitchen was still in pretty scruffy shape by the time he got home from work, because that kid loves banana bread.
Also, it’s not like I didn’t clean the kitchen on Sunday. I’m not that horrible.
Originally posted in October 2010.
I’ve never been one of those people who “eats her feelings.” Which is surprising, considering my penchant for preparing and consuming lots of delicious (usually unhealthy) food. But whenever I’m truly distraught, I’m one of those “can’t-eat-can’t-sleep” types. However, it has been a particularly un-awesome week, with the icing on the cake (ironic foreshadowing!) happening this afternoon, and I find myself in the kitchen once again, measuring and dicing and mixing to take my mind off of things.
Some people do really admirable/powerful/kickass things to pull themselves out of a funk. Like running. Or kickboxing. Or writing a killer song or poem. I used to do some of those things…sort of. In high school, I used to write until my arms cramped up, which was cool in an angry, Sylvia Plath kind of way. Or beat the hell out of my drums, which was cool in an obvious kind of way. As I got older, I would take long walks or go to the gym to blow off steam — which was probably sensible, as an outlet for all that excessive adrenaline and what not. Plus, it was healthy.
But right now, I am pulling myself out of a funk in the lamest, unhealthiest, least badass of ways — by baking a cake.