Tonight I went out with friends for dinner and drinks – something I haven’t done in many years.
It’s important, I think, to connect with people. I consider myself lucky to have friends. Friends aren’t something I’ve had a lot of in my life, at least not since high school. Oh, I’ve had a few here and there, but the life I lead isn’t one many people can find something in common with. I’m a parent, yes, but my kids are … special. Being a writer and admitting it usually results in people looking at me as though I’ve grown an extra head.
First off, what the hell is going on with WordPress today? I woke up and this blog’s “best ever” day has gone up by nine views, and my fiction blog’s has gone down by four. Has this happened to anyone else or are they just screwing with me?
Second, I really am going to finish replying to all my comments soon. Tomorrow, if all goes well. But when does it ever? Can anyone answer me this question?
Third, I need another glass of wine.
Fourth, … oh yeah! Another WTF WordPress. I scheduled my 63rd Scenes from the Second Seat on the Right post for 11am this morning but it went live at 10. Did WordPress not get the memo that the time changed last night? Was it only Canada that changed? I’m confuddled.
Fifth, what do I do with all these Hallowe’en candies?
Sixth, if anyone can answer the above questions to my satisfaction and (as always) with humour, you get a point. Extra points if you send me a bottle of wine.
My day is winding down; I have just enough wine in me that I’m not sleepy. Contentedness folds over me like a warm blanket.
The sound is down on Mickey Mouse, because my son is Deaf–gone are the days of having to listen to a certain purple dinosaur, for whom I feel absolutely no love, and who I suspect doesn’t love me either. There are walls and windows between myself and my family, and the frigid winter air. My tummy is full of a simple dinner of pasta and canned tomatoes, with mozzerella cheese melted on top… What more could I ask for?
I love nights like this. It’s like comfort food for an exhausted soul.
Tell me, what is your perfect evening with family?
I’m content. Basically, I am happy with my life, and yes, I’m whining about it. Let me tell you why.
The tortured soul can write poems of epic proportions. In times of loneliness, of pain, of near breakdown, a writer can bleed upon the page. But when this writer has nothing to cause her grief, there is nothing but fluff. Lint, even.
Is it strange to wish I longed for something? To pass my finger quickly through a flame doesn’t hurt. But the flame sparkles, enticingly.
It’s taken me twenty seven days to run out of things to say, which isn’t bad I don’t think. Okay, so I cheated for a couple of days when my dear friend Navigator1965 posted for me. But I would have come up with something excellent to blog about. Honest.
One little bit of good news – the kids are being picked up by their dad for the weekend, so I’m getting some time to myself, for the first time in four weeks! This will be my fifth weekend off since August. I want to spend as much time reading my manuscript as I can, since I haven’t looked at it for almost two months. I wanted to give it time to rest. Apart from that, I think sleep will be a priority.
And wine and chocolates. I have a box of Godiva truffles to wade through, which is nice, as I have insanely expensive taste in chocolate. Hey, go big or go home, right? The wine is a different story. I’m going to save the good stuff for a grand occasion, like when someone’s book hits the best-seller list. Which it will. You know who you are.
What else? Oh, I went back to delivering my papers today for the first time since my accident. It went well – not too much ice underfoot, nor any branches dropping on my head. No giraffe encounters either (Joey), nor did I see Megan Fox (Paul), so it wasn’t a perfect outing.
My next door neighbour lost his back fence to a fallen tree that stood about five feet tall laying down (the trunk’s diameter), so that was pretty exciting. I missed it actually falling, but I was sitting at the kitchen table when it happened, so I caught the cloud of ice dust that surrounded it when it hit the ground. It missed the other neighbour’s shed by inches. I’m glad I wasn’t standing under that. Surprising, considering my luck this holiday.
Alex seems to be doing well. I’m not sure why the doctor only treated the symptoms of his pneumonia and didn’t mention removing the piece of food from his lung. Maybe it’ll dissolve? I can’t find any information online one way or the other.
Here’s some more ice, in case you haven’t seen enough this week.
I find myself saying ‘If I could only just…’ a lot.
If I could only just find more time to write…
If I could only just have more money…
If I could only just find true love…
It goes on, ad infinitum. But all these things denote that I’m not content, when for the most part, I am. I have my children here with me, we have a roof over our heads, the air inside is warmer than outside, and there is food in the fridge. And I’m keeping up with my writing quite well, although sometimes it’s a struggle to do anything else.
So what is it which makes me wish for more? Is it simply the human condition to keep striving? It’s hard, for me at least, to keep my mind from going, from wandering, and from wondering what it would be like if I had just a little more.
Now if only I could consume nothing but coffee and chocolate and wine and cheese …. then I’d be happy.
It’s Thanksgiving here in Canada today, so I have my mother visiting for an extra day; normally she only spends Saturday night at my house. There are many changes going on with her, in her advancing age, though for an octogenarian she’s not doing too bad. Her memory is going, she has a harder time getting around, and her skin is thin, so she tends to cut herself quite easily. But the change I see in her that bothers me, personally, the most is her increase in being judgmental. It affects the way I feel I must do things, even in my own home.
Take last night for example. After the kids go to bed I must sit in the room with her while she watches TV. If I don’t, I don’t hear the end of it. If I decide to stay up, she stays up. If I go to bed, no matter how early, so does she. So last night I wanted to get some homework done for my course. I couldn’t concentrate on the story I was reading from my textbook with the TV going, so I thought I’d read in bed. With a glass of wine. I know that this is unacceptable behaviour, in her eyes, so I waited until she was brushing her teeth and I snuck upstairs with my glass of wine and my book and pretended I was going to sleep.
I’m almost 50 years old, and I’m still sneaking booze – just like when I was a teenager, except now it’s in my own house. Why don’t I just put my foot down? It’s not worth the aggravation of having to explain to her over and over that just because I have a glass of wine before bed doesn’t mean I’m an alcoholic, nor does staying up for an extra half an hour mean I’m going to be tired all day.
Just one of the many reasons my mother won’t be living with me any time soon.
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