Back from the dead
At least that’s what it feels like. Man, go lie down for a few minutes, wake up two hours later wondering who slipped what into my Pepsi One. Dreamt I was in a dance studio, trying to perfect my grand jete (”big leap,” FYI). Not sure how old I was supposed to be (the “now” me or the “when I actually used to do this stuff” me), but mm-mm, I sure did look fine in my leotard. Which I guess answers that question.
Hmm. Surveying my desk (yes, the one that had been completely clean two days ago), I see. . .five catalogs, my Novelists Inc. dues notice, a Special Ed re-evaluation questionnaire I really have to finish for #5, one copy of Consumer Reports (their annual Electronic issue — anybody need to know anything about TVs, VCRs, cameras, and any number of gadgets whose purpose, sad to say, totally escapes me, I’m your gal), an empty water bottle lying forlornly on its side, the aforementioned Pepsi One can (still half full on account of that two hour nap), a few address labels, a stack of scrap paper, a Post-It pad, a red pen, a plain old pencil, and five of my favorite Zebra F-301 pens. My desk as one of those “I Spy” pictures. I like it.
Only 7 days until the world gets to read a new Romancing the Blog column from moi. Only problem is, I can’t decide what to go on about. Not that I don’t have ideas, or even mostly-done columns. I simply don’t know which one is. . .right. Like having too many shoes that all go equally well with the outfit. Yeah, I know, life’s hard.
Since I played the restaurant card last night, I’m stuck with doing dinner tonight. Hold the sympathetic groans, however — we’re talking toss a chicken in the oven, leave it there for two hours to cook. Some rice, some frozen vegies, we’re good. It’s not the cooking I mind, anyway — it’s the deciding what to cook that gets me. Really, if the dinner fairy would simply fill the fridge with assorted dinner stuff, all neatly labeled as to what was for which night, I’d be happy enough to oblige. But after twenty-seven years, it gets old. And, at 53, I’m nowhere near done yet.
My mother’s frozen dinners are becoming more appealing by the second. In the meantime, there’s a chicken downstairs whose time has come. . .
