Mid-week taking stock of things reveals I’m here and for the third day in a row, writing. And clearly, writing here means I’m not writing my book, but it’s not going anywhere. It will be much better waiting for me to establish a routine — even a glimmer of one before I sit down to finish it.
Category: So Not Wordless Wednesday
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To write, or not to write…
I’ve learned that where I write has just as much to do with whether I write than anything else. Where as in sitting in front of my Mac instead of outside on my tree shaded patio complete with morning cup of coffee, a pen with the just right feel, and my turquoise Moleskin (which is full of thinking about my novel and various explanations of why I’m not writing it). But that isn’t the kind of writing I’m talking about. It’s more what I’m doing right now. The sitting in front of my Mac kind of writing.
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Waste of a morning in 20 easy steps
Just a dose of my “business” life so far this morning — a not quite wordless Wednesday.
An ad agency responded to my recent inquiry regarding use of their ads. They’ve approved me, but I’ve been delaying taking next steps because it involves sitting at the Erstwhile Resident Teen’s dusty computer, signing in to my email there, printing the agreement document, signing it, scanning it, and then attaching it to an email to send. No, it’s not exactly rocket science, so outside of being tedious in a I’d-rather-do-anything-else-but-this kind of way, it’s a task easily accomplished, right?
Um, no.
- Mobile Me says the PDF is too large. Uh. I’ve sent larger with no problema? Figures.
- I can’t figure out how to reduce the size of the PDF with STOOPID FREAKING LOUSY ROTTEN Microsoft Vista. Crap. Crap. Crappidy Crap Crapster. (You’re picturing Colin Firth in King’s Speech here, but without the far more colorful language).
- So, I decide to use my Gmail account instead, thinking I’m pretty smart even though I’ve had to resort to this before out of desperation. Please know the two computers are separated by a wall, so it’s always strange. Ahem.
- Right smacking in the middle of writing the email, the wireless keyboard stops working. No warning. No blinky lights, or warning messages. Just. Out.
- I try to reconnect.
- I check the status of the keyboard and am not happy to see it’s listed as working just fine.
- I load new batteries.
- I reload new batteries because I can’t see and am not sure they’re loaded properly.
- I restart the computer.
- TWICE.
- Shaking the keyboard has no effect on its function.
- I try the “Connect” button on the back of the keyboard, but nada.
- Please know that smacking the keyboard with the palms of both hands simultaneously also does not work.
- To spare the neighbors and my blood pressure, I take a few trips up and down the stairs emptying trash, doing laundry, entertaining our high-maintenance furry teen-aged feline “daughter” with her string, assorted balls, her catnip baby, and also brush her a few times which makes her extremely happy.
- I shine the floors upstairs with a cleaner that makes them look worse than when I began.
- I get another cleaner and give the hairy eyeball treatment to the dusty PC which sits staring blankly on the desk.
- I notice how hot it is today already (86 degrees!) and think WTH. Where was Mr. Sunshine this past summer, hmmm?
- I finally give in and decide I’ll either steal the Erstwhile Resident Teen’s printer and install it on my Mac or try to reinstall the one I have attached to my Mac (which stopped working smack in the middle of the Erstwhile Resident Teen’s graduation project over a year ago so only a total idiot would do that, right?)
- I look in the mirror to confirm that I meet the qualifications at this point.
- Sadly, I glance at the clock and realize I’ve been dicking around with this sh*t for an hour and a half and have accomplished NOTHING. But the cat’s happy.
You’re laughing, right?
Right?
I look at it this way. Wednesday is the day I have been promising myself to write about something other than food, so I’m thinking this is a swell topic to write about.
I’ll do that before I install the printer.
God I can’t stand crawling under desks.
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Getting the mail
I realize with a start that it’s been a while since I’ve been out to get the mail. A while as in days. Remnants of past mail piles have been disbursed from their less than attractive spot on the dining room table to the trash and a basket that seems to accumulate that sort of thing as if someday, one of us may actually look through its contents.
