Greetings, random residents of the internet and welcome to your weekly update. Today’s update is sponsored by the 3,250 words that I should be trying to write for Camp NaNo, but have successfully avoided so far today. You can get quite a bit of sympathy out of people by telling them you have to write 3,000 words, but it tends to evaporate when you explain that “have to”, really translates to “I’m doing it for fun/competing with my sister.” So I am giving myself sympathy, now that I’ve driven off the sympathy of others, and procrastinating for all I’m worth.
First, there was the sleeping in. Sure, I could have gotten up and written in those lovely morning hours when the brain is fresh and energized and the birds would have sung outside my window. There might even have been hot chocolate. Or I could have driven into town immediately after I finally did get up, gotten my writing station set up before noon and cranked out at least a thousand words before the clock switched over to p.m. I could have begun writing as soon as I finally did arrive in town, rather than carrying my fifty pounds (approximate weight) of library books across town and then carrying ten pounds of fresh books back. The detour to sit in the park and watch the hikers climbing the hills was probably procrastination too, but I refuse to regret the lovely conversation with my Mother Hen that occurred during that time. Now, of course, I have finally gotten my writing equipment set up, drunk my coffee, checked Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, Pinterest, various blogs, and email. Things are becoming more desperate on the procrastination front.
I already took about half an hour to comb these Raggedy Ann curls out of my hair…
My cellphone is at the point of near death, so texting as a distraction is out. There is the possibility that if I delay long enough, I’ll get kicked out of the shop at closing time, before having to buckle down and actually work – but although I’m not sure what time they actually close, I have over two hours before that rescue is a possibility. Also, I think the latte is beginning to kick in, which means that if I don’t expel as much energy as possible through rapid typing, I’ll inadvertently start climbing the walls. And even in a tourist town like Jackson, that might cause some raised eyebrows. There doesn’t seem to be much point in holding out any longer. But I can leave you, friendly and nonjudgemental internet, with a few more nearly coherent sentences before I give in. That should show my work of fiction who’s really in charge around here.
My tan lines are beginning to resemble a cubist painting, which makes me unreasonably happy. For one, it’s nice to not be the color of a pale marshmallow any longer, for another, I find the overlapping edges and shades amusing. I have the traditional runner’s wristwatch tan, the less traditional running sandals’ strap tan, and a fairly typical summer clothing tan from shorts and tee-shirts in additional to the intersecting lines caused by various blouses, dresses, and tank tops. Lacking the traditional familial tan-line scale to use as a comparison (from tannest to least tan – oldest brother, youngest sister, mother, etc.), I merely measure myself again my winter photos and feel accomplished.
Mother Hen and Father Bear have made reservations to come visit in September, giving me the project of arranging expedition plans for that time. Another way to procrastinate? No, I think I’d better hold that in reserve for another day. Still, after the promised 4th of July visit from extended family, it’s nice to have another date, closer than the end of my rotation, to count down to.
The no-fixed-address beast has been rearing its head again, as I suddenly seem to have multiple entities bent on communicating with me through snail mail. They send their important documents (the envelopes say that’s what they are full of) to Home Base and Mother Hen drafts various members of the household to stuff them in bigger envelopes and stamp them and send those envelopes off to my current mailing address. Each new missive that arrives at Home Base sets off the age old discussion – to forward or not to forward? Mother Hen has recently taken to simply opening most of my correspondence for me. It’s sad, how there’s no privacy in this modern day and age.
And now I’m twitchily scrolling back through my writing thus far, wracking my brain for any amusing little anecdotes from the week. It was a good week at work, I didn’t cut any fingers off or set anyone on fire. We’ve been getting steadily busier, although still not approaching the levels of crazy that were present in my last two rotations. June and July look like the busiest catering months on the work calendar, so I’m not sure if business will continue to build through August or not. The biggest stress is knowing whether to prepare a lot of food and risk it spoiling due to a slow week, or to prepare a small quantity of food and risk running out in the middle of the night. Most nights, however, I’m happily low in the decision making process and therefore blame and/or credit for the results of these debates does not fall on me.
And that’s really all I have to say for the moment, gaping void of internet. You may dissolve my words in your massiveness, or preserve them for the next generation, as you see fit. I’m off to convert the single sentence of inspiration that has drifted into my head in the past two days into 3,000 or so riveting words of adventure and daring-do. You’ll have to procrastinate by yourself from here on out.