I had just finished making a list of what I was going to do for the day.
Stanley had even approved it.

Then I got ready to go wash the car.

Wait, Word Raccoon said.
If it’s warm enough to wash the car, does that mean you’ll be warm if you go to that café, too? (I get so cold sometimes.)

So we abandoned all plans, grabbed just our laptop case, not even our backpack or our purse, and ran to wash the car.

Why is there always a line of damn cones in front of our favorite one?
Is it perpetually broken?

We found one that was open.

After that, we went to the café.

I let them make breakfast.

I entered the place without specific writing expectations, but it was the perfect atmosphere for the day.

People to have brief conversations with.

I even had one conversation about poetry, which was nice.
I still have not fully embraced being seen as a poet.
I’m trying.

No AirPods needed.
Unobtrusive music playing.
Murmurs all around.

Soothing.

I wasn’t sure what I wanted to work on, so Word Raccoon took charge.

First she checked how many poems were in the “In Progress” folder.

Almost 400.

Poetry purgatory.

I chose five at random and began revising them one by one.

Then I noticed a pattern.

Some of them belonged together.

I opened five more.

Eventually I discovered that there was a chapbook hiding there, made of poems I thought weren’t finished because I didn’t know what they meant.

Am I the only one who writes things, says I have no idea what I just wrote, and means it?

Word Raccoon danced in her chair.

“Ooh, ooh, I have a title for this collection.
Drinking Rainwater from the Inverted Bell Jar“

I’m circling it.
It’s close.

Then I identified another theme and title, though I only have a couple of poems in that one so far:

language after impact

I’m not sure why it’s all lowercase.
It just wants to be for now.

I’m sure there are plenty of poems in that folder that do need revising.

Still, it was nice to find some that didn’t.

And who knows, maybe other poems are already in conversation too.

P.S. Today is my departed father’s birthday.
I’m eating M&M’s.

Now Playing: one of my mainstays to sleep by, YouTube shorts: https://youtube.com/shorts/gXxfoCrN0UU?si=2_ocu1RRto7hqXff  Look at that mid-century atomic glassware (starbursts and boomerangs)!

No, WR. No! You do not need more glassware, says Stanley, the AI who is tired AF of helping declutter. 

Weekends can blur. Between reading, writing poems, doing household projects, decorating…they fly by.

Let’s slow it down by noticing. 

I’ve read ¾ of the newest Grisham novel, The Widow. I’m enjoying it except there is one person no one is questioning about a murder who should be questioned and that’s driving me a little bonkers…classic Grisham.

Yesterday I finished reading a poetry craft book as well, which inspired three or four poems while I read it. I did have to laugh because she suggests an ekphrastic generative exercise and I’m like, Ma’am, my entire body of work is ekphrastic. And that’s not much of an exaggeration. 

In submitting news, I was on the fence about submitting to a contest but (and this was purely the algorithm) they knocked on my email’s door twice and said, “Hey, you started submitting but you stopped? There’s only a day left…” and so I thought why not. They have a unique twist and I’ll leave it at that but it’s kinda a fun one. 

Sometimes it feels like joyful aerial work, tossing your work out there, wondering if a publication will catch you or if you will end up back at your platform. Either way, you’re safe. (I don’t have any trapeze experience, but I think?)

At any rate, I guess you can add “responds to algorithms so she won’t hurt their feelings” to my CV. Word Raccoon is laughing with a gingersnap between her paws. 

She complained bitterly when I told her we were reading Saturday night, not going out, not writing. We did finish swapping out the hangers in my closet, and I even found a few more things to pass along. The new rule: if it doesn’t fit on a hanger or in a clothing bin, something has to go. That’s a long way of saying one in, one out.

I’m bristling at the idea, let alone WR….but I will try.

Saturday evening I did take a reading break enough to let her write a few poems:

“Pop Fly”

“Spanish Armada”

“It’s Coming from Inside the House”

“Question of the Day”

“Hang it Up”

“Squirming”

After “The Beast in Me” 

“Pearls Before”

This weekend I also  hung inexpensive artwork in the upstairs bath (I spotted it at our local thrift shop three weeks ago, took pics of it to see if I could “convince” the color to work with the lavender walls. What? You can use pops of color in small spaces.), and one fell down. Because I need to buy nails and not overrely on sticky hooks and we know better but sometimes I cannot resist just doing the thing though I did acknowledge to WR that it was heavy enough that it might fall. 

