What the Deuce?

It occurs to me that my blog is a bit of a shambles at this point in time. I started it to share my adventures of the hobbies I (sort of) take part in, and I’ve discovered that I either don’t take part in my hobbies often enough to write about them, or there is precious little about what I do that is worth sharing.

This is irritating.

And so, I’m about to re-work things a bit on here, in the hopes that I can force it into some semblance of order.

Or whatever.

So if you happen to stop by while I’m in the process of remodeling, redecorating, and possibly slapping on a coat of paint, don’t worry, I’ll have this place cleaned up in no time. Or, as little time as my dial-up internet will allow, anyway.

Unproductive Mind Sweep

In the hopes that I may overcome this vicious bout of Writer’s Block, I am, in the interim, un-cluttering the storage space in my brain. Unfortunately, I have the ability to share the organizational process with so many unsuspecting victims…

Muahahaha!

Ahem. Do forgive me. The first day of a new month always has this effect on me (that’s not true at all, but I haven’t got a better excuse, except that I may be on the verge of insanity…but I’ll never admit it).

Moving right along…

I’ve been suffering for over a week from a nagging idea that simply will not allow me to put it into words; it’s something to do with indecent exposure (though not the interesting kind where some nut case is running around in a trench coat and frightening little old ladies with their anatomy). I think I mean the sort where human beings remove the masks they hide behind and reveal to the world (or, more often, just one or two poor souls) how hideous they truly are on the inside. For instance, when a complete stranger who is working at a clothing store tells a hopeful job seeker that they aren’t “pretty enough” to work there…yes, that kind of inner ugliness.

The problem I’m having with this train of thought is that it keeps being derailed and never gets past the first couple of paragraphs. Oh sure, I could probably write all day long about insults I’ve received in my life time and how awful other people can be, but that’s not really the point I want to make and I certainly don’t want to waste other people’s precious time with tales of my own personal (and minor) tragedies…unless they’re really funny, of course.

Another problem with that idea is that the emphasis on inner beauty has already been so worked over that there’s precious little that I could add that people haven’t already heard.

Therefore, I think it would be best if I abandoned the seed of the idea before it grows into a gnarled tree that would take heavy machinery to remove from the fertile (or at this particular time, infertile) soil of my mind.

I certainly don’t want any chainsaws being run through my head (that sounds extremely violent and gory, even figuratively speaking).

I feel like I need something or someone to place the blame on for this dry spell I’m having, and the number one candidate is the stupid, dreary Colorado weather. Of course, it’s only been stupid and dreary since this morning; the previous week has been all golden sunshine and azure skies.

I’ve been quite disgusted with it.

This is not, however, the worst Block I’ve ever experienced. Not by a long shot. Hidden away amongst many short and ridiculous stories on the hard drive of a computer I can’t even stand to look at is almost exactly One Half of a Novel.

146 pages. If you’ve ever tried time and again to write a novel and failed miserably after just a few pages, then you can understand how absolutely ecstatic I was to have gotten so far.

I started writing it about two years ago, and for weeks on end, I kept it up (in between days of cleaning hotel rooms for peanuts). I was incredibly pleased with myself, considering that most of my life has been spent wishing that I had what it took to write an actual book. It was flowing easily, the plot thickening perfectly, and then…

*Poof*

It rolled over and died, groaning and moaning and squealing in its graphic death throes. It even stuck its tongue out to one side as it croaked.

I haven’t had the stomach to try to revive it. I mean, once something is dead and gone, it really ought to be left in peace.

Convenient excuse, isn’t it?

By the way, I absolutely recognize the irony of my writing twice, consecutively, about not being able to write anything. Life is so funny that way. Not the “Ha ha, that’s hilarious” sort of funny, of course, but more the “Good heavens, I’ve gotten terribly and desperately pathetic” sort.

Well, if you don’t mind, then I don’t either.

I apparently haven’t got a proper sense of pride on the matter.

Smoke Screen vs. Inspired Writing

I’m having serious trouble picking out one particular thought from my brain and running with it. Actually, I don’t believe in running, but it’s the principle of the thing, you know.

I spent some time today pondering what is wrong with me. Aside from my face being on crooked, I decided that I spend too much time thinking that there must be something wrong with me, and that’s my biggest issue.

Of course, my beliefs on that are firmly based in fictional conversations I have with other people. For instance, I decide before I even meet a person what they’re likely to say, regarding my behavior. Usually, it turns out that I’m clinically insane for warning them about eating casseroles in the dark.

I can’t help that.

I don’t want them to choke. Or lose an eye.

