Too much work, too many bills, not enough time. Too many books, not enough time, too much of everything, not enough time or money and that fucking damn lottery ticket still holds out on me. Cooked some ribs tonight on the grill (in the rain!) and not only overcooked them but overcooked the corn, spilled the mustard onions on the ground and over cilantro'd the black bean salad. The redeeming dinner item was a good bottle of Tuscan red wine. Watched crap on TV, meant to go to bed early and didn't. Work again tomorrow.
Is it any wonder that I keep thinking about driving through the south? Or the north or the mid-east? Or the south of France or Italy or somewhere new, like the south of Argentina or Chile? Will there be a time when I stop planning my next exit route? Or not even an exit route, just the next purge of the wanderlust feeling I seem to have all the time? All. The. Time.
I am cooking and baking a lot these days, trying new things in lieu of seeing new places. At least that's how it feels. Instead of Chattanooga, Tennessee, I make lemon bread. Instead of the Black Hills of South Dakota, I make salmon chowder. I set flour and yeast out at night and make a loaf of bread when I get home from work the next evening. Sometimes these things turn out fine and sometimes they get dropped directly into the garbage can. But it makes me feel like there is forward motion of a sort. Less stagnant. Less bored.
I have read a couple of books in the past five days, none of which were good but I will report on all of them tomorrow. It's a testament to my good will that I don't hurl some of them out the front window. Where is the next really good book, one that will captivate me and lift my spirit? It ain't landing on my doorstep, that's for sure.
OK, enough angst for one night. At least tomorrow is a holiday which means I get paid double for working it. Ah, the things we do for money. But as Bob Dylan aptly says, we all have to serve somebody.
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