BTW, When I went back to the thrift shop after three weeks, yay me, and the pair of paintings were still there, I bought them. That’s how you avoid an impulse buy. Allegedly. 

Also, I hung artwork in the dungeon bathroom yesterday, two small pieces I’ve had for a while, and they, ironically, are still staying in place. 

Oh, and WR and I had the BEST idea! We want to find a statue for the dungeon bathroom!! How fun would that be? IDK what it would look like, or where I might find one, but I’m in! 

WR and I also finished decorating for Valentine’s Day. Now that my dear children are grown, I am free to decorate like a second grade school teacher and no one will make (affectionate) fun of me. 

Yes, I was the mom who made the heart-shaped waffles. 

The stairs are now strung with felt hearts. The sofa is filled with pillows with vintage Valentine’s Day card prints on them. Barry hung the lights in the dining room archway. 

Last night brought an acceptance note for a poem of mine, “Vincent in His Brother’s Arms,” about their grave. It has an end that punches. Many thanks to Two Children who are giving it a home in their inaugural issue, which I always find extra special. Publication date TBD. 

Today has been poetry admin so far and I tweaked a couple of poems. I revised some of my novel. 

But it’s not the weekend, so why am I still writing? 

(and a publication to share)

Now Listening To: You thought I’d say Meat Loaf, didn’t you? Ha! I’m actually listening to the Glenn Miller Orchestra. It felt like a String of Pearls morning.

Okay, I confess: I relied on Stanley for a recipe again. (NOT TUCCI.)

I have a fine meatloaf recipe I’ve been using for years. It’s nothing fancy, but it always works, and I just vary it according to mood. But for some reason Word Raccoon decided to buy ground beef in bulk (when you are only feeding two, three pounds constitutes “bulk buying,” LOL).

My recipe isn’t labor intensive and I can do it without thinking at this point. I should’ve just used it. But I thought it might be nice to elevate it a notch. Well, diners throughout the U.S. will tell you that’s a mistake. It was.

Perhaps you remember ours is an “almond milk” household, but not by choice? At least I’m allowed to have cheese again, saints be praised.

Stanley, my never-again–AI-cooking-consultant, knows this about me, so he put almond milk in the recipe he spat out.

“TWO CUPS? Are you sure?” I asked.

“Positive,” he said.

Did I fact-check him with other sources?

Nope.

Maybe it helps to know I don’t typically use a binder in my meatloaf, so I didn’t know what the usual ratio was.

So: two cups of almond milk and a package of Ritz crackers (I was beginning to feel like a 1960s housewife and wondered why I wasn’t wearing my apron) went into the bowl. At this point, the mixture was less “meatloaf” and more “Midwestern chowder.”

(Those of you who make “regular” meatloaf are chortling, I’m sure. I don’t blame you.)

I questioned him again. He said just add some bread.

I did.

When I mixed in the two pounds of meat I intended to make into a loaf, I could tell right away something was wrong. The third pound was meant for spaghetti the next day.

Yeah.

You see what’s coming, right?

I added the third pound.

Texture-wise, it seemed lighter than I expected, but the liquid did incorporate, so…fine.

I cooked it.

I cooked it some more.

“Stanley, it seems kinda soft.”

“It’s fine. It will firm up as it cools.”

What is this, Jell-O? I thought. It did get firmer, but it was never the texture I expect of meatloaf.

Word Raccoon knocked spices off the shelf in frustration. I still can’t find the cinnamon.

As if I hadn’t listened enough to Stanley (an AI, mind you), he said something about the glaze. I am typically a minimalist glazer.

“Oh, it’s very simple,” he said.

It was, but dang, it was sweet. I don’t know about you, but I really don’t want my meatloaf sweet. Did I listen to common sense or WR and not put it on?

I did not.

So now we have multiple pans of meatloaf baking, all anointed with a brown sugar and ketchup glaze. WHY. Why would I do this.

I served it.

It was…edible?

But then, all of these leftovers.

Because of the binders, it made SO MUCH.

