Yesterday, A Tragedy

First, I stayed home from the office, mainly to work on some state standards alignments, which are lengthy, boring, and need a pretty high level of brain focus to do them correctly. In this way, it's good for me to be at home, away from the office phone and the onslaught of emails pouring into my line of vision, demanding attention. However, it was also good to just have a day at home working in my pajamas. I didn't put real clothes on until I had to go to the store for hot dog buns--how schlumpy.

I guess some people take the day off and they get up, go to a museum, have lunch with friends, do laundry, bake bread, watch their soaps, and go to bed early. Not me, I just lay around and feel sorry for myself. I do nothing, and I did nothing--other than the work I had to do for work. I basically do the opposite of productive, in all areas. I eat badly (chronicled via Twitter to the right,) I don't shower, I trash the apartment with dirty dishes and empty soda cans. If one of the cats pukes, I let it sit there until it dries--and sometimes, if it's mostly food and not a hairball--they'll eat it again in the middle of the night. They're either eating their own puke, or their sibling's. (That grossness you're feeling right now, thinking of a cat eating his sister's puke--that's my yesterday all day.)

There was a surprise party planned for my friend Cindy, who turns 40 today. (Happy Birthday!!) But her plane was delayed and eventually canceled, not putting her into JFK until around midnight. The party, thus, was canceled. But the cake I made was still sitting--in its various pieces; icing, filling, layers--ready to be carted down to Lefferts Gardens and assembled. I opted to build the thing anyway, let Cindy eat it piece by piece for the next week or so, however long it lasted. Which, for a cake, can be a day or two, or a long time if you play it right. On my way to her house, I managed to somehow get my finger caught in the door of a bodega on Flatbush Avenue, and although it didn't hurt so much, it bled an awful lot.

I wasn't happy with the icing, which was a basic brown sugar buttercream. It was airy and pristine when I made it--and even when I took it out of the fridge to soften, it looked amazing, and it tasted fantastic--sweet, a bit savory, caramely. But then once I gave it a stir with the offset, something changed. I guess it "broke," or whatever French buttercream does--meaning, began melting and separating back into it's parts: butter, brown sugar, egg whites. It looked like spackle made from oatmeal. It was hideous. Spotted, thick, hideous. I wanted to toss the whole thing into the garbage.

I don't really do things that I can't do well. Those of you who know me, know that this is both a strength, and the cause of my endless anxiety. Food is maybe my favorite way to show and share love, and here I'd failed to make something as gorgeous and important as my feelings for the birthday girl. I felt like a failure. Maybe I took it a bit too hard. And how strange is this--or perhaps not strange at all--but the bad icing made me feel, more than anything else: Lonely.