I find myself using the floury fingers of hands recently finished kneading pizza dough to count the days before realizing I also have to think about what day of the week it is. I think it’s Wednesday. So, it’s been almost a week since I’ve walked across the street to get the mail. I’ve never counted the steps, but thinking about it now, the distance cannot be more than 20 yards from door to kiosk. Big yards. Yards created by huge strides that you imagine are at least three feet long.
The mailbox problem is beyond one of memory. Not much comes in the mail these days other than the few bills we’ve still not converted to paperless, newsprint advertisements for local markets’ sales, catalogs I need to email companies to stop sending, and requests for donations to charities I can’t begin to imagine are real. Why bother to get the mail? The routine — once something looked forward to — is more about whether I’ve got my hair combed, am dressed for the day, and wearing something that won’t draw attention should anyone see me walking those 20 yards.
God forbid.
I might not care if the occasional neighbor or dog walker from around the block was pleasant. That she smiled or at least nodded without my having to do so first, indicating she was a happy sort, enjoying the day and glad to be out in the sunshine, breathing the fresh air. But that rarely happens. The one person in the neighborhood who was friendly and knew everyone, who always stopped to say hello and ask about things has moved, and the quiet cul-de-sac is more quiet than it’s ever been.
I picture our small box in the kiosk and know it’s a toss up: it’s either crammed full, or a lone slip is sitting inside. I give in because it’s been so long, picturing the pinched expression on our mail lady’s face — not exactly the friendly sort — as she works to push yet another day’s mail contents into the small opening of our mailbox, annoyed and thinking about how difficult must it be to collect mail on a daily basis. I take pity on her and decide that since Wednesday is also the day I’m supposed to remember to pick up the MoH’s shirts at the cleaner, I get dressed. Sans shoes and sporting a pony that has to be jutting from the back of my head at a 90 degree angle, I venture out the door. Ever present readers are perched on my head. A black tank donned, clean for 15 minutes until I brush my floury hands on it.
Nice.
Luckily I make it to the kiosk without being noticed. No one is around to take stock of my horribly penciled in eyebrows, toenails with specks of a summery color clinging to each, and legs in need of a razor. I unlock the box, relieved it contains our mail instead of a slip requiring that I drive to the post office to collect it. But the box is stuffed. It’s so full thanks to a ridiculously sized Restoration Hardware catalog, that I have trouble wedging the mass from the box. It’s caught on the latch. I try to avoid tearing the contents as I release them, my thoughts lost in the effort. Suddenly, I notice someone passing directly behind me and turn my eyes to see a slight figured woman, older than myself, cap donned, hair fixed, head down and walking at a rapid pace. She’s been exercising and has clearly fixed herself up to do that, wearing well-fitted black and white sweats. But there’s no acknowledgement of me. No interest in turning her head to allow me to make a self-deprecating comment and share a laugh.
Nothing.
I look down at my heels after she passes, trying to imagine what I must look like from the rear struggling with a mailbox and noticing that it’s been a while since they’ve seen the callous remover I use on them. I notice the darkened spot on the leg of my comfortable grey bermuda shorts, remembering with a smile the night the MoH and I made fish and chips. I walk quickly back to the house, head down in determination to get back inside before the car approaching passes. I bury myself in mail sorting, determined to avoid the pile that is inevitable. I’ll feign productivity with this inane task instead of doing something I’d rather do so I can think think about why it’s such a challenge to pry myself from the house.
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Dawdling
It’s Wednesday. Remember Wordless Wednesdays?
Once upon a time, while many others were busy posting an image or a cartoon to take a bit of a blogging break midweek, I was busy finding excuses about why I wasn’t wordless and thinking how could anyone ever be wordless? I made jokes about my seemingly endless stream of whatever came to mind while others took a deep breath. Looked around. And although the words are coming now, they don’t add up to much. I stop to think, searching for something to put here, to have a bit of meaning other than to say what I’m saying.