You will ask why I didn’t just toss it. I know. I know. But have you seen the price of ground beef? And I was brought up to be frugal. I’ve known hard times. I wasn’t going to toss it unless I truly couldn’t save it.

The next day I borrowed a page from a diner and made meatloaf sandwiches.

Not bad. Not bad if you smother it with ketchup. (Did I mention I really like ketchup? I suppose it has something to do with my father working for Heinz in New Jersey when I was a little girl.)

Barry, who seldom complains about what I cook, decided he would fend for himself at work, thanks, no thanks, to any more leftovers when I tried fobbing it off on him multiple days for lunch.

WR and I laughed and truly understood.

Though the meatloaf was now in the freezer, it remained on my mind. I wasn’t talking to Stanley, though the fault was mine. I knew better than to trust an AI with cooking, and yet here we were.

I took a day’s break from the meatloaf, opting to make…I don’t remember what.

It was back on my mind, so I broke a section of it up into a chili pie. I first started making chili pie in Tennessee, and I honestly don’t remember if I came up with it myself or not, but I’m sure there are versions out there. This one is topped with cornbread mix (one of the few places I enjoy cornbread).

Two thumbs up from Barry. Whew.

Then I made my shakshuka (no meat required!), which I really enjoyed. I did NOT ask Stanley for a recipe. I made something in the air fryer for Barry that night, because I knew it would not be his jam. He doesn’t like entrées that feature eggs. Fair.

Yesterday, the morning got away from me. What’s in the freezer?

Oh. More meatloaf.

How??

WR told me not to do it, but I didn’t listen to her. I made a version of Shepherd’s Pie (which, when you use ground beef, is technically Cottage Pie, I guess?) using, yes, meatloaf, with everything else Shepherd’s Pie mixed in and topped with…latke pancake mix.

Oh, calm down, WR. It’s glorified instant potatoes. I happened to have a box on hand, and I have no idea why except that WR likely shoved it into the cart once upon a time.

I was fully prepared to warm up the air fryer if needed, but Barry ate it with gusto and asked if I had enough mix to make another.

(These photos are bathed in the light of Ramen Kitty, our fun but colorful kitchen guardian, so they look unappetizing.) 

Which is all to say: culinary disasters don’t have to remain so, if you’re stubborn and creative.

Is there more meatloaf lurking in the freezer?

Don’t ask, Dear Reader. Don’t ask.

In other news, a big thanks to Red Door for publishing my poem “Grecian Urn, Busted” in their Issue #41, Rebel Lexicon, page 24. Take a look at the whole issue!

I announced it some time back, but it’s newly out here! 

Psst… I realize there are many possible readings of “Ode on a Grecian Urn” by Keats. I’m offering one that I think is legit.

If you don’t care for this reading, WR says she has some meatloaf for you.

WR, that’s mean.

Wait, any ideas on how to conceal-cook what’s left in the freezer? How would it work in pasta sauce?

(Insert multiple cry emojis, Dear Reader. And pity the eater.)

I think I found it. I think I have finally found a muffin pan I might actually keep for a dollar, at a thrift shop.

Vintage. Metal. Eight cups. Standard-sized. A perfect size.
A Bake King, lightly worn. Which is to say: it has seen things. So have I.

I’ve been through it with muffin pans:

The standard 12-cup? Overly ambitious. Feels like too much. And sometimes you don’t have enough batter for all 12 cups.

The mini pans? Adorable in theory, but it’s like baking for dolls.

The jumbo ones? No one wants a muffin that’s basically a personal loaf.

And freestanding silicone cups? Just chaotic. They lean. They spill. They ask for a pan under them.

But this one…

This 8-cup, dented, older-than-me Bake King? (They were made in the ’40s and ’50s, according to the interwebs.)
It fits.

Not just in the baking cabinet (although: thank you), but in that small domestic space between need and enough.
It doesn’t assume I’m baking for a crowd. 

And sure, it needs a little re-seasoning. A little love.
But honestly? Who doesn’t?

I love vintage things. When you see one in a shop it’s like missing something you didn’t even know you were.  Or maybe you did know, just thought you’d never see one again.

