Tuesday, January 19, 2010
the routine parts of my current life
Often in my desire to record events and feelings, I forget the everyday things I do, which I will probably forget at some point. One of the things I do with some frequency is that I make my own dinners. Most of the time I think cooking for one person is terribly depressing, but I also think that sharing all my food all the time would greatly increase the frequency of grocery story visits (an undesirable consequence).
The photo here is a Christmas-colored dinner I had last month. Usually I don't have this much broccoli all at once. I can make myself real food; for my birthday I made myself roast chicken and mashed potatoes with gravy (and it lasted all week and good heavens I was so happy). Last week was scalloped potato week. I'm thinking this week will be spaghetti, or curry. I think I should make soup again soon (I still want to make pea soup from actual dried peas). Cooking interesting things is not a priority for me unless I have someone else to experience it with.
I was hoping that being a graduate student would be different from my previous experience as a student, but it's not. I still procrastinate (yet manage to complete) the work I like the least (gone are the days when I would complete the work I liked the least first). I read things without understanding them. Okay, most of the time I don't have a clue what's going on. Sometimes class is boring, but when it is boring, the stakes are higher. Have I mentioned that the combination of being bored and terrified is probably my least favorite emotion? It describes a few things, of which driving is one.
It rained a little last night and it cleared the air, and I'm so glad (it had been getting unhealthily smoggy). The sun started shining and I opened all the blinds and drank some hot chocolate on our back steps. Then I decided to study my Spanish out in the sun and my slippers. I felt so contented. If only I could feel this way about analyzing Emily Dickinson (whenever I try to say something about a Dickinson poem, I'm paralyzed in "well it could also be..." or "but there's no way to say for sure...").