Work was especially slow today. I thought business might pick up because the weather was nicer than it's been in over a week, but I think due to some basketball tournament and -- more importantly -- the first race of the IndyCar season, everyone was probably at home, getting drunk and grilling steaks.
Now, grilling out in the backyard. I can't wait to do that again. I suppose I could, if I wanted to, but I don't do anything "homey" at home anymore. I don't even cook for myself, despite my love for cooking (and food). These days, if I'm not heating up leftover pizza, I get food to go from somewhere. I rarely cook for my boyfriend now, due to being too tired and sore from serving food to complete strangers instead. Sometimes when he comes into the restaurant to see me, I actually let myself think that I cooked the meal he ordered.
When I had a roommate, I cooked every night, and we were always throwing dinner parties. We'd get the house fixed up, invite people over, and I'd orchestrate madness around my kitchen.
Just some examples of entrées from my kitchen for parties, all homemade:
Whole roasted chicken, baked garlic salmon with rémoulade, southwestern spring rolls with cilantro cream salsa, steak fajitas, sausage and potato soup with kale (my take on a certain Italian restaurant chain's "Zuppa Toscana"), steamed crab legs, standing rib roast (or any roast of a slab of red meat, for that matter), spinach dip in a sourdough bread bowl, slow cooker beef stew, my chili and cornbread (I once won a chili cook-off), deviled eggs, Canadian clam chowder. Always with sides of mashed or roasted potatoes, salad, asparagus, local corn on the cob (can I get a "hell yeah" for Indiana sweet corn?!), broccoli marinara, pan-seared green beans, Italian peas, or whatever else I felt like trying for the first time from the farmer's market. This list doesn't even begin to cover what I made for just me and my roommate during a weeknight. I hosted Thanksgiving for a few years, some pretty great Super Bowl parties, and dinner for a bachelorette party of 16 ladies. I had a lot of fun in those few years, and I never once bought a veggie platter.
Hungry yet? I'm not boasting, exactly, but I am proud of what I can do in the kitchen and as a hostess. Those were some great times.
These days, however, I don't put any energy whatsoever into my house or, sadly, my abandoned kitchen. The reason for this detachment is that... (deep breath)... I'm filing for bankruptcy. The process began before I left my comfortable cubicle job, actually -- I couldn't afford things even then.
Everything including the kitchen sink is going down with the ship. The only thing I'm reaffirming in the bankruptcy is my vehicle, and I'm even starting to reconsider that. The monthly payment for it is the loudest voice in my head about that decision, though it's a decent car. The bank will definitely, however, foreclose on the house, because I can't even remotely afford to pay to have it fixed up for sale, not to mention pay the mortgage at all in the meantime.
I just couldn't afford to take care of a 90 year old, four bedroom house anymore. I had a completely different lifestyle when I bought it -- and I'm not talking about just income, either. And, I tried. Ever since the person I bought it with moved out, I've been struggling in one way or another. Losing this house will be, in a way, moving on. But to what? Now that I'm paying for a car and my student loans (neither of which I was paying for the last time I was a waitress), I can't even afford a crap apartment in a bad neighborhood. The "Low Balance Alert" emails are a daily occurrence from the bank that holds my checking account.
Before anyone suggests it, I'll stop you: My parents are great and all, but I will not be moving back in with them. Might've been okay at 22. Definitely not okay now.
So, I've let problems accumulate: the upstairs toilet is being weird (the technical term, I'm sure), there are some holes in the walls, one bedroom only has drywall up, the plants in the yard are overgrown, and I haven't replaced several dead light bulbs. I don't even have a bed. I sleep on my living room sofa, which I'm too tall for.
This is a really depressing post. It's been a depressing day. Sorry. I can't get that old man with the face mask out of my head. I just wish I could turn back time and cover his ears when that bitch was talking about him. I wish I would have ripped her a new one when I had the chance.
It's exhausting to be so sensitive about things. It's exhausting to want to try to protect everyone, like me trying to protect the old man as much as his face mask does, and it's even harder when I fail to do everything I could have.
And I still want to try to protect this house, but I'm so tired from all the other things I try to do/feel/make others feel (and tired from failing myself, every single day), that I can't do homeownership anymore. The house has to go. It is no longer a home, a place for parties and dinners, for family and friends; it is now just a burden, and I can't wait to be free from it.