I Don't Even HAVE a Cat

I spent $18 on a bag of cat food yesterday.  I don't even have a cat.  I don't pay attention to the price of things very much as there is nothing I can do about it.  I try to avoid thinking about things over which I haven't any input.  Maybe that's true.  I don't know.  I seem to think a lot about things over which I wish I did have control.  But in most of those scenarios, I did have an influence even though it wasn't the sort I intended.  But take something like the price of gasoline--what am I going to do other than buy it?  So, in the main, I can never tell you the price of a gallon of unleaded gasoline.  That bag of cat food, however, caught my attention.  I'm sure it was only like $12 recently.  No, I'm not sure.  I feel it was.  It seems to have been cheaper.  

I should not have looked at the price.  It wasn't like I could go to the register and bargain.  I have a big old soft heart, though, so I bought cat food even though I do not have a cat.  

I felt well enough to return to the gym yesterday.  I was fine, but I am tired of my gym friends.  At first, it was funny, but every day is a repeat of every other day.  With slight variations.  Their imaginations are very limited and 80% of their talk is about women and sex.  The other 20% is about gym shit.  I've let myself get sucked into some of the dumbest conversations I've had in a very long time.  At least the boys at the old steroid gym were criminals with terribly twisted minds.  If they spoke of sex, it was something awfully weird and bizarrely plausible, and usually there was a dark comedic hook.  I may have to change my gym time.  

I was determined to pick up the pace yesterday, to be more productive than I have been, so after my visit to the physical fitness club, it was go, go, go.  I loaded the big pile of cut up fence into containers hoping the garbagemen would take it.  Bank, grocery store, photo store, carwash. . . .  That is of no interest to you, I know, but illustrates how fascinating my life has become.  That, my friends, is a pretty exciting day.  Throw in the afternoon visit with my mother and conversation with various of her aged neighbors (and their dogs) to round out the hours. . . oh, I cannot diss on my mom.  It was the highlight of my day.  

All that was left for me to do was prepare a full dinner for one, a first real meal if you will.  

I'm going to copy and paste the text message I sent to my new old friend about it.  She was in for her irritating share of CS bullshit.  

Don’t bother reading tomorrow’s blog (if you do read) because I’m going to tell you now.  I just made the best coming off a 4 day broth fast meal ever.  I have never cooked with ramen noodles.  Not kidding.  Tonight was my first attempt. I pressure cooked a bunch of boneless/skinless chicken thighs in wine, with salt, pepper, and red pepper.  When they were done, I sautéed garlic, ginger, and scallions in olive oil, then put them in another pot with bone broth and the wine liquid from the chicken thighs.  I let that slow cook for about 20 minutes, then dropped in the ramen.  I stir fried some vegetables and dropped them in the broth with the ramen.  I mixed up a concoction of tamari sauce, sesame seed oil, fish sauce, and hot chile pepper sauce with honey and water.  Served up the ramen and vegetables and put a chicken thigh on top.  Then I poured the concoction over it all.  OMG and oo-la-la.  Jesus Christ, I’m a good cook.  

Belly feels fine afterwards. 

She seemed thrilled.  Nope.  She was about as happy to get that text message as are the rest of my friends I've worn out with my version of social media posts about what I eat and drink.  

"Bravo," I think she said.  "Thanks for the sneak peek."

It occurred to me that I was no more interesting than the boys at the old athletic club.  Actually, I am probably less so.  I'm not even speaking of hoochie koo.  

After cleaning up the kitchen, I chanced a glass of whiskey and decided to pick up my guitar.  I can scarcely play anymore, but I strummed and hummed out some chord changes that intrigued me for a moment.  Then I went back to reading the Bourdain book.  The more I read about how fucked up he was, the more I like him.  Strange, isn't it?  

I guess that's why I feed the cat.