See? Not much.
I know I should be wanting to hop on a soapbox about politics, or shake my fist at the injustices in the world. Complain about the cost of health insurance, or the size of the plastic debris soup “island” growing in the Pacific right now. I will say we recycle more than we throw away, avoid water in throw away plastic bottles, and reuse as much as we can, but our efforts seem paltry as I observe effects of others’ unconcerned attitudes.
No, I don’t feel like writing about those things right now.
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Wednesdays and Looking Forward
It’s Wednesday and I’m nearly wordless. Nearly wordless for someone like me is about as quiet as I get. I’m tired. It’s odd that with acceptance, energy is devoted nearly 100 % to doing what one has to do. Evenings are when I look forward to sinking into my couch and watching inane shows on the television with people I love.
At some point, whatever book that lies open on the floor next to my bed begins to call my name and often reluctantly, I give in to the fact that my day is over. As much as I look forward to bedtime after a busy day, I know that sleep just brings the next day more quickly, and so I give in to that as well.
I don’t like looking forward to the weekends. Time passes too quickly when that happens, and so I’ve begun to pay attention to what I appreciate about each of my days in a much different way than what I have in the past few years. It takes some practice considering that the effort admiring a drop of condensation on the leaf of a honeysuckle vine is much different than appreciating that the red message light on my phone isn’t lit when I arrive at 7 am.
But I have much to look forward to, and I don’t plan on missing any of it.
Happy Wednesday — even if it’s not quite wordless.
What are you looking forward to?
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Fooled
Do you ever have days where you’re up early and feel as if you can do just about anything? That was me today with the sun not more than a glow behind the mountains and everyone still fast asleep. But that was three hours ago, and all I’ve accomplished is consume two cups of a very dark Brazilian coffee I found at a local Latin market, and a rather large bowl of Wheeties.
I’ve flitted from the website of a cooking group I belong to expecting to see this month’s challenge posted (it wasn’t…) to a photography site where I continue to read about how to improve the lighting in my photos and how to build my own lightbox, wondering if any of the boxes in our garage are large enough to work so I don’t have to get in the car before it’s absolutely necessary today.
I gaze through the stats on my food blog and wonder how it’s possible for the number of page views its recorded are possible since my last check and where they’re coming from. That takes me to who is so I can research an IP address even though I know that never really tells me anything helpful.
All the while, I’m making a mental list of what I’ll accomplish today and the time is steadily ticking. Always ticking. And to make matters worse, I’ve activated the voice on my Mac to let me know the time on the hour and half hour because I lose track of it so often now, engrossed in too many things all at one time, wanting to do them all, and able to finish only one or two. It’s truly annoying.
I’ve wasted at least a half hour searching for an article I saved not too long ago knowing I had something to say about it and now can’t find it. It’s no wonder since I bookmark extensively using delicious, Evernote, and Firefox. I’ve searched, and it’s just not there. So then the wind goes out of my sails, and I scan my sidebar to visit someone — anyone — arriving there and marveling not only over their writing, but the lots and lots of people who comment there. I even visit some of the commentors, thinking about the little community this person has built. Or is it acquired? No matter. It exists. People take the time to stop and say something instead of, “Nice.” or “Looks terrific.”
I remember those days.
It’s what I get for defecting almost permanently to foodland.
Goodness. I’m here so infrequently now I even get spam telling me they can’t figure out my posting schedule. How hilarious is that? Um, can you tell us what your posting schedule is so we can spam you more than we already do? kthxbai.
It’s almost 10 now, and so I must make some decisions about this chilly, grey….wait.
It’s April Fools Day!
Clearly, the joke is on me.
Thinking I’d actually accomplish something.
Right.