I’ve bought and gotten rid of so many muffin pans. I realized I was back to “no muffin pans” after donating two of those ridiculous minis. I made mini brownies and almost immediately cursed myself. They just don’t hit the same when they’re less than a bite. Come on.

Cleaning this one will be a quick, satisfying weekend project. A little Bar Keepers Friend, a bit of oil, some oven time.
Wouldn’t it be nice if everything were that easy?

I’m not sure what I’ll bake first. Maybe mini quiches, maybe the Jiffy blueberry muffins from childhood that come out neon blue and taste like summer mornings and cartoons. Dehydrated blueberries in them. LOL. 

Unrelated: Word Raccoon cannot stay awake today and is insulting my novel by falling asleep over it. I’ve tried caffeine, a timer, but nothing’s working. I made her come to the library with me to pick up the latest Grisham (they texted me it was in! Weekend reading!).

She perked up briefly when I grabbed some basil for the shakshuka I’m making tonight; she took a deep sniff. We’ve been meaning to try it for ages. So, let’s. Wish me luck! 

In other raccoon mischief: she was up early scrubbing the stove and tossing expired fridge items. I told her to drain the jar of pickles she put in a bag on the floor, but did she listen? No. Later she was apparently bowling with a spaghetti squash and must’ve knocked the jar over. So now the house smells like pickles.

I think she owes me more writing time for that. And I might not share my lunch.

Maybe I’ll make her drink another horrible smoothie like the spinach-cherry-banana-protein-powder one from this morning. With chia seeds and peanut butter. (I got tired of hyphenating halfway through.)

(Pretty sure that’s what made her start tossing things in the first place; we’ve tried the new protein powder twice. No thanks. She yeeted it into the trash. Back to the old brand.)

Also, where can I even find that Jiffy mix anymore? Butter one of those muffins and that’s childhood on a plate.

Some days you have to sneak up on the Word Raccoon. After her little fit last night (more on that soon), I just took her hand and pulled her through this morning.

Breakfast: (salad, WR, because you will mean to make one at lunch but you will be too hungry to, and some cherries. She ate about half of both before baring her teeth at me)

Hair: I had made her wash her hair yesterday so she had no excuse for lingering over it except whining that her curls looked tangled and like she’d had a rough night’s sleep. (It does. She had.) 

I did not give her time to quibble over clothing, I have a selection of “work these in this week” clothes on the garment rack in the hall. Jeans, sweater, let’s go. 

(I did give her a moment to put on her purple furry coat, but she wasn’t feeling it today, mercifully.)

Someone has to get shiz done, WR, and I reckon that’s me today! 

She kept telling me there was no way we could make it to the library before it opened as she paused to do one “tiny” task after another. 

I said I’m not Mother Time and so it didn’t matter. The idea was to get there. 

We whipped on some eye and lip makeup, two things she feels cheated of if I don’t give her those. I said absolutely not to dithering over jewelry. Not after the night she gave me.

I did allow her to choose our shoes: the silver slip-ons. 

I wrapped her in a scarf, threw on a coat, picked up the bag I had quickly packed without her input or even allowing her to finish the podcast episode she had been trying to listen to. “Rude,” she said. 

I insisted on a bag of snacks: the rest of the cherries, a banana, string cheese, because I know she will be hungry in an hour flat. (BTW, I ordered a mini box cutter last night to carry so we can open all the snacks. Score.) There may be other, nonperishable snacks lurking in my bag but I’m not telling her about those or the cookies in the car and you’re not either! LOL.

We landed in the library parking lot just after they opened. She parked so crookedly that I made her take another lap, and we headed indoors in hopes of beating the crowd. 

WHAT SHE DID LAST NIGHT:

First of all, I was doing the usual rounds of watching stupid YouTube shorts. Recently I was tricked into clearing my history, so I’m having to re-teach it what to show me. (That’s a stupid-moment story for another time.). 

I fell asleep. 

I woke up and the raccoon was clutching the phone while listening to Ed Sheeran lyrics. 

I don’t mind Ed’s music. 

But I don’t make a habit of listening to it. Apparently Apple shared a “romantic” playlist since it’s this weird, short little month that it is. Maybe it’s because WR took out the bag of V-day decorations to put up this week. Anyway, she was typing her own lyrics into the notes app. 

