This morning, it’s like Word Raccoon and I are on a scale. You know, the kind with two arms, little bowls hanging from chains? And we started out so well, doing all the things!
We’re up:
We did some hand laundry.
Put fresh batteries in the hall and cabinet lights and installed them. (Let’s be honest, “installation” was peel-and-stick. Not exactly big muscle labor. But they’re motion-sensitive and they make such a difference that I’m tempted to order lights for every shelf we own.)
Made a cinnamon raisin bagel with peanut butter.
Tossed a massive bed pillow in the trash, because why store it when we don’t use it?
Found a spot for the lap desk we almost donated but ended up using this weekend.
Listened to a couple of podcasts/videos while doing all of this that nearly convinced us to grab the Dawn Powerwash (not sponsored, but call me) and go to town on the stove.
And then. The down.
I don’t know if I’d just fully woken up by then or if it was the fine motor skills kicking in, but I noticed my fingers were being dumb today. I don’t even want to go there because it makes me feel old and helpless and sad. But the struggle is real.
I remember once, years ago, asking a very serious poet I’d just met if she had a backup plan for writing, like in the event she couldn’t use her hands. She said yes. We joked about alternatives. I told her I’d use my nose to peck at the keyboard if I had to.
And I meant it.
Clearly, this has been on my mind for decades. And it’s very unlikely I’ll need to get that creative, but still, Word Raccoon got scared. She started turning cartwheels in my hair. I told her to knock it off, take a stupid pain pill, give it time, and oh yeah, go shower.
The shower helped.
I put away a load of laundry, even though it was getting later than I’d hoped. My goal had been to be AIS (ass-in-seat) by 9.
But I had a bank run to make. It could have waited, but alongside Barry’s band money, I had a whole bag of change to convert. I don’t remember the last time I cleaned out my adorable Mrs. Potts “piggy” bank, but I needed it off my plate.
Since it was almost 9 anyway, I decided to hit the bank first.
I did.
And Mrs. Potts’s innards yielded $59.36, friends. Score!
So now I’m at the library. It’s already ten. I’m an hour later to the page than I’d hoped and here’s a question: what’s the etiquette on a banana peel in a public space? Like… do I need to wrap it and bring it home or is it okay to just drop it in the library trash?
WR is banging pot lids in my head. You know those little monkeys with cymbals? Like that.
She’s eyeing the string cheese I brought. Two problems:
- She just ate the banana.
- Can she even open the string cheese?
She says she needs one of those baby scissors on a keychain. Do they make those? Because WR is convinced they’d solve everything from snack access to existential despair.
Her hands are feeling better now. Actually, typing is going okay.
Do you suppose the tea water is hot yet at the front desk?, WR asks.
This is jazz writing today. Apparently.
Okay. Time to open the file. Just open the file, WR. Open it. Open the…
She opened it. But she also insisted on opening the string cheese. I’m guessing she needs her AirPods in and a timer on to settle her.
She also noticed the cute older couple who comes in and hangs out in the alcove reading magazines. Or “reading,” she says.
Are they making out?
I’ve forbidden her from getting up to check.
She’s a nosy parker.
WR, who cares if they are? Leave a tender moment alone.
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