Among my many issues, I’ve decided that I’m experiencing a severe case of Writer’s Block, which is, of course, why what I’m writing now is pointless and ridiculous. Another thing I can’t help. If I don’t let the monster out of its cage, it’s going to eat me (why not just step away from the cage then? Easy for you to say, the monster in the cage isn’t in your head).

I’ve had so many thoughts, words, stories, and ideas swirling around in my brain this morning that I’ve actually gotten quite dizzy, and I think I should lie down. But I won’t lie down, because I’d rather step outside to have a smoke and watch the leaves fall off the trees for a few minutes.

That’s another issue. Smoking. Who even does that anymore? It’s so uncool…and…and vulgar. Yes, that’s right; vulgar. My life ought to be rated R, I suppose, and not for any sexy or violent reason, but simply because several times a day, I step outside my front door (I never smoke in the house, the baby wouldn’t appreciate it) and put a paper and plant concoction in my mouth and light it on fire.

I ought to be locked up, I suppose.

What I really ought to do is quit, and believe me, I’ve considered this multiple times in the 8 or so years I’ve been putting the nasty chemicals into my lungs. I’ve had some fantastic reasons to quit, too:

-I’d smell better.

-I’d feel better.

-I’d breathe better (this is actually debatable; I’m allergic to life, so there’s precious few days during any given season where I can breathe clearly).

-I’d stop burning holes in my clothes.

-I’d stop burning holes in myself.

-I’d be more welcome in society at large.

-I’d not attract heat-seeking missiles anymore (you may well wonder if this has been a major problem for me…well, I’m certainly not telling).

Apparently, these have not been compelling enough reasons to make me quit smoking for more than a few days (minus the time I was pregnant- I was very compelled then). My husband, however, has been more successful at the quitting thing, although what he’s done was simply to switch to an electronic cigarette (the V2). No more ‘traditional’ smoking for him, no sir.

I tried the V2, and while it tastes better (depending on the flavor cartridge) than a regular cigarette, it’s just too…high-tech for me. A metal cigarette with a nicotine vapor flavor cartridge? Talk about weird (which is really rich coming from ME, I suppose…)

And so I continue to inhale toxins like it’s going out of style (wait, it is going out of style…).

Going back to what I think was the original problem, Writer’s Block has been toying cruelly with my imagination.

Or perhaps it’s not Writer’s Block (all serious diseases should be capitalized, I think), but that my muse has gone on strike once again. That’s happened before; the moody little sneak gets easily offended and often disappears on vacation, or she’ll go on strike and demand better benefits for the workers.

I’ve tried to explain to her that Imaginary People don’t need benefits, but that argument went over about as well as one of my attempts at quitting smoking.

“People have rights and needs,” said my muse to me. “Imaginary or not, people should not have to work in these sub-standard conditions!”

She’s a little fire cracker, she is.

Rather than letting myself feel insulted that my mind may be considered “sub-standard”, I’ve decided to simply let it go; Inspiration will strike as she sees fit, and nothing I say or do can persuade her otherwise.

The longer I sit here waiting to be inspired, the worse the problem becomes, so I suppose I’ll just do what I usually do in these tough times- smoke a cigarette.

What a vicious cycle I’ve trapped myself in.

And just because I’m already being strange, here’s my favorite photo for the day:

Anyway, Happy Halloween, everybody!

It’s Too Early for This- A Miniature Story

It wasn’t so much that I didn’t want to get out of bed, as that I didn’t want to move at all.

No reason for it, really. It just seemed like one of those days.

Or, it could have been something to do with my impending doom- oops, I meant doctor’s appointment.

I’d been having strange episodes.

Well, ok, so maybe my entire life was a strange episode, but normally, I didn’t go around having to pretend I felt fine when, in fact, most of my body was in searing pain.

For no apparent reason.

Sometimes it was my head. Sometimes my stomach, or my leg. Most recently, it had been my ankle and my ribs.

I was falling apart, I just knew it. Death was imminent, the curtains were closing. I had one foot in the grave.

I can be a little over dramatic. Which is probably why I was lying in bed that morning, in my flannel pajamas, with the back of one hand to my forehead as if I might swoon at any moment.

The more I contemplated actually getting out from under the down comforter and putting at least one foot on the floor, the more I felt like I really might just faint. This was becoming a real problem.

I mean, I had places to be. People to see. Breakfast to throw up, diseases to discover, that sort of thing.

I was quite the busy woman, I’ll tell you.

It was something like miraculous that right at that moment, nothing on or in my physical body hurt at all. Granted, that may have been due to a high dosage of pain killers that I’d acquired somewhat illegally from a friend, but hey, I never look a gift horse in the eye.

Mouth.

Where ever.