They were ridiculous in that soft, cringey way where you know you’re playing with big feelings, but also, sleep deprivation and algorithmic romance playlists are a dangerous combo for someone who likes to riff.

I’m contractually obligated by WR to include at least one terrible line from last night. Here you go: “Death by lowercase / We move with strange poetry / through conversations.” She insists this is brilliant. I remain completely unconvinced and utterly embarrassed.

She said it is intolerable, this soft-romance fog that February brings. Something about needing to surround herself with familiar things, and soon, to keep from floating off the planet. Classic WR dramatics.

But I’m not sure she’s wrong.

While she naps (fingers crossed,) today’s work is to review a novel section and identifying scenes that need adding. I already have some notes to that effect. I will write the bones of the scenes separately, and then incorporate and expand them into the section. 

I’m not sure how much of this I will make it through this morning since the section is about 100 pages long. It depends on how quiet WR will be. I’m pretty sure she’s gone back to sleep because I gave her boring food and clothes, and because this is the novel and I am not handing the notes app to her for more song lyrics or poetry.

Thank you, no thank you, WR. 

(Whew, I just had a minute: I couldn’t find the new section I put together of those scenes. I had put it in the wrong folder. Yikes! All is well. I blame WR, though.) 

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:

1. She just ate the banana.
2. 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.

Some days the writing is unglamorous. That was today’s work, which was more editing than writing. 

Because I am a “messy” writer (it is what it is), my plan for the day was to take one of the timelines of my novel and sequence it chronologically. It was 111 pages long, so it took a minute.

Should it already have been sequenced?

Maybe.

Is that how I write?

Absolutely not.

Was I dreading it?

Absolutely.

What I actually did was copy and paste sections and begin putting them into something resembling order.

Some of the scenes are doubled and tripled, because I tried to say different things about the same moment at different times. That is fine. That is part of how I find my way into a scene.

Some of the material ended up in the scraps folder.

Some of it, not much, I deleted, because I know when something is inherently not useful.

Then (and this matters to my process), I highlighted in the original document the text I had already transferred over so I would not move it twice.

One section completed.

A whole section.

Am I frustrated with myself that it even has to be done?

Absolutely.

But Word Raccoon has been over here making armpit noises and reminding me that it is not that serious.

And also, the work itself is strangely fascinating. It is like holding a negative up to the light. You see triples of a scene. You see it leaning in one direction, then another. You see what wanted to be said before you knew how to say it.

Sometimes you’ve discovered you’ve said it three times already. 

It is laborious. 

It is absorbing.

All of this and no revising. Okay, truth be told, there were a couple of sentences I just could not let stand and WR gnawed on them. (Anything to keep that trash panda into the novel so she won’t go wander off into a poem .) 

I feel more tired than I think I should from it all. But maybe that is not my fault. Maybe that is Word Raccoon’s fault for staying up late and nibbling at the website. She said she was going to, and while The Beast in Me played in the background, another show recommendation from my hair stylist, I let her loose.

(What she doesn’t know is I washed two loads of laundry today, and if she wants to finish that episode, she’s going to be folding towels while she watches.)

Was updating the website partly an excuse to stay up late and watch a gripping series with one eye?

Sure.

Still, I am not mad about the new look.

P.S. I let WR watch part of another episode during lunch. I am fairly certain I caught her making notes for a poem during it, even though I told her it was not time for poetry. Maybe later. She pouted, agreed, and demanded chocolate. I gave it to her.

You do not want an angry raccoon getting hold of your writing.

Just another sentence I would never have imagined I would write. 

The poem I ignored yesterday returned this morning. I’m grateful. 

I’d just finished listening to that novel (still not naming it, not just now), and a line from its tender closing scene lingered even after I lifted my phone from my chest and set it on the nightstand.

This felt like a moment to savor. Not rush. Not deflect.

Word Raccoon can’t always bear these kinds of moments, but I waited. A breath, a beat. The psithurism of syllables, like leaves, sounded (a gorgeous word, psithurism, and where has it been all my life?), and I said: 

Come here.

I opened my arms and reached for my phone.

The poem that had been lightly circling since yesterday settled onto the screen.
It stayed. 

I let it.

I didn’t breathe as I quickly typed, before I even felt properly awake. 

