When other people say how busy they are, I translate that to
mean how important and productive they must be and how much stuff they must get accomplished on
a regular basis. I rarely feel as busy as everybody else is. Maybe because
“busy” for me means sitting all day in sweatpants in a writing haze
periodically feeding my muse with peanut m&m’s. I’m not out in the world
like all the rest of the busy people getting it done. But today – a Saturday,
no less – I found myself very busy for a change. So I decided to dissect my day
so I can give myself some recognition for everything I’d surely gotten
accomplished. Maybe a Type A personality has been hiding all this time under
the comfy Sherpa blanket I use while binge-watching Bravo. Maybe busy is the
new me!
Well, let’s see. This is how today went down:
7:00 AM. My 12-year-old son, Harry, wakes up on his own,
ergo I should be awake, too, so he plops on my bed. Carl the cat joins us. I’m
starting to feel like I’m in a page of The Napping House.
Harry feeds Carl then announces he’s doing his math homework
before breakfast “to get it done.” I suspect aliens have switched my son, but I
like this version, so I go with it.
He refuses to give up his summer wardrobe even though it’s
54 degrees out. The aliens have returned him.
8:45ish. Drop him off at the UCONN program for
kids who like engineering. This is the first day and I am shocked we are on
time.
Go home and revel in the fact that I am up and showered so
early on a Saturday. So now I have 3 hours to get started on the (hopefully)
final read-through of my manuscript. Let me just get a couple of things taken
care of…
9:15ish. Put a load of laundry in, clean litterbox, take
the “new” dehumidifier that’s been sitting in the basement since June out of
its box so maybe it’ll get used, pay some bills.
Make myself a nice breakfast since I have so much time. Post
a photo of nice breakfast on Facebook.
Watch 10 minutes of Pioneer Woman. Can’t believe I’ve only seen
it twice in the last year and a half and yet I’ve seen the re-run that they’re
showing now.
10:30ish. How can it be 10:30 already? Remind myself I was
going to start reading my manuscript.
Realize I haven’t printed out my manuscript. Begin printing.
Old, slow printer. Try to recycle and use the backs of paper I’ve already used.
Paper jam. Fix. Re-start. It prints from beginning. Push every button to get it
to stop. Paper jam. Insert page numbers. Re-start. Printed manuscript in hand.
11:00