This is my daughter's whiteboard. Sometimes I wonder just who the hell she is.
If I were to write my schedule on a whiteboard, what would it say.
Do something else
Mess with stuff, things and crap (noun, not verb)
It's quite depressing to see my day all written out.
So, I hope these photos are proof enough that I exist somewhere. Or at least proof that my cat does.
I haven't posted much lately. I'm not sure for what reasons. I'll list some possibilities.
2. Busy exploring Charleston
3. Taste testing iced coffee
4. Lazy again
5. In too good of a mood to bitch, and this blog has been mostly about bitching.
6. Kind of lost and not sure what is going on.
My Dad died in early December, right when we were packing up for our move. Christmas really didn't seem to happen for me. Yes, there were presents and visiting my sister and her family. But there were no Christmas trees and lights and other happy stuff. Then we land in Charleston and start setting up house. My daughter started her new school and I started getting to work in my new studio. Yet nothing felt right. Nothing felt valid unless I had a parent to tell. Things are FINALLY starting to gel, yet I do not feel right with myself. I do not feel the same. I'm not sure yet how to feel.
This place is good. The house, the city, the weather. And I'm really at my best when I'm bitching about things. I feel I have it too good when so many people are struggling (or worse). Good God, am I going to bitch about having it too good!?!?!?!
I've completed one new piece and am almost done with another. I was terrified of not being able to create, but so far, so good. If an old photo of Charles Darwin can set me to work then my creative switch must be turned to "high."
I know there's plenty out there to bitch about, but since I don't subscribe to the local paper and don't get on Facebook as much as I used to, I'm just rolling along blissful and ignorant.
If anyone has any suggestions for something for the housewife to crab about, please let me know.
Upon arriving in Charleston (ok, well before), I perused a handful (ok, stacks) of decorating books and magazines to glean ideas for decorating our "new" house. I had visions of a lovely living room with a sofa and two matching chairs.
There are some things I did not consider.
I like a festive fabric. My husband likes dark animal hides.
My husband likes to recline. I prefer to remain upright.
Our butts are shaped differently.
I wanted a chair that would go with our new paint color. I wanted to coordinate with the other objects that I had slated for this room. I wanted the room to be light and uplifting.
My husband really didn't give a shit. He thinks with his butt.
Perhaps I can work with this? In a world where there are worse problems, I can't complain (much). But the second he asks me to fetch him a beer, all hell will break loose and someone will have a serious problem.
That's what it is called it this household. The Damn Phone.
When it rings, I ask, "Who's on The Damn Phone?' Or, "Who's calling on The Damn Phone this time of night?"
For the love of Pete, I detest The Damn Phone.
People call you up on it to talk you into doing things you don't want to do. Sometimes it's an out-of-towner wanting to drop off their child so they can get themselves a little afternoon delight. Or a solicitor wanting some money. Or gangs of solicitors wanting all of my money and then some. How about a little (or a lot) of volunteering. Or calls that begin with, "I hope you don't mind, but . . ."
And, of course, the worst. Someone has died.
This morning, I have a lot to do. A LOT TO DO. I've got to clean my house out for the renters, and what the hell, I just better get it done before my mother-in-law arrives on the 21st. That's a long way away you say? But I also have to pack and plan for the movers on the 18th. But I can't turn on the vacuum until people return calls that I made earlier this morning. I have important questions for the head of the school that my daughter will be attending in Charleston. I have to know if the plumber is going to replace my kitchen faucet so the renters don't get flooded out the first moment they need a glass of water.
I hate it when I get my info. together and dial out on The Damn Phone, only to discover I've got to sit by The Damn Phone and wait to actually talk to a real person. I usually make my husband dial out, but since he's on the road, I have to do it.
So that's it. Just a little bit of bitching. But inside I'm seething. I have important shit to do. And I better not find out that these folks I'm waiting on are just standing next to the coffee maker waiting to get themselves a cup. Maybe they are just avoiding The Damn Phone.
Each year, I do the Christmas Card post. Sometimes I copy from the year before and leave it at that. Other times I copy and edit and embellish. This time, I'm just going to plead.
If I am on your Christmas Card list, I'm delighted. Whether you are a friend, an acquaintance, or merely someone who has repaired my furnace or cleaned my teeth, it doesn't matter. I love a card. I like those cards to be cute, glittery, gorgeous, filled with confetti, festooned with ribbon, city stylized, kissing kousin kountry, red and green, blue and white, black and yellow, and decorated with Jesus, snowmen, zebras, angels, trees, RVs, balls, bells, and whistles.
I also will read your newsletter. If you care to send me the long form, I will happily read it because, chances are, I care. And I really like it when you tuck in a photo of your kids, your dogs or your vacation home. Especially the kid. If I like you, then I probably like your kid. I even want to know if they've made the honor roll or graduated from braces and headgear.
Just please, please, please don't send that one-sided, unsigned, undecorated photo of your dog, kid, or vacation home that poses as a complete holiday card. And when you print out the envelope on your computer and your housekeeper then stuffs all of the envelopes, I'm going to want to tell you to stuff it. Hell, I even get a little calendar from the dude at the local used car lot and my local realtor (I haven't purchased a house here in 15 years). Put a bit of ink on the damn thing or don't send it. I'd rather you send me a picture on facebook of your middle finger. At least that's personal.
and so on
I see myself as an artist. Others see me as a housewife. Too often, I see the glass as half-full. With a crack in it. I am usually a quiet, shy person. This is the place where I can be my inner, not-so-quiet self.
This blog is for entertainment (mostly mine) purposes only. If you find a mistake, falsehood, or blatant lie, please feel free to inform me, ever so gently, of my error.