Who knew it is was possible for you to have a good day?
Not that everything went well. Not that you felt you were spectacular. But you got up in time, pushed some of the right buttons, gave some good explanations, had answers, asked some good questions, made some good jokes, and taught someone something that they were interested to learn.
That’s pretty cool.
The one day a lunch break is actually called, we had lunch ordered in. No way were we letting what happened yesterday occur – a harried run at 2:30 to the sub shop.
We had Chinese food. There were two fortune cookies left on the table as we were packing up. I grabbed them and put them in my jacket.
1) Your exotic ideas lead you to many exciting, new adventures!
2) In order to take, one must first give.
Pretty cool day indeed.
Dear new downstairs neighbors,
I apologize for everything up front.
Yes, 7am is the latest I ever sleep. If you have ideas on how to rectify that, please drop them in the suggestion box.
No, I don’t have Great Danes galloping through here. It’s just a cat. A 20 lbs. cat. Yes, he’s on a diet.
Yes, that was water dripping onto your front step. I am horrible at caring for my plants. Drought or drown is my method. You seem to have lots of green things on your patio. May I steal one when mine dies?
No, Trick Pony is not just a phase I’m going through. Wait until I have a really bad night and put “Secret Garden” on repeat 53 times. You have my permission to come knocking and inform me that although it’s not too loud, it’s just too damn annoying. I’ll agree wholeheartedly, I just won’t be able to make myself stop without interference.
You’ll still appreciate that more than when I have a really good night. All bets are off on a good night.
I had an absolutely wonderful evening with friends last night which included spending some time curled up in their kitchen sink.
One friend was making rice crispie treats, one was playing on the computer. The RCT friend exclaimed, on finding me spooning the faucet, “I love having you over, you’re so low-maintenance!”
I burst into laughter.
“OK, ” RCT amended, “You’re a low-maintenance friend.”
You have to start somewhere, right?
Thing I have learned so far from NaNoWriMo:
1) I do not spell toilet correctly.
2) I can’t blame the cat for my word count.
3) I can be exceedingly dull and trite at times.
4) It’s fun to let characters write themselves.
5) It’s difficult to make them do what you want.
6) Name changes aside, I need a whole lot of editing before certain people can read my novel.
7) I smirk calling it a “novel”.
8) I’d rather have written a comedy.
9) Not that it won’t make you laugh.
10) I cannot simply make the MCs passion painting, instead of writing, to make her not be me.
11) Giving her short black hair helps a little.
12) I need to schedule more massages.
13) After 2 hours and only 200 words, I am not fit to go out in public.
14) I can be incredibly gifted at times.
(You’re just going to have to take my word on it)
I had two disturbingly vivid dreams last night.
The second one made me think I needed to call someone as soon as I woke up. It took several layers of thought to re-discover reality. The clock radio from my parent’s kitchen is stuck in my mind right now and is making me very homesick. In my dream, the radio played a song that I have been hearing a lot lately and feeling it’s a sign. I heard it through the window as I sat on our air conditioner, smoking.
In the first dream I was been reprimanded for what amounted to sexual harassment at work. Among the complaints against me was, “You should really wear panties with those ripped nylons.”
My retort? “I was wearing panties with those ripped nylons.”
Even in my dreams, I am a fashion goddess.
You can’t think of anything to write because you’re too busy being astonished at yourself.
You just did the most sad, pathetic thing anyone on earth could do.
You also promised yourself you’d shutup about men, but since you can’t think of anything to write, and you think it’s unfair to state your sudden plummet into pathetic-ness (see! You can’t even think of a good metaphor you’re so disgusted with yourself!) without stating the reason, why don’t you just go ahead, say it, get it out of your system, and never speak of it again.
You just put the empty cat treats bag in that “special place” in the closet.
That’s right, you saved an empty foil bag as a memento of someone. A person, mind you, who hasn’t called or written. You’re not even sure how you feel about him anymore. But you want to make sure you have keepsakes just in case.
