In order to have my meal plan determine what I need to shop for based on my pantry inventory, my recipes all have to be in the same units as my pantry. Which makes sense, but took a while to make happen.

Forgot to eat breakfast. Way to manage the food supply, self. (To be fair, breakfast is supplied in the sense that it is in the fridge, it's just not, you know, cooked and eaten, Sigh)

I forgot to eat both breakfast and lunch, and I'm still not hungry.

I look forward to the day that I can forget a meal again.

I just went and bought all the things at TJs, including Jesse's biltong jerky. My refrigerator actually looks like one a functioning adult might have.

My refrigerator actually looks like one a functioning adult might have.

In the summer, when we get home from the grocery store, our refrigerator is a produce-splosion. I think about 1/3 of today's list is produce. Nom.

I actually don't have that much, because I am trying to incorporate walking up to the neighborhood produce store every couple of days into my routine.

I just made coffee. Finally.

Shopping list is made, will have to put on outside clothes to make groceries. Maybe after lunch. But I moved a bunch of stuff that I won't be eating this week to the freezer to make room for what I buy today, so that's good. And I don't have CSA delivery this week, so I don't have to worry about that.

I have ten things to cook sous vide and 11 things to prepare some other way. Only four really need to be done today, but the more I get done now the less I'll have hanging over me after work during the week. We'll see how it goes.

Not to mention the cleaning etc.

Weekends. Not nearly long enough.

Major pet peeve: people coming to my house and changing things without asking me. You think it should go somewhere else? You think it's not important where it lands up? You think it looks better a different way? I don't care. Leave it the way it was. Don't change anything without asking me.

That area rug? Yeah, it really is supposed to overlap the carpet, not be centered neatly on the wood landing, and you'll find out why when you step your bare foot on the exposed tacks at the edge of the carpet. And I'll laugh at your pain, and tell you maybe you'll stop moving my stuff around. (That's at my sister, who can't stop rearranging my house.)

My pine trees? Don't fucking cut a single branch without asking me if I want them cut. Especially don't cut five feet of branches off from the bottom before I even see what you're doing. And then ask me to pay you for the work? Get the fuck off my property. (That's at the workman who I hired to trim shrubs and who decided to take shears to the trees too. I was so mad. I think I scared him. I'm still mad. The trees are very tall and they'll be fine, and the branches might eventually grow back in a couple years, but damn it, now I've lost the privacy they gave me. Who fucking does that anyway?)

Who fucking does that anyway?)

People who watch home improvement shows where realtors and designers shriek about "opening up the house" and "letting light in".

Men. Men is who does that. My dad limbed our row of white pines that way, and it took several years, but it left them topheavy and unstable in high wind from a certain direction, and one by one, they all broke, or toppled.

We had four massive willow oaks in the front yard--they screened the second floor deck from the street and provided shade on 90+F degree days. Pulling into the driveway left you and your car in a cool and beautiful green room, the willowy branch tips brushing the lawn and enclosing you. It was like being behind a green waterfall. H got shirty because he couldn't see where he was going on the riding mower, and trimmed up the branches, about eleven feet. I hated the loss.

It's the same mindset that trims ornamental weeping cherry trees off level at the bottom so they look like a kid with a bowl cut.

I don't know, maybe I'm being sexist but it seems to me, you put a blade in a man's hand, he's gonna go looking for something to cut down. I'm so sorry about your trees, Zen. And yuh, I'd feel vindicated if the rug mover stepped on carpet tacks, too. With bonus tetanus shot.