Weekends are all:
“What should we do, Word Raccoon?”
The options!
There’s breakfast (if she’s hungry),
and then that note to self: Pay the bills!
(Though it’s on the calendar, she often puts it off. Ugh. Admin.)
There’s
“Wasn’t there one last poetry submission (or two, or three?)
you wanted to send this month?”
So many options. Too good to choose between:
Reading
Writing
(subset: poetry or novel?)
Household projects
(WR tried installing the new hall lights, but the batteries were corroded.
Now we wait for more to arrive.)
This morning WR and I sang, naturally, while making breakfast.
Laughed.
We checked on a relative who took a nasty spill.
They’re okay, thankfully. Oof.
We’re grateful the son made it through surgery yesterday, surgery he said we didn’t need to be present for. If it had been anything but outpatient surgery, I would’ve ignored what he said and been there anyway.
WR and I are still pondering what to do with that bulk meat purchase from yesterday.
Cook?
Freeze?
Juggle it?
…Maybe not that last one.
We’ve postponed the decision until tomorrow.
We’re trying to remember to move the beer to the front of the fridge
for Barry’s band practice tomorrow.
We started watching Stiller & Meara: Nothing Is Lost. Very good. Perfectly nostalgic. But complicated, as families can be.
WR took her steam mop (irrational joy!) to all of the linoleum in the house.
I considered writing a bleak poem that came to me, and decided today was not that day. Didn’t even make a note. Thank you, no thank you. It may be January out there, but I refuse to let it snow in my heart.
I’m working on a grocery order:
Things I Will Not Buy in Town (Because Quality or Price) But Still Need.
I’m listening to an audiobook, 85% through.
No, I don’t want to say what.
(It’s literary fiction.)
Do I want to give my opinion on it?
Also no.
I want to do all the projects. Now, now, now.
It’s like my nervous system is writing to jazz and chain-smoking imaginary cigarettes.
Except I’m asking it to clean grout.
Sad face.
It won’t put up with that for long.
I hope.
WR replaced the hangers on 25 pieces of my clothing. I ripped five items from her grubby little paws to donate; she whined, but surrendered them.
Apparently, we need another bundle of 25 to finish the job. We’re swapping in velvet slim-fit hangers for the heinous plastic ones. (Ugh. Plastic.) WR refuses to live with ugly when there are alternatives.
More hangers: Ordered.
Yes, we could’ve counted when we ordered the last bundle. No, we did not. WR does not like to math. Except algebra. She kinda likes that.
Probably because of the letters.
WR joyfully pulled the stove out and cleaned behind it. She cleaned the walls. The corners.
I had to make her stop.
Who is this critter with all the energy? At one point, I caught her jumping up and down.
She was supposed to choose between reading, writing, and submitting poetry, remember?
She did submit one packet, at least, (three of her Emily Dickinson poems). But that was it.
The poems make her crave spring. Especially the violets: so pretty, so lost in the grass, just begging to be seen. The kind of flower you want to warn people not to step on accidentally. Underappreciated. Understudied. Okay, okay, enough about them. I know.
Manet painted violets. He was really good at still life. I saw an exhibit of his still life in Chicago, and I was just mesmerized.
Anyway.
Decluttering: finally finished. Long live deep cleaning. (Really? Who said that!) At this rate, I’ll be ahead of spring cleaning. (Ha! When was the last time I did that??)
After that? The fine tuning. The decorating.
(Okay, okay, WR has been doing bits of that already.
But soon, WR. Soon.)
Kinda sounds like the writing process, doesn’t it?
If Saturday holds this much energy,
Sunday better stretch first.
(If this is as boring as I fear it is, forgive me, dear reader. Sometimes you just feel like writing something, even when you don’t know what to say.)
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