So you’re holding onto trash.
There is a line between romantic and idiotic. Sometimes that line is thin and hard to see. Not this time.
Let us never speak of this again.
I get the point.
Flexibility, it’s all about flexibility.
Because the moment you say, “I’m going to make lists and check some things off” the toilet will overflow.
So I bought conditioner and a plunger.
Then, my body decided to defect to the “you’re too busy” camp and sleep. Yeah, I thought I’d take a nap at some point. But I’m talking two cups of coffee and I still crashed so hard I couldn’t remember my first name.
Since the whole day was going out the window, I’m baking lemon squares. I might eat them all tonight. Start tomorrow with a clean slate.
My mind is everywhere tonight.
Today I spent time in large social groups, intimate clusters, and by myself.
I even spent time across a booth from a member of the opposite sex. We then went back to his apartment where he showed me the ring he plans to give his girlfriend. It’s beautiful.
My ring was beautiful. It was passed down 5 generations. And I suppose it will continue to be, just not with me.
I’m thinking about the man that gave me that ring (and in the same breath as asking me to dinner to reconcile, asked for it back). I’m thinking about the man that told me I was too busy and how he perhaps knows me better than he wants to. Better than I want to be known right now.
And I’m thinking about a third guy whom I want to get to know. Maybe I just want to get to know him because the other two aren’t possibilities. Maybe it’s because he seems as screwed when it comes to relationships as I am. Misery loves company?
Can misery really understand each other? Or do you just think you understand each other, that the suffering you’ve felt at the hands of the opposite sex makes you special when the reality is there is no possible way either of you can understand the first thing about another person because you don’t understand the first thing about yourself.
Dinner was a success. The 8th person had to work, so no stress over the seating arrangement. Although I was teased for the step ladder. But that didn’t last too long, once they tasted my cooking. I rule the kitchen. Such a waste of a domestic goddess.
While I spent time by myself today, I cried. Then later I laughed. It’s like there’s a bad movie playing in my head.
Where’s my happy ending? If I can admit to being a drama queen, then I can take a minute to pout and say the following: I deserve a happy ending damnit!
And some chocolate-covered peanuts.
Let’s say you’re going to have a dinner party. Grown-up like.
But for 8 people, you can only think of 7 chairs. And that includes:
1) Two real chairs with cat hair-infused cushions
2) Two green plastic patio chairs
3) One computer chair
4) One stool from your vanity
5) One small step ladder
Do you pull out the huge rubbermaid container full of action figures, throw a pillow on it, and call it chair #8? Will your friends find it charming, the dinner a success, and be amazed at your “can-do” attitude?
Or, will your friends pity the tacky chairs, the slightly burnt rice, and the frantic look in your eyes?
Shut up darling. Because they love you no matter what. Convince yourself to do the same and then you’ve accomplished something.
There are some days you think you’re fine.
And someone posts on a writing forum, wanting information about Destin, Florida.
“Destin? I just drove through there for a wedding! I should post a response about how beautiful it was!”
Because it was beautiful. You loved it.
So you start to post a response. Then you think of the vacation information the bride gave to everyone. You pull it out from under pictures and a package you’ve been meaning to send.
You go back to posting the response, searching the information for relevant facts.
But all you can think about is the drive to drop off his rental car. The stop at Goodwill and the red dress you wish you tried on. You actually ate an omelet that day and liked it. You hate eggs.
You want to tell this stranger that it’s a beautiful quaint little area and you can’t wait to go back.
But what you really mean is you want to go back with him. You’d fly to the closer airport, stay at a different house, but eat at the same restaurant with the OK omelets.
You want to help this fellow writer continue her story of Destin, Florida but you can’t.
You’re pretty sure you’ll never go back. Your story is over. But you almost erase the words even as you type them because it just can’t be true. It was too beautiful to give up yet.
And that’s when you realize you’re not fine, and you’re in no shape to help anyone.