I can’t speak for other bipolars, but when I’m down like I have been the past couple weeks I don’t turn into some Robert Smith or Morrissey-esque emo buzzkill. Stereotypes are a bitch.
Besides, I’ve always been more of the Peter Lorre type.
No, the real problem is I can’t get anything done. When getting up before 5 p.m. becomes a major accomplishment, things like cooking become about as feasible as making steel in my backyard.
Well, assuming I had a backyard. (Nothing like throwing in a random, snarky Chairman Mao reference, is there?)
I’ve never been a cook to begin with, so that puts me at a disadvantage right away. Still, when I’m up to it I’m perfectly capable of producing a very palatable Indian dish thanks to the fine folks at Tasty Bite. I’ve even been known to prepare couscous from time to time.
But when I’m like this, I can’t be bothered to even open a can. Someone ELSE has to do the cooking.
Someone like Andrade’s, highly recommended if you’re ever in these parts.
Unfortunately, on the limited budget I’m on I can’t just do something like that every night. That – and the fact I’m often not even sentient until 9 p.m. – severely cramps my style here in Boise. I can’t afford to eat, everything’s closed anyway, and as it turns out I wasn’t that hungry to begin with. Screw it, I’m going back to bed.
Every now and again I’ll resort to delivery, which more often than not turns into a total clusterfuck. It’s not because Boise is lacking in options (pizza, Chinese, etc.; yeah, we have that) or that the delivery hours are bad. It’s because no one – and I mean NO ONE – can find the Command Center.
It’s not because I live in a remote part of town or on an obscure side street, either. It’s because the Command Center is an upstairs condo that both (1) faces away from the street and (2) has its driveway originating from a DIFFERENT street. I might as well live in Nunavut as far as delivery drivers are concerned.
“Hello? Is this the Iqaluit Quik Wok?”
Image credit: Deryck Hodge
Although I make my instructions as clear as possible (“not on road, driveway off of Kootenai”), more often than not about 30 minutes after I place an order I get a call from an unfamiliar number: “Uh, hello, this is Domino’s. I can’t find your place.”
Le sigh.
Tonight I didn’t feel like talking the guy in. I just made the 500-foot walk in stocking feet to the street corner and picked my food up there. I do that a lot. He apologizes and says, “I’ll get it right next time.”
Yeah. We’ve heard that one before.
