I have a board on Pinterest called Smiles, which started out as a nice little board with nice little inspirational sayings. Somehow it’s morphed into a board of pins that make me laugh so hard, I weep. Literally. The other night, when I should have been in bed sleeping, The Hubs and I were on the Smiles board, laughing so hard (and so quiet, because the Rowdy Boys were in bed) that we were crying. Anyway, that’s a pointlessly long introduction to the fact I have a pin that reads:
Sometimes I sit quietly and wonder why I am not in a mental asylum. Then I take a good look around at everyone and realize……maybe I already am.
Here’s an example. Last night, The Preschooler was drinking sarsaparilla. Actually, he was drinking root beer, but we call it sarsaparilla. He sat on the couch next to me, took a drink, and said, “Ahh, sweet lover.”
Look, sometimes I feel super well put together and like I’m Super Mom: working full-time and being responsible and buying vegetables because vegetables are good for children. And then, there’s other times when I’m tripping over things, working an entire half day of work before realizing my pants were unzipped, and saying “um” and “like” too much because I’m socially awkward. Well, sometimes I’m socially awkward. And then, sometimes I’m a media darling (see here). More often than not, I’m just….pressed for time.
I once watched a Lifetime movie where the main character was institutionalized because she was stressed at work. I guess it was a bad thing, I mean, sure she was sort of locked in her room at night. But, there was a very nice staff of very nice British people doing her laundry, making her bed, and giving her the daily schedule of meal options and activities. And all this fool woman wanted to do was escape. Beating people over the head with flashlights to steal their keys and try to escape, trying to shimmy over an electric fence, trying to seduce one of the guys in charge so maybe, just maybe, he’d let her go. That’s not an institution. That’s a vacation. You just happen to be locked in your room. But there are activities. And someone is cooking for you and doing your laundry.
I fail to see the downside of that, Lifetime. I mean, try to make at least one aspect of it undesirable. Feed her Soylent Green or something (anyone? Anyone? “Soylent Green is people!!! Soylent Green is people!!!”).
My biggest dream (other than the dream where Tom Hiddleston shows up at my front door) is a writer’s retreat. Facebook has been taunting me recently with ads for agent/writer retreats where you just hang out in Vermont with an agent, eat delicious food, and talk about your novel. Even Amtrak has a program now where you can apply for a writer’s residency and just zoom about on a train for a couple of days, writing and watching the countryside crawl past. Here’s the link, but from what I’ve read, you have a better chance of catching Bubonic Plague than getting selected. Everyone’s applying (except me because…no, actually, I don’t have a legitimate excuse why I haven’t applied). Just a couple of days or a weekend, spent writing and not grocery shopping, cleaning, doing laundry, or debating if my tire really is flat or if it just looks flat. Such a fantasy (other than the fantasy where Tom Hiddleston shows up at my front door….)
Until that happens (the retreat, not the Tom Hiddleston part. Stay focused), I’m writing during my lunch break at work. I’m staying up waaaay too late and sleeping waaaaay too little. This weekend I actually have a ton of writer-ly things that need done for Anything You Ask of Me. And…obviously I’m not doing them. I have to do them though, (by Monday) so, the sooner they’re done, the sooner I get back to Random Contemporary. You know, in between trying to keep the Toddler from running around the house without pants on and spilling coffee on myself. Or, my personal favorite, not realizing I have Pop Tart smeared on my clothes until we’re out in public.
So, if you’re out at the grocery store today and see someone wearing Pop Tart stained jeans, standing amongst the bananas and writing novel notes on the back of an envelope with a broken crayon, chances are it’s me. Just, you know, utilizing my time to the fullest.