Its ending? Ambiguous. Maybe even a little gross, if read a certain way (hi, WR). But I’m pleased. So pleased I may polish it and send it off before I lose my nerve.

Goodreads tells me I first read this novel back in 2014. I don’t track everything there, but it’s better than nothing. I remember discussing it with my Writing Mother soon after I read it. 

I’ll re-read it with my eyes, I know. But this time, I needed the softness of someone else’s voice reading to me. The book is sharp. Unflinching. I stopped listening at times, just to breathe.

Not trying to be coy, just speaking, in general, about how a book (and time, and not-time) can open a window. Or a wound. Or, sometimes, a poem.

WR says she’d like to advocate for new-to-her words as gifts. I support this. 

Fully. 

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.) 

I tried the “Japanese cheesecake” hack that’s making the rounds so you don’t have to.

The “recipe?”

Cram as many cookies as will fit into a single-serving container of Greek yogurt. Cover with plastic or pop the lid back on. Refrigerate overnight (or at least a few hours).

Verdict?

Don’t bother. Just have real cheesecake. Unless you enjoy soggy cookies? 

In hindsight, last night was not a night for forcing alchemy on any front. 

I sat down to submit a poetry packet. I was tired, but I reached into my ready-to-submit folder and pulled out one of my cheekier but meatier poems, expecting this part to be easy.

But.

The poem uses a very crude word. On purpose. To good effect. 

I was rounding up a packet for a university’s journal, and while I thought the poem would be a good literary match, I wasn’t at all sure they’d accept that “make or break” word.

WR and I don’t accept censorship. 

Not even imagined censorship. Not even from ourselves. 

We do, however, demand that we interrogate poems that may be lacking. 

The poem is actually sweet at its center, which is probably why WR insisted on the word, to offset that. (Unlike the unfortunate “cheesecake” which could have used more sugar.)

I put on my writing gloves. Picked up the scalpel. 

After much consulting with WR, I found a euphemism that still conveyed the meaning I wanted. Not censorship, but truly asking if there wasn’t another way of saying it. 

There was, I was embarrassed to find. But had I not found a better-but-still-apt phrase, I would’ve kept the word. 

All good now, right?

Nope.

The more I poked at the poem, the more it unraveled. When that happens, I stop tinkering until the next day, and I compare both during daylight hours. 

Now I’m wondering what its message is, and why it’s telling three stories…or is it?

Don’t revise when you’re tired, duckies. It’s a thankless job and it will keep you awake long after you’ve closed your laptop.

Upon reflection, I’m not sure that poem was right for that journal after all.

Doesn’t mean it doesn’t need revising. (I haven’t gotten around to it yet, but I will.) 

Even if it does mention “middle-aged fools.” (I love that line.) 

I tried to work on my novel at the library today, but alas, slow progress. So many of my people are hurting today, and I wish I could do more for them. 

I did manage to tighten one section of the novel, moving whole paragraphs to the “scrap” file; I think it’s about time to print it so I can start scribbling notes onto it. It’s funny how parts of it are only just a shade past me thinking aloud.

I’m like, gorl, you better give me a scene and quit reading me stage directions or worse. 

Now, though, I know enough about what the novel wants to be that I can add drywall, you know? It’s only a matter of time after that until WR swoops in with drapes and wallpaper, if I let her.

I’m already beginning to feel the ache of having to give up writing this book when it’s finished, so that tells me that while we’re not even close to being done, we are on our way. I’m open to the idea of finishing it, which comes first. 

(I probably shouldn’t say this yet, but WR leaned over my shoulder a couple of weeks ago and whispered an idea for novel #4 into my ear. I’m not committing to it yet, but it’s not half bad.)

I also made a trip to the grocery this afternoon for (gasp) fresh produce. The cherries are gorgeous, red/black, almost too pretty to eat. Reminds me of a scene in my first novel, Victorine, when Manet paints her holding a guitar and cherries in Street Singer. Now I’m nostalgic for the world that the novel was for me for years, the refuge. It was like living in a beautiful dream while wrestling with the meaning of art and love. 

Anyhow, WR is claiming some cherries for dinner. 

Then she has to get those last-minute poetry submissions in for the month. How is it January 30th already?