Actually, I never look too close at any kind of horse, gift or otherwise. Except for those couple of times I was suckered into learning to ride. And then I was looking closely at the back of the horse’s head. Which isn’t all that impressive, to be quite honest, so I couldn’t ever really see the appeal of riding a horse. Spending all that time staring at the back of a horse head.

Or maybe I’m completely missing the point of riding.

I’ve been known to miss the point, occasionally.

Anyway. The clock was obnoxiously creeping steadily towards the hour when I would face my doom sayer. I briefly considered breaking the clock in a violent manner, you know, teaching it a lesson and all that, in the hopes that time might just stop and I could live forever, albeit in a weird kind of stasis, and looking like ten miles of rough road, as I did then. The only thing that changed my mind about the whole thing was that I most definitely didn’t want to hang in limbo for eternity with yesterday’s mascara smeared under my eyes. Welcome to Eternity, Rocky Raccoon.

No thanks.

Not that I had the power to stop time simply by busting up one clock. At least, I was fairly certain that I didn’t, although I had never attempted it.

Hmm.

I found the motivation to sit up and take hold of my bedside alarm clock. I set it in my lap, and watched as it changed from 7:37 to 7:38 and inevitably to 7:39. By 7:40, I was bored to tears.

So I scooped it up and bashed it against the night stand. That was sort of thrilling, so I did it again. And a few (dozen) more times.

I was laughing rather hysterically by the time I noticed that the digital numbers had fragmented themselves. I’d done it! I’d stopped time!

Just to make sure, I dropped the dilapidated clock on the floor and raced into the kitchen to check the clock there.

7:46.

7:47.

I sighed. Bitter disappointment made me call the clock a bastard.

It had been a ploy to get me out of bed. The clocks had sacrificed one of their own in order to draw me from my hide-out.

Believe you me, I would know better, next time.

That is, if there was a next time. I still had to find out what hideous ailment was about to take my life.

I really couldn’t stand it. Knowing I was doomed, knowing I had to go to a stark, cold doctor’s office to have a stark, cold stranger inform me I was doomed.

I thought about that for a minute. If I already knew I was going to die, what would be the point of paying someone else to tell me? I decided I just wouldn’t show for my appointment. I’d wait patiently in my bed for Death to take me.

Unfortunately, common sense kicked me in the head just then, and reminded me that if I didn’t show up, I’d still have to pay.

I hate common sense. I avoid it like the plague it is.

But, it did spur me into action. I threw on some clothes, washed my face, and pretended I cared what my hair looked like. I mean, when you die, someone dresses you up and makes you look nice, so what was the point of bothering too much, right?

Because some snippy little receptionist with a French manicure and bleached blonde hair and a better body than I could ever hope to have was expecting me within a half hour, I grabbed my car keys from their usual place under a couch cushion and walked out my front door. I kept my head held high, looking the world in the face. Or was it in the eye? Either way, I was feeling very brave in the face of persecution.

Or whatever.

When I slid behind the wheel of my car, I was suddenly gripped with a strong sense of loss. I was going to miss this car. Even though the ‘check engine’ light had been on for a year and a half. Even though the fuel pump was going bad. Even though it always took three tries before it would start.

I normally hated the damn thing, but I was feeling pretty sentimental that morning.

The ten-minute drive to the clinic was utterly painful.

I got cut off by two idiots, flipped off by a third when I failed to go on a green light, and honked at twice for cutting someone else off.

I love driving.

Anyway.

The doctor’s office was very quiet and lonely-looking. Of course, it was still early. In fact, I was the first appointment of the day.

I’d made sure of that.

Because, you know, finding out that you’re about to die is best done before 10 a.m.

I parked crooked, because I didn’t care. I actually felt a little sad that my car was too small to take up two spaces.

That makes me sound like a jerk, I know. But throughout my driving experience, I’ve always been the one to pull in to a packed parking lot, drive around it for twenty minutes to no avail, FINALLY find the very last space, only to find that some moron has parked two feet over the line, leaving no room for another car.

I felt justified.

Especially since I was going to die.

I also felt a little smug satisfaction (alongside a dose of jealousy) when I walked into the lifeless clinic and announced my arrival to a petite, chesty, bleached blonde with a French manicure. She insisted that I have a seat while I filled out a page worth of personal information.

I sat down on an uncomfortable chair and contemplated painting my fingernails when I got home.

After a few minutes of that, a nurse in her mid-thirties entered the lobby and called my name, informing me that Dr. Schpoogledyboo (or something very similar) would see me just then.

What if I didn’t want to see HIM? Huh? What then?

The nurse deposited me in a tiny room with one of those horrid bed/seat thingies covered with a thin sheet of crinkly paper. I hated it.

The paper, I mean. The room wasn’t so bad, if you took out the stupid crinkly paper.

And all the icky doctor’s office paraphernalia.

And the florescent lighting.

Oh, and me.

Yes, the room would have been quite lovely, had I not been looking at it.

Anyway.

I jumped through all the hoops the nurse set for me. Answered her questions. Yes, I smoked. No, I’d never been in a car accident. Yes, I regularly participated in crazy dare-devil stunts…

Wait, she hadn’t asked that.

To finish off her inquisition, she asked me to remove my pants and shirt and put on a crinkly paper gown.

I said, “No thank you, I don’t think I will.”

I even smiled when I said it.

She handed me the gown and walked out of the room, presumably to fetch Dr. Schpoygendoodle from his breakfast.

I really wasn’t planning on actually changing into the stupid gown. I was going to stand my ground, fight the man, all that. But, it occurred to me that the doctor might make me change anyway, or worse, if I kept dilly-dallying, he would probably walk in while I was in the middle of changing (because I knew I’d give in and just put the damn thing on).

I really didn’t enjoy being difficult, you know.

It’s just that, you see, I was going to be dying soon.

Dr. Schpagooble came in just as I was lifting myself up on to the horrible crinkly-papered examination table. You know, the bed/seat thingie.

Whatever.

He shook my hand with his cold, clammy one, and I wondered why doctors couldn’t warm their hands up before touching people.

Then he proceeded to ask me all of the questions I’d already been asked.

And then…

He started poking and prodding and commanding me to turn this way or move that way and let him know if anything in particular hurt.

Oddly, nothing did.

Which I found to be really inconvenient. I had figured that if I could just scream in pain once while I was there, nobody would think I was making it all up.

Ah, well. Can’t have everything.

After having Dr. Schpankidoo’s freezing cold hands all over me, I felt quite disgusted. The feeling only increased when eventually he stepped back, looked over the nurse’s notes, and hmm’d. He said,

“It looks like you’re about ten pounds overweight, for a woman your age and height.”

I was shocked. The nerve!

I mean, what a horrid thing to say to a woman whose chubby bits you’ve just dug your fingers into!

The big jerk.

Then he said, “Aside from that, and being under a lot of stress, I can’t find anything wrong with you. No swollen glands, nothing.”

My jaw dropped.

“And I’m not going to give you a prescription for any pain medications. I advise an over-the-counter pain reliever if you experience any more pain, and I also suggest you try to eat healthier and exercise three times a week.”

When he saw the look in my eyes, he quickly continued, “Because exercise is a known stress-reliever.”

Spectacular. Lovely. Wonderful.

Dr. Whatever-his-name-was left me to get dressed. I didn’t see him on my way out. Lucky for him.

I trudged to my car, highly disappointed. I was fine, but I was fat.

There was a piece of paper on my windshield. “Nice parking, @#$%^!”

So, I was going to live, but I was a fat @#$%^!

And it wasn’t even ten in the morning.

Why I’m So Scattered

When I began this blog, I thought that it would be a good way to do some of the things I most enjoy doing; writing, entertaining, and exploring.

That’s still true, but I’ve discovered that I’m not nearly so focused on the things I started the blog FOR…which was to share my experiences of trying new hobbies and getting better at old hobbies.

I don’t bake and decorate a cake every other day, because not only do I not feel inspired to do so that often, I’m also working on losing some weight, and the two projects really don’t mix.

I don’t go geocaching every other day, because I go with my husband and he doesn’t have the time to go that often; plus, I’m finding out that unless something really exciting happens while we’re out, writing about the experience could be done in a couple of short paragraphs. Not to say that geocaching isn’t still fun and interesting for me- I just doubt that it would be that fun and interesting for you to read about very often.

I don’t work in the garden because it’s the wrong season now, plus we’ve just had our first snow and the temperature is dropping fast.

I read all the time, but I’ve regressed to reading Get Fuzzy comic books for the time being, and there’s precious little about that to discuss. Unless, of course, you love talking cats and can’t get enough of them cutting cake or trimming ham with power tools.

I have a zillion interests, and time to kill. I can’t zero in on just one or two things to write frequently about, and so I write about whatever comes to mind, be it a hobby, a place, or an idea.

Sometimes I probably even switch topics mid post, and if that bothers you, I’m very sorry but I don’t think I can help it.

I have magnetic letters on my refrigerator, and sometimes while I’m in the middle of spelling a long word, I just wander off for no apparent reason and ten minutes later discover that I’ve left “indeci” on the door of the fridge and wonder where the “sion” has gone.

So I do apologize if my constant jumping from topic to topic lessens the readability of this blog. At least I’m consistent in my inconsistency.