This dinner, from Better Homes & Gardens Cooking for Two, is one that I made a long time ago. Like months and months and months ago and never had anything much to say about it.
And now—–well, I still don’t have anything to say about it.
Holy crap, it is terribly difficult for me to muster enthusiasm over Steak Night–Indoors, or anything else for that matter. But I’ve been putzing around with this same post for over 2 weeks now, so it’s best to just put it up and be done with it. It’s not good. It’s not cohesive. It just is.
So in lieu of having any food for thought, I thought I’d regale you with more tales of woe from my romantic escapades (or lack thereof).
I recently realized (and a twenty-something girl even told me) that I am officially starring in my own extremely low-rent version of Sex and the City: one in which everyone is fatter, poorer, nowhere near as well-dressed, and with a 1000 times more shootings, hookers, and trash. So, needless to say, it’s a little bit sad.
So in the not-so-distant past I was out with some folks and the topic of “friends with benefits came up”. My friend Oliver (who may be the only single guy I know over 30 who is unattached and who I interact with in any sort of regularity–I just know him from here and there–and sometimes if he’s there, and I’m there, then we end up being there together) announced that we had been there, done that, and then bragged that he and I are still able to hang out in mixed company completely comfortably because we are some sort of evolved species.
Are we? Are we somehow superior in that we are able to separate the emotional from the physical? Is this some magic power that we both possess?
Before I continue, let me throw some Steak Night–Indoors action at ya:
I am not Carrie Bradshaw, but since I am the protagonist of this blog, single, in my 30s, and armed with a laptop, I’m gonna bring the pain right now:
I couldn’t help but wonder…is there such a thing as no strings attached?
Yes and no. I looked back on my past experiences and those of my friends. It seemed that inevitably one party gets too emotionally invested, which results in unreasonable expectations. I’ve seen it happen. And aren’t there a lot of romantic comedies about this? Do they always end up coupled? But more often than not there is always collateral damage–in varying degrees. And I don’t think that it’s something that you can plan–like Jerry and Elaine on Seinfeld–with the sleepovers optional deal. You’re gonna mess with the friendship formula.
But in this situation? Not so much. We are friends but not friends. I’m not calling him up to have a chat about my feelings, ya know? I like Oliver well enough but I don’t like him, like him. Actually, now that I think about it, sometimes I do wonder if I even do like him as a person–but that’s neither here nor there because he’s fun, spontaneous, witty, and not bad to look at. Mr. Man could charm the pants off of anyone. I firmly believe that.
I feel about Oliver the way that social smokers think about cigarettes: only when drinking! He feels about me the way one thinks of a Hot Pocket: I’m hungry. Oh, cool, there’s a Hot Pocket in the freezer!
Yep. I just compared myself to a Hot Pocket. C’mon, we’ve all been the Hot Pocket. Oh, shit–I could so go for a frozen burrito right now!
So are we evolved? Are we pretty little unique snowflakes? Not in the least. Honestly, Oliver is a little bit of a sociopath. I’m terribly jaded and apathetic. AP. A. THET. IC. That’s the main thing, really. And maybe I don’t have a lot of that lady/sex/love bonding hormone that you’re supposed to have. Just another reason why I should not give birth. I’d have a baby and be all, “meh.”
But I do make a nice dinner:
This really was a lovely dinner. I just broiled the steak. And the parsley butter and the mashed potato marvel were yummy.
But ah, the apathy! I don’t know what it is with me lately. But it may be contagious. Check out the cat:
And that pretty much sums it up.