I have the attention span of a flea

If there was a meter available that could measure my attention span, I’m thinking it would register at a big, fat, zero. Honestly, my two-year old has had better focus these days. Is it tiredness? Is it Age 30 looming in the distance, cackling and waiting to get its meaty hands around me? It’s awful. Awful.

My addiction to my iPhone is not helping.  What innocently starts out as, “Hmm, I need to google examples of Edwardian hairstyles” turns into, “Gee, I wonder how much gogo boots cost.  Wait, gogo boots only cost that much?  I can get them in white OR pink?  How much is that vintage shirt set?  Free shipping??  HOT DAMN!”

Aside from being distracted, the evil, judgemental eye of responsibility is also keeping me away from writing.  My brain says, “Ahh, three minutes of freedom it write.”  Responsibility says, “You should really do those dinner dishes.”  Or, “Ten minutes until I have to leave for work?  Time to write!” Responsibility says, “You’re going to leave all that unfolded laundry in the basket?  Really?”

Responsiblity always wins.  And Responsiblity knows that.

Responsibility says, “Well, go ahead and clean up the living room now that they boys are in bed and spend the next forty-five minutes before your bedtime writing.”

And my brain replies, “ZZzzzzzzzzz…..”

It’s terrible to get old.  Seriously, I started this blog post last night and fell asleep mid-sentence.

Lets talk about dreams.  Not dreams like, “I want to get published” or “I want to pay off my student loans.”  Tangible dreams.  My current dream is to just run away for a weekend, go to a bed and breakfast, and just write.  No distractions.  No dinner dishes.  Just me and my notebook (since my laptop is dead), my iPod, and writing.  That sounds amazing.

I even have the place picked out.  Because, you know, I’m distracted and instead of writing or shopping on eBay, I looked up writer’s retreats.  This little gem came up first on Google. 

The Porches

It’s called The Porches and its on the James River in Virginia.  Sure, they don’t feed you.  But there’s complimentary tea and space in the fridge and freezer.  What more could a gal want?  According to the website, it’s twenty minutes away from the nearest town.  They have “grounds” to walk.  In a word, fabulous.  In two words, super fabulous. 

The way I see it, what better place to work on my Civil War era work in progress than in a historic, old timey home in historic, old timey Virginia?  Is it in my budget?  No.  How does Responsibility feel about it?  Responsiblity doesn’t like it, that’s how.  But really, if I could spit in the eye of Responsibility and not feel like a horrible hag for leaving The Hubs and the boys at home while I tip toe through time, I’d do it in a heartbeat.  But then, we all know that, given all that time and quiet, I’d be asleep within the first forty-five seconds.  True story.

But I still dream.

Speaking of old timey-ness, there’s some Civil War reenactments looming on the horizon.  Today I dug out my reenacting clothes: dresses, corset, hoop skirt.  All the goodies.  Now, I haven’t tried on my reenacting stuff in like, two years.  Namely because I’ve spent the last two years pregnant.  But anyway, back in the day, The Hubs and I used to live and work at Harpers Ferry National Historical Park.  This stuff was my uniform.  Custom made corset, dresses my mom made for me.

None of which fits.

Okay, the corset fits.  It had better fit–that sucker cost me a lot of money!  Everything else is too big, which is at the same time awesome and the same time frustrating.  Yay for losing weight, but boo for losing so much that my dresses need taken in three inches.  My mother thinks she can take them in enough that they will pass for well-fitting; besides, I’ll just hold the baby in front of me and people will look at him instead of a floppy bodice.

My contingency plan is to wear my tent-like dresses to the reenactment anyway and blame their bagginess on cholera.

And on a somewhat related note, I did take a moment after the corset was nice and tight to inform The Hubs that I was ready for “The Floor Show.”  Any time one can work Rocky Horror into normal everyday life is a good time, if you ask me. 

Which also goes to show that I’m still not writing.  No, I’m running around being bizarre.  At least I’m honest about it.

And on that note, I’m going to end this rambling ode to distraction and either do some dishes, feed the baby, or write.  We’ll see what catches my attention first.


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