Apropos of absolutely nothing, I feel the need to discuss typing. Right here, right now. Can you touch type? I can touch type, if by “touch type” you mean “type rapidly without looking at the keys.” But if you take “touch type” to mean “type the way they teach you in school,” then no, I admit it. I cannot.
I suffer from a rare disorder known as… ummm… Uncoordinated Pinkies.
So I touch type, but I move my hands around too much, because I cannot, in fact, use my pinkies to depress keys. My pinkies are useless. With my current method, I can still type about 80 wpm. Just imagine how speedy I’d be if I typed properly!
Okay, we now return you to our regularly scheduled somewhat cohesive post.
So today it is quite tragic to be me, you know. Let me count the ways.
Last night Monkey had a bad dream. Let me tell you a fascinating fact about being post-menopausal that seems to be true for all the post-meno women I know, even the ones on hormone replacement (and thus is a highly scientific finding, not to mention embedded within an impressively long and awkward sentence): After menopause, waking up in the middle of the night nearly always means STAYING AWAKE. I have no idea why estrogen plays a key role in being able to get back to sleep after being awoken from a deep slumber, but apparently it does. I suffer no other menopause symptoms (thank you, Vivelle Dot, my one and only true love), but when I’m disturbed in the night, forget it. I’m wide awake, mentally composing nasty limericks about my dearly departed ovaries.
So it was not so much with the sleeping, last night.
This morning, I had a metric ton of work to complete. True, some of that was due to procrastination on my part, but hey, details. Not important. I got the kids off to school and sat down to work. And I spent the entire day writing, because–oh yeah!–that’s what I do now. For work. I write! I love to write! Really!
So I wrote all day and got most of my stuff done, and then I fetched the kids from school, and realized that I still needed to put up a post over at BlogHer, which caused me to heave a loud sigh of put-upon-ness, such as you would expect from someone who did not WANT to write. (Did I ever mention that I’m writing over there now? Cuz, um, I am.) So I put together a post over there and thought to myself, “Hooray! Self, you have done an awful lot of writing today! Way to go!”
And then tonight I realized that I needed to post here, as well, and I thought, “GODDAMNIT, WHOSE IDEA WAS THIS WHOLE BLOGGING THING, ANYWAY?”
It’s possible I could use a break. But there is no rest for the wicked. I wanted to be a writer, and now I write, and complain about it. Which just goes to show you that not even a career change can alter my basic propensity for whining.
But you know, no matter what your particular trauma at any given time, someone else always has it worse. And if you’re me, the person who has it worse is one of my kids.
Today it is also tragic to be Chickadee, in a way which she is now old enough to be embarrassed about. I was on the phone with a friend and said, “Well, Chickadee seems to have a stomach bug. She–” and she practically LEAPT off the couch crying out “DON’T SAY IT! DON’T TELL!”
My little girl is growing up. *sniffle* Out of respect for her, I will not tell. I will only say that it was a beautiful day, and we came home and the kids were playing outside, happily. And then… ummm… Chickadee was… less happy. And in need of a shower. And quite clearly not feeling her best. So.
It’s a good thing I got a lot done today, because I suspect tomorrow is going to be a wash. For me and my girl. We’ll just be the Tragic Sisters. Perhaps we can sing duets. About working too hard and… ummm… ginger ale. If we get bored, maybe I’ll teach her to type. I’m sort of wondering if my pinky condition is genetic.