Except groceries.
And laundry.
And cleaning the apartment.
And returning an air mattress we borrowed from friends in December.
I made steak tacos for lunch that were actually pretty good.
I'm getting better at creating meals on my own.
I'll be 35 next month.
Lauren got home from understudying a Second City touring company show.
By then I had two Red Stripes in me and, having ignored the first nice day in Chicago this decade, had just begun a crummy nap.
I asked her to retrieve the van's sleeping bag from the laundry room when she went out to get ingredients for the garlic lemon roasted chicken for dinner.
Poor Lauren hadn't eaten since breakfast.
It was 7pm.
When she got home we discovered that the chicken we had left out all day was still frozen.
Therefore dinner was not happening as planned.
We both got cranky.
Eventually we decided on steak sandwiches and fried plantains, with Lauren on steak, marinade, bun, onions and peppers, and me on plantains. Cooking smoke filled the apartment and transformed it into a woozy dream. Like we were living in an aged photograph.
Dinner was good, but the smoke made us squint and make elderly faces.
Looking and feeling old, we groaned our way to bed before 11.
Even with its missteps, it was a goddamn day off, and it was needed.
So suck it.
Verdict: Win
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