Life in progress


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Zoned

I love being “in the zone.” Totally concentrated on what I’m doing. Especially when I’m writing. People talk to me and I know somewhere on the edge of consciousness they’re asking me a question. Once, twice, and then maybe the third time they ask, I’ll answer with a completely inappropriate word.

Son: Have you fed the dog?

Me: Cupboard.

Son: Mom?

Me: Uh … the food’s in the cupboard.

Son: I know where it is. Has he eaten yet?

Me: Okay, thanks.

That sort of thing. And they think I’m zoned out, but I’m zoned in, man. Like, totally zoned IN. (Sorry, Cheech and Chong were on Stephen Colbert last week and I seem to be channeling Tommy Chong.) It’s all a matter of perspective. I’m guessing nobody would want to be in my zone with me anyhow. At least not farther into my zone than the filtered version that my writing offers. This zone’s deep and scary, man. Deep and scary.


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Xylophone

I have nothing to say about xylophones except that I remember wanting one as a child. To me, they were like pianos you could bash with a hammer. Which was probably why when I got one, it broke. It had keys (do you call them keys? let me look it up … oooh, I learned something new) bars made of rainbow-coloured pieces of metal that eventually sounded less melodic than if I’d had a series of tin cans lined up.

What did I learn? I learned a xylophone has wooden keys and the ones with metal keys are glockenspiels. So there you go: I’ve never owned a xylophone.

I feel like my whole childhood was a lie now. Thanks Wikipedia.


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Well, I Never!

Has the cashier in a grocery store ever commented on your purchases? It happens to me once in a while. It happened today, in fact. I had two loaves of bread and a can of salmon on the conveyor. As the cashier scanned them, she said, “Salmon sandwiches.”

“Yeah,” I replied. But then I got to thinking.

What if I’d been buying, say, mouthwash: might she have asked, “Did you forget the garlic bread”?

What about beans: “Better be sleeping alone tonight!”

Toilet paper? “I love this one! So soft.”

Condoms? “Someone’s getting lucky!”

A cucumber? …okay, never mind. You get the picture. Whether you want it or not.

So yeah, it’s probably just my imagination running away with me as usual, but having the cashier comment on my food kinda weirds me out.


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Ugly Very Smoke

My illegal following of the A to Z Challenge went off the rails yesterday when I missed the letter “U.” May as well handcuff me and drag me off to blogger jail, because I’m back with “U” and “V” combined today. And I’m a bit of a grumpy camper, so make sure those cuffs are good and tight.

And could we PLEEAASE make blogger jail my room? Where my bed is? ‘Coz I’m sleep-deprived.

You see, last night at (hang on, what does it say on my Fitbit?) 1:29am, my eldest son came into my room and told me I had to get up. Confused, I dragged myself down the stairs trying to make sense of why he was saying he wanted to call 911. Turns out he’d preheated the oven not realizing that he’d spilled butter in it the last time he used it.

There was smoke. There was so much smoke that even with three windows and a door open in the kitchen, my eyes were still watering and my throat still hurt. The oven was off but smoke still billowed out of the vent while it cooled down.

According to my trusty Fitbit, I didn’t get back to bed until 2:11. Where I lay and contemplated the fact that my son woke me up, not my fire alarm.

My best friend, John, came over this morning and changed the batteries in the three (count ’em–THREE) alarms that didn’t work last night, but I haven’t started up the oven to check and see if they’re any better at detecting smoke …

My throat hasn’t recovered yet.

I should probably do that tomorrow. When I HOPE the word of the day won’t be “water.”


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Twenty to Twelve

It’s twenty to twelve on “T” day (not that I’m keeping track or anything), and I’m tired. Been looking at the screen most of the day, trying to get my book edited.

But now all I can think about is Toronto. The city where I was born. The city where ten people died today after getting run over by a truck on the sidewalk. Those poor innocent people.

It’s horrifying to know it can happen anywhere, at any time. It’s horrifying that so many of us are become desensitized to it. It’s horrifying that it’s not as horrifying as it used to be, even a couple of years ago, when multiple people died by a senseless, violent act.

Is this what we’re coming to? Or is it what we, as a species, always were?

So many questions for such a late hour. I’m at a loss.


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Right!

I’m supposed to be writing a post today.

But the truth is, I’ve run out of things to say.

My eyeballs are popping out of my head.

Or they would be if my eyelids weren’t made of lead.

I didn’t mean to write a rhyme

but today is running out of time.

So I guess this is what I’m stuck with.

Orange.

Because nothing rhymes with “stuck with,” either.

I’m going to bed.

Before this lame post gets any lamer.

(And no, that’s not a passive/aggressive cry for validation. It’s lame. Say it’s lame. C’mon, altogether now …)

Good night. 😉


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Potentially Perpetuating Participation

Pretend you didn’t notice all the “p”s in the title. This is absolutely not part of the A to Z Challenge, where the letter of the day just happens to be “p.”

The masochist I am, I’m thinking about doing another month-long prompt. Because let’s face it, I can’t seem to stay away from them. …unless you count … umm … Just Jot it January! Yeah, that’s the ticket.

So I’m going to put up a poll–a poll for potentially perpetuating participation in a prompt. (It’s a coincidence!!) What I’d like you to vote for is which month you could see yourself doing a prompt. This prompt would be totally random writing assignments. You know, like actual prompts, unlike Stream of Consciousness Saturday where you only have a hint at what to write.

I’m only adding months that I know I can manage myself. Not January (JusJoJan), not February as Bee’s “Love is in Da Blog” prompt is that month, not April (because #atozchallenge, which has absolutely nothing to do with this post), and not October, November, nor December (Halloween and Alex’s birthday, NaNoWriMo, and Christmas, in that order). So what do we have left?

 

Interested?