Woulda Coulda Shoulda

I tend to be rather cerebral—I’m sure you never noticed that (oh, hi, you must be new here)—and as such, December has a way of knocking me into… I wouldn’t say a downward spiral, exactly, but a spiral more like a dog trying to chase its tail while on a staircase. There are so many THINGS that happen this month, so many reminders of what isn’t and what I wish wasn’t, and at some point in the month (if not at multiple points), I’m overwhelmed by a pervasive desire both to refuse to get out of bed AND to clone myself so that I can be everywhere I’m supposed to be. I suppose if that cloning thing ever works out, I can just hide under the covers and send my clones out to take care of life for me.

Some people are “To Do List” sorts of people. They derive great pleasure from crossing things off a list, and so they make lists with abandon. I am allergic to lists. I don’t know why this is, but I have a strong aversion to them. I suspect they make me feel inadequate, even though, yes, I KNOW, I could write “Make a list” as my first item and then cross it off, LIKE A BOSS. I suspect poor Otto had a moment of doubt about this whole marriage thing when he discovered that I never make a shopping list, which means I’m quite likely to return from the store with a trunkful of groceries but having forgotten the one thing we truly needed.

How To Pretend To Be A Responsible Adult Yet Be Completely Disorganized: my forthcoming book. (And by “forthcoming” I mean “never ever happening, because I suspect it would require some organizational skills I lack.”) (more…)

I’ve had a bit of an outlook shift in the last few weeks. It kind of snuck up on me, and it definitely wasn’t a linear progression, and I’m sure I may yet falter and/or regress. Nonetheless: I am a happier person than I used to be, because I’m tired of being sad.

Does this mean I will no longer regale you with verbose whining about the inconsequential, annoying minutiae in my life? Of course not; hyperbole is never going to cease to entertain me. But in the purest sense of where I’m at? I’m grateful for the good, and better able to see the not-so-good as sucky, sure, but not the be-all and end-all of my existence.

It turns out to be very freeing. So I thought it only fitting to share more about it this week, before I break another bone on preparing Thanksgiving dinner. (Kidding! I hope!) Come on over to Feel More Better to read about the secret I discovered. Spoiler: It’s not really a secret.

Wow, I had no idea until that last post how strongly people feel about 1) mayonnaise in general and 2) deviled eggs. I was left feeling like I should get my menu approved by everyone here before letting our guests into the house on Thanksgiving, and also like that could possibly end in blows while people scream at each other about hors d’oeuvres.

[I'm not saying y'all are that crass. I'm just saying that after the year we've had, nothing surprises me anymore. NOTHING.]

So I got to thinking about whether or not I need to be figuring out more pre-dinner munchies for Thursday, and in talking about it with Otto, my darling husband decided the solution to my confusion was to invite some folks over tonight, as well, and that’s entertaining twice in a week and THE SUNLIGHT, IT BURNS, and so now I am thoroughly befuddled and also, apparently the hostess with the mostess (what I have the most of remains a mystery). So. (more…)

So. Physical therapy continues to be… a mixed bag. On the one hand (hand! HA!), I absolutely see where my mobility is improving and by all accounts, my hand is healing (even if it’s a lot slower than I would like). On the other hand, I kind of hate going there. It takes a lot of time out of my day and it often frustrates me and I always feel crummy afterward.

Plus, I don’t think of myself as particularly vain—I stopped coloring my hair, I rarely wear makeup—but spending an hour or two staring at the big nasty scar on the back of my hand (and the associated swelling which is STILL making it impossible to wear my wedding rings, boohoo) isn’t exactly making me feel pretty. Not that I don’t love evoking giggling compliance from Monkey when he’s being ornery by intoning, “YOU WILL OBEY THE ZOMBIE HAND!” and grabbing his face (what, like you wouldn’t?), you understand, but still.

Basically, it’s a necessary evil, and I do it, and I yearn for the day when my hand therapist checks me over, measures my fingers (she is forever measuring the angles between my knuckles, ostensibly to chart mobility progress, but I suspect she’s building a duplicate hand out of gerbils in a basement lab somewhere), and says, “Good work. You’re done.” (more…)

If you’re an American, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what today is, or what you need to go do. Instead, I’m over at Feel More Better revealing my embarrassment about how I wish I’d learned to love voting sooner. I can’t change the past, so I’ll just be deeply grateful that I figured it out (and was able to get out and vote today). You do it too, okay? Thanks.

Oh hey, I almost forget to tell you that I’m over at Feel More Better, today, wondering how to remember the right things. It seems like we too often forget the good stuff, while many times what we’d happily forget forever just refuses to leave our memory banks.

I haven’t figured it out. I mean, other than simply wishing to have a memory like a dog—time passes quickly when things are bad, and happy feelings seem to trump all. That seems like a pretty good deal.