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Comfort and Limitations
It’s dark when the alarm goes off and my husband hits the snooze button to squeeze a few more precious minutes of sleep from his restless night. I lay there not quite wanting to open my eyes and tentatively move my sore limbs, regretting my decision to tear down a fence in the back only a little, thinking, not bad for an old chick, as I become familiar with each ache.
The sound of the shower motivates me to swing my feet to the chilly floor and shuffle downstairs to turn on the kettle for tea. One English Breakfast tea bag goes into the stainless travel mug for my husband and I fill the coffee pot to the six line for myself, dumping two mounded scoops of coffee into the basket before remembering to actually turn it on.
The cat is looking at me from her perch on the arm chair and I’m wondering why she isn’t yeowling at me like she normally does at this point in my morning routine, hurrying me along so that she can have a fresh bowl of food. I glance at the dog’s dish to make sure my son has fed her before heading down to tend to the cat, proceding with caution on the stairs because I know she’ll come barreling down them right as I’m ready to take another step and I don’t want to be a feature story on the 5PM news. But she doesn’t today, and I look back to see her staring at me, seemingly as uninspired in this routine as I am. I tap the spoon on the rim of the cat food can and peer around the corner to see her headed down the stairs. She stretches each hind leg, then looks up at me and yeowls, as if to say, it’s about time.
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The Things We Keep
Yesterday I tackled the garage, and although I’m far from being done, I’m satisfied with the progress I’ve made. It’s a jumble of items you’d expect to find in a garage: a fairly recent deposit of my kitchen overflow; remnants of our recent construction; boxes expelled of Christmas decorations waiting for their return; and my son’s truly unbelievable collection of crap.
Not exactly a glamorous way to spend the first day after the holidays home alone, but pleasant. I popped the garage door open to let in the light and brisk air realizing that if I had an attic or basement, I wouldn’t be able to enjoy either of those or my less than friendly neighbors as they passed by on their morning walk, furtively avoiding my gaze and the greeting perched on my tongue, just waiting for an opportunity to be human. Ever the optimist am I.
I think the reason I avoid organizing our garage or anything else in my house that collects pieces of our lives over time, is that I’m forced to think about the memories attached to every item I handle. It isn’t that I regret those memories — it’s more about having to accept the time it adds to the task, and the mood I’ll need to wallow in when I’m finished.
My thoughts wandered from annoyance with my son for keeping what resembles a rat’s nest wherever he goes, to flippant defiance: What if I printed our address in craigslist in the “free” section and just left the garage door open to the inevitable riot? Instead, what I’m left with this morning are what lies between, like thoughts about boys growing up who were never interested in playing sports, but did to indulge us.
Thoughts about school and career, and where all that knowledge and understanding goes when one is done with it. Of an old house and all its poignant memories. Of grandmothers and Martha, old friends I should call or write, and school kids I will never, ever forget.
Beauty lost to function and sentimentality to practicality on many counts during my purge. Copper pieces that have gleamed in the morning sun and cast sparks of light on my dining room wall for years are in the discard pile. Decorations for Valentines Day and Easter that used to liven up the house when the boys were little also ended up in the pile along with a huge bag of stuffed animals I haven’t opened in years. If I see them, I’ll have to think about who owned which and at what point in life. It’s sort of leaning against the discard pile, not quite a part of it, and not quite separate. Is there a child’s stuffed animal heaven somewhere I haven’t heard of?
But there are things I’ve not quite decided to let go of, and If they’re any indication of who I am or what I’ve been, then I’m as odd as I’ve always thought I’ve been. As odd as the stack of Martha Stewart Living magazines that seem to be about much more than the paper they’re printed on. What does one do with that many magazines sitting, collecting spiders and bugs with too many legs to count? Do I get one out each week, leaf through it, cut out what strikes my fancy and toss it to get on with the next? There’s something about a sharp pair of scissors cutting along a perfectly straight line and thinking through one’s life.
