I never write about not being able to write, but today I feel the need to make an exception (along with my apologies for not having read what you folks are writing, which feels more terrible than not posting). I’m not blocked, exactly. I’ve got a few musings in the hopper, so to speak — just nothing that’s ready for prime time, if you know what I mean. I’ve just been busy with other things. I wish I could say they were more important things, life-changing things. Some of them are. The hovel purge continues. So, that’s good. This activity feels both important and life-changing. We shall see. Getting more organized will ultimately be a good thing. I know this. It’s just the process that’s daunting. I’m hopeful, though. Having hope is always a positive thing. Unless, of course you are the type of person who sits around hoping for bad things to happen, like the death of your enemies or nuclear destruction. Luckily, I’m not that type of person. I figure the world will wreak it’s own havoc on my enemies. I can’t muster up the necessary time and energy to worry over the nuclear thing. If it happens, it happens. I assume it will be quick. I think that’s the best that we can all hope for on that subject.
Besides being hard at work on getting my house in order, I have also been up to my usual idiocy. Mostly, I’ve been doing those absent-minded professor things for which I am (semi) famous. Not once, but twice this week, I engaged in some footwear tomfoolery. First I headed out of the house in two different shoes. I wish I could tell you that they were so similar that I became confused in the dark, but that would be a lie. First of all it was broad daylight, second of all the were two very different colors. In my defense they were both sneakers, however, one was black and one was white. Fortuitously, I caught myself just outside my front door and was able to rather easily rectify the situation. I wish I could tell you that this is the first time I’ve done this. It’s not. A couple of years ago I did the very same thing with the very same shoes, only that time I wasn’t as lucky in terms of noticing what I’d done. That time I made it all the way to Target before I realized that I was wearing two very different shoes.
I was not as eagle-eyed when it came to putting my Uggs on the wrong feet. I have performed this feat of stupidity twice over the past couple of days. Okay, I was only running to the corner store or to the laundry room, but still, who does this once, let alone twice? Further, I will have you know that I only discovered it when I began to actually trip over my own two feet.
I have, for the most part, been successfully bathing/showering myself for over forty years. Why suddenly it’s become a problem for me, I couldn’t tell you, but it appears that I may no longer be up to the task. Again, not once, but twice this week I failed at something that most people manage to accomplish on a daily basis as a matter of course. I’ve had to take up focusing and concentrating in the shower, otherwise I am liable to either not shampoo my hair at all or to not rinse my hair of the shampoo that I miraculously remembered to apply. What person of normal intelligence does this?
I wish that these minor memory glitches, which I have decided to attribute to preoccupation, rather than a peri-menopausal state or my advancing age, only reared their ugly head at home (or at the corner store, or on my way down to the laundry room), but they haven’t. No. My foray into the land of forgetfulness has followed me to work where, on several occasions, I have simply failed to either order a customer’s food or to bring them something integral to their dining needs. My sincere, profuse and heartfelt apologies were accepted by these kind and generous people, none of whom were pressed for time or unduly attached to eating ketchup on their cheeseburgers. So, outside of looking like a ditzy waitress, no harm, no foul. Thankfully no one flipped out. I don’t know what I would have done if they had. A crying jag cannot be ruled out.
As much as I want to believe that none of this is hormonal, I know that’s not true. And I know it’s not true because of the crying. I would say that I’m an average crier or, more to the point, an appropriate crier. I’ll admit that I sometimes find crying cathartic. I’ll confess that sometimes the Sleepy’s commercial gets me to feeling a little weepy — the one where they do the montage of the couple as they age and their children grow while “In My Life” plays in the background. That one. I also really miss Oprah. That show was usually good for an afternoon cry. And, obviously, I have been known to cry when faced with personal loss. I’m not made of stone. I’m just not the sort of person who bursts into tears on anything resembling a regular basis (at least since Oprah went off the air, that is).
Lately, though, I have found myself either on the verge of tears or full-out crying on several occasions. A couple of times were out of sheer frustration with my husband who, it seems, has made a resolution to become a complete and utter asshole this year. I don’t really know what is going on with him and, frankly, I’m too fed up at the moment to care. I’m sure his behavior is related to my efforts at organization. Don’t get me wrong, he wants things more organized, he just doesn’t want to do any work or spend any money to make it happen. He has also grown fond of the word “stupid” and has begun to apply it liberally to many of the changes that I’ve suggested for living space. After a while the word “stupid” (not applied to me, per se, just to my ideas) began to grate on my last nerve. I got frustrated. I cried. He apologized. He then proceeded to continue to thwart me at every turn. So, I’ve resolved to just let him go on being an asshole. I’ll work around him.
My daughter, God love her, perhaps sensing the tension in her parents’ normally placid relationship, said something the other day that literally brought me to tears. I know that my kid has a kind and generous heart, mostly because that’s what other people tell me. At home she is snarky, mouthy, and self-centered, but when she goes out into the world she demonstrates altogether other qualities. (Don’t we all?) Normally, like most any adolescent who knows that she is unconditionally loved, her behavior at home can be beastly. So, imagine my surprise, when she looked me straight in the eye, put her hand on my shoulder (I was, literally, knee deep in plastic container sorting) and said, “Mom, I’m so proud of you.” I could barely choke out a “Thank you” before she noticed me crying. I’m happy to report that she got back to her old self right away, rolling her eyes and calling me “ridiculous” on her way out of the kitchen. And I did feel ridiculous. There she was, being nice — finally! — and all I could do was burst into tears. So, I guess that’s the last compliment I’ll get out of her for a while.
Anyway, this about sums up what I’ve been up to (or not up to) this week. It’s time to sign off now, as I have to attend to showering, carefully choosing my shoes, and relocating my dishes to a place that will, no doubt, be called stupid by my husband. I also must try very hard to get through the dinner shift without incident. And I have to do all of this without crying. I’m going to hope for the best.
For those of you unfamiliar with the Sleepy’s commercial referenced above:
glasses clinking (zazzle.com)