On contentment and questionable food.

I am among the nation's great unwashed masses of discontent.

Sunday mornings always do it for me. This is the morning when the fathers come to pick up my children, leaving me in my vast empty house all alone and usually bruised and/or mildly hung-over from whatever Saturday night shenanigans I got up to (hardly anyone was hurt and only one window got broken). I shower and oil my hair and my skin until I'm soft and glowing as an Egyptian whore and, depending on whether they've been assholes lately, put on something that will remind my exes that they will never, ever tap this again, hand off my kids with the requisite polite small talk, and bam. Door closes. Silence falls.

At first I clean. This is my big chance, you know? Three days of not having a sink constantly full of dishes, and towels that have been used to wipe up something questionable, dragged through a pile of dog hair, and then hung back up on the hook for the unwary showerer to anoint their face with.

And then, with a reasonable amount of vacuuming and laundry out of the way, I sit in my office with the sunlight pouring through the window, and I am discontent. An hour ago I was annoyed because my pubescent daughter would not stop rattling on about some anime she's really into, and now I don't know what to do with the absence of her noise. I look out at the cedar fence that separates my yard from the neighbor's and contemplate selling the house. I had a view of Mt. Hood, now I have a view of recently-built, overpriced townhouses. But I've got six, almost seven years worth of growing time on those fruit trees, and my garden is finally, for the first time since I bought the house, perfect.

I am discontent about my view.
I am discontent about my floor plan. This is a really shitty floor plan... who thought that would be a good idea?
I am discontent because nobody has called me back about hiking today and I don't really feel like going alone.
I have the problems of the lucky.

I am an ingrate.

Yesterday, in the grocery store buying birthday presents for my son's friends, I stopped in the frozen dinner aisle for what may have been the first time in my entire life, and I saw these little microwave entrees for a dollar each. A dollar. What the hell, that looks pretty fucking questionable. I selected a dozen of the more revolting-looking ones and trundled them along with my sixer of High Life tallboys (for the demolition, for fuck's sake. You can't do proper demolition without Miller High Life in cans) to round up my son and make my purchase.

Now, for fun, for shits and giggles, I'm sitting in my office eating a goddamn Salisbury Steak I got for a dollar. It is 100% as disgusting as you probably imagine it to be, and I'm enjoying the fuck out of it.

Later, I'm going grocery shopping at the Dollar Store. For thrills. For food that not only I, but pretty much no one, wants to eat.

This is America, guys.