Ferd, a giant bunny, sits in a corner on a stack of coolers. It’s not a very dignified place for something that reminds me of how simple love can be if we allow it, and how easily life can be taken for granted, or lost if we’re not careful.
And these bottles? I dug them up in the washed out area of an old dump near one of the last places my grandmother lived. It was in the middle of nowhere — one of those places people used to go and then forgot about after the freeway was built. The bottles aren’t valuable, but I like their varying shapes and embossed surfaces, each a slightly different tint than the next. She was like that.
Or a bag I packed the day I left my job, nearly two years ago. It’s moved from one side of the garage to the other, but I haven’t unpacked it yet. But I might blow the dust off the silver bar that used to sit on my desk to remind me that others see us quite differently than we see ourselves.
I’ve done quite a bit of thinking since finishing my work yesterday, and realize that as much as I got some exercise and fresh air, I’ve only moved everything from one side of the garage to the other. It’s more organized than it was, but it’s all still sitting there.
It’s only been sifted.
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Carly Simon and Memories about Choices
Yesterday was a marathon of driving from one end of the county to the opposite and in weather more conducive to July than November. To be more accurate, it’s cooler in July here than it has been the last many days. I’ve given up wishing and hoping for weather that smells and feels like Fall, let alone the winter that is barely four weeks away.
But when I’ve got a task to do that should have been completed weeks ago, I set my route and try not to think about it. I just go, like I’m on auto pilot. First one store, then the next. Speak with one salesperson, then another — all the while taking mental notes and feeling my brain ready to explode with so many others’ opinions.
I’d say that it’s because I’m thorough, but it’s closer to being an approval problem.
Carly Simon helped. Helped with the searching — not the approval problem. I rarely listen to music while I’m in the car preferring quiet more, but felt I needed something to get me in and out of the car with each stop I made. So Carly it was — and only because I sadly do not carry CDs in my car, let alone an iPod.
My afternoon of driving was saturated with memories of the who and what I used to be when “Anticipation” and “You’re So Vain” could be heard on the radio when people actually listened to music on radios. But my favorite was “That’s the Way I Always Heard it Should Be,” the haunting melody something I loved even though at that point in my life, I wouldn’t have been able to relate to the words — a giving up of one’s self to something others did just because that’s what was done.
I was too naive to see things that way. I was too busy looking for fairy tales of my own and thinking they were something that existed instead of something created. It takes a few mistakes to arrive at that conclusion.
“But you say it’s time we moved in together/Raised a family of our own you and me/Well that’s the way I’ve always heard it should be/You want to marry me/We’ll marry…’
I had no remorse about the eventuality of marriage because all of the other strings attached to the decision were far more interesting, like having an engagement ring, choosing fabric for a dress I would make myself, selecting perfect invitations, a just right location. You’re thinking there’s a minor problem with that line of thinking, yes? The matter of “choosing to spend my life with someone who would never have understood me” type of a problem.
“The couples cling and claw/And drown in love’s debris./You say we’ll soar like two birds through the clouds,/ But soon you’ll cage me on your shelf — I’ll never learn to be just me first,/By myself…”
No, we didn’t get married. The invitations were never ordered and the ring was given back.
Funny what a song can make you remember, isn’t it?
But I did end up finding what I was looking for on my marathon search yesterday. It’s a vanity of sorts for part of our home renovation work. I know you may not quite “see” it the way I do, and that it’s different than what you might put in your home. I’m used to that.
It’s because somehow along the way, I’ve learned to be just me first, by myself.
Or — that I’ve already polled a zillion people on the choice since gawd forbid someone besides myself will have to look at it while they’re sitting on the toilet and think, “What in hell was that woman thinking?”
But I’m used to people not seeing what I see in life and understand.
You can still throw in your two cents worth on the vanity if you want.
After all, it’s just a bathroom vanity, right?
But when I look at it from now on, I will most likely hear Carly Simon’s melody reminding me that I have made some amazingly good choices in life.
