I do not cook. I can--I'm no gourmet chef, but I can put together an edible meal--but mostly I don't. This is okay, because I am a very, very lucky woman. O. likes to cook, and he's pretty good at it. And given that most of my attempts to cook anything remotely interesting result in him coming in to rescue me (see also: Christmas dinner '07) we usually just cut out the middleman. He cooks, I do not. It works for us.
The fact that I don't cook goes hand in hand with the fact that I eat out. A lot. The day the lady at Checkers greeted me by my name--before I handed her my debit card--was a bit of a wake-up call. So I started going to McDonalds for lunch instead.
Between the fact that this is becoming quite a drain on the wallet and the fact that I'm on track to clog every artery I have before the age of 35, drastic measures seemed in order. I am twenty-two hours into a vow to avoid eating out for one week. This is proving more difficult than I'd anticipated, mostly because I am blessed with the lethal combination of very intense food cravings and little to no willpower. On my way home tonight I had to talk myself out of stopping by Jerry's for a sub. This would be immediately after O. told me dinner would be ready when I got home. Right now, I'm thinking about the fact that Taco Bell is right down the street. Luckily, the one thing more potent than my food cravings is my intense laziness, and I'm already in my pajamas.
Please don't invite me out for dinner this week. When it comes to food, no isn't usually in my vocabulary.