That's right, I mean me. Or you, taking care of you. If it were my job to take care of the boss, I'd be brilliant at it. I do not, however, look out for myself with the same regard.
Last night a body would have thought I'd made a ten course meal, the way I chirped over having been home for a rare evening. I sauted a few veg and leftover rice from forgotten takeout, tossing in a little sesame oil and soy. I tossed a little broccoli in another pan with garlic, a dab of sesame oil, soy, korean chile paste, and a little thickener. I steamed a few thai-veg potstickets - more like gyoza, with thinner wrappers - from the last Joetrader shopping venture.
I put on comfy could-be-jammies. I made a manhattan. I dined. I didn't end up knitting. Looked through mail. Half listened to non-engaging television. And despite the glamour and appeal of such an evening, (ooh, leftover rice!) I actually felt like I'd treated myself. Pathetic, I'm thinking.
So this morning I made blueberry pancakes from some of the summer's frozen stash. I made coffee and drank it from a cup. My kitchen looks cleanish. I have washed the new blue la creuset tea kettle and placed it on the stove.
I am resolved I need to take better care. I can still be excited about dining at home in my jammies with a rare adult beverage, but maybe I can indulge in this more often than once every two months.
At least I was smart enough to pick up some boxes of good soup, and I'll be taking those to work for happier quick nutrition on the fly. Carrot ginger is currently the soup in the workspace fridge.
Okay, back to work. I have to see if fabric stores I used to go to in the greater metro area still exist. These are not your chain stores but the good old fabric-district type places. Wish me luck. We're going fabric shopping!