This should explain-- no, more like illustrate-- the bizarre and cracky misfirings lighting up my over-taxed gray matter these days.
And boy, was she right. Those pants were not even close to dry in time for work.
The stuff I have to get out just because I have to get it out
Here are the things taking up the useful space and time:
(this is boring, feel free to skip ahead)
- Preparing for my little brother's wedding, about which-- don't get me wrong-- I am so thrilled and excited. But there are shoes to be bought, cameras and strollers to pack, and cups to be sewn in to hold the bridesmaid (bridesmatron?) boobies in the right places.
- School. Wish it was taking up more of the useful space and time, but as it is now, it is being squeezed into a corner and I'm going to have to create some sort of body assembly line to complete all of my practicums for the term.
- Freelance job A. Low pay, lots of work. Mindless work. The writing is easy, it's the calling and the interviewing and the endless, endless supply of contractors whose number one selling point is their "attention to detail" and the realtors that "build personal relationships." Glurgh. Just when I think I'm done, I'm not done. Because I am a sucker. A broke sucker.
- Freelance job B. which is almost complete for the local botanical garden. This one was an honestly estimated breeze.
- Freelance job C. just estimated last night, way over my head and with very little structure holding things in place, but doing it right could open the door to the agency relationship I need to reach that job-free goal. And having Thursday afternoons to do what I please? That's my carrot, my little taste of what could be. So I'll take the job if I can get it and I'll fake it. This has always worked in the past.
- This pig sty of a house we live in. Seriously. Birdy ate a pretzel ("Batzool!") off the floor yesterday that could not be traced back to any particular date or time. Mystery Batzools and dog hair tumbleweeds. No, you can't come over.
- Preparing and eating food. Plan, buy, prepare, eat, store leftovers, stand in front of the fridge and glaze over. Lather, Rinse, Repeat. Sometimes cooking/ eating is a comforting ritual that makes me feel grounded, other times it is a pain in the ass and I wish for some kind of food patch that I could apply to my arm and forget about for 24 hours, relieving me of the burden of eating and preparing to eat.
::::A Dental Story
I went to the dentist yesterday morning for a cleaning, and while the hygenist was about elbow-deep in my mouth, she started talking about how I might want to look into teeth whitening and how it probably isn't covered by my insurance but would I like to hear about their easy payment plans?
I don't know about you, but I feel a little bit unnerved about being upsold on my health care-- maybe that's just me? I don't mind being upsold on my cell phone plan, or within a wine list, but at the dentist? Mnyah.
But that's not what this story is about. The hygenist was talking about whitening, and she said, "If you decide to do it, you'll have to get that filling on your front tooth changed out, because whitening won't affect it." I said, "Int hagga fling, nev haggah fling," ("I don't have any fillings, I've never had a filling.")
She withdrew her hands from my mouth. I protested again. I don't have any fillings. It's a body fact about which I am proud-- no cavities, ever, and very naturally straight, strong teeth.
The hygenist backpedaled about how, "then you have a crack on this side of your front tooth that looks just like a filling." And she moved on to shining the light directly in my eyes and changed the subject.
Later in the cleaning, while she was smooshing the polish all over my superstraight, super healthy teeth, I remembered that, holy shit, I DO have a filling in my front tooth. And I stopped her work with the polish (with my index finger pointed to the ceiling, in some kind of Eureka moment) to tell her she was right, I have a filling.
::::A Dental Story, Chapter 2
And this is how it came to be: I was in college, at a living room party on New Year's Eve. It was the year I made myself a fixture in the GLBT crowd, which was fairly small but thriving at Indiana University, as you might imagine. I was drinking champagne from the bottle, and this gangly, howdy-doody looking kid that was all knees and elbows danced his olecranon process (hello, I am learning about the body! That is your elbow!) right into the bottle which went right into my front chopper. The resulting chip/ split in my tooth required filling. So my advice to you: Keep a safe distance from the gay boys when they're dancin'.
So there you have it-- a secret from my past, kept secret even from me until yesterday.
:::The Bird Report
So, my little sweet peach has been in Time Out a couple of times lately, which is a process I continue to muddle thorough and make up as I go along. We are not heavy on the Time Out at our house, but things that will land you there include whacking the gentle doggies on the head with the remote control, twice, after Mama says NO.
Here is how Time Out goes/ has gone: Sit in the totally boring hallway on the little blue chair for a minute and a half. Mama will not look directly at you or give you attention. If you get up from the little blue chair, Mama will put you back in it, firmly, but no talking. This is not attention time. It is meant to be a somber experience and a time to think about the poor doggies' heads and the connection between this boring and grave ninety seconds and your behavior.
But to Bird, it's hilarious. Getting out of the chair and being put back? Guffaw! Now THAT is comedy! Do it again!
And for her next trick, Bird has been dragging that little blue chair into the hallway and sitting in it, facing the wall, and laughing all by herself. Trying to catch my eye while she slides off the seat and climbs back on. Because I have created the most fun game, ever.