Monday, September 20, 2010

What I'm Doing When I Should be Doing Something Else

I'm taking a break right now from looking at expensive houses for sale that I can't afford AND laundry that I need to fold just to write this post. You're welcome Internet.

If you're wondering why I'm looking at homes for sale, you *clearly* didn't read my most recent post about the perils of living in suburbia. Unfortunately for me, wildly under-priced Expansive Homes in the Country aren't exactly jumping out of the websites at me, and I *LOATHE* moving the way some people (like me) hate black licorice, so looks like I get to be the Pariah Neighbor for a few more years. You're welcome, Subdivision.

As for my laundry, the only shot I get to get things caught up is when The Man takes a trip; for some reason, this causes just enough of a lag in laundry that I can get things all done and then I'm happy and satisfied for the 1.3 weeks it takes for him to return and the laundry to overwhelm me again.

(*Idea for a Depression Drug Commercial = A woman weeping silently into an overflowing laundry basket....as the camera pans to her laundry room with clothes cascading from the machine into the litter box.* Who does depression hurt? Your laundry room.)

I'm just saying there is a direct correlation to my PMS/anxiety/mood swings and my laundry. And that I hate cleaning is well known. This pretty much applies to all Domestic Duties, excluding, OF COURSE, vacuuming. Vacuuming is my salvation.

(Highlight of last week? My Riccar was repaired for only TWELVE DOLLARS. Whew!)

So. My counselor agrees that I should start writing poetry again. I know! If your therapist supports it, it TOTALLY means you should do it. Whereas if they say "not a good idea" (even if they chuckle) when you suggest shallow graves and such, maybe rethink Plan A.

The problem with this is that I haven't written in so long I think, okay I know, it's all going to be crap, at least for awhile. I don't really want to write crap. I want to skip the crap and get to the good stuff. Which is sort of like saying I want to skip practice and go straight to the Superbowl. According to my Mental Book o' Sports Analogies, that isn't really feasible.

I mean, I know poetry doesn't technically HAVE a Superbowl, because if it did it'd be full of moody goth girls and the cheerleaders would have been face-punched and they'd only serve quiche in the stands and no one would cheer because they'd be busy finger-snapping and coming up with synonyms for "pain" - but you get the idea...

And inside this 30+ year old mom of two with the hot pink nails and the Coke Zero habit....beats the heart of a slant-rhymer. That sounds dirty, doesn't it? Look it up, I swear slant rhymes are TOTALLY safe for work.

But to write, you have to write. And so that's where I'll be - and it'll sure beat adding softener to my Downy Ball. Even if it IS crap.

Comments, questions, what do you have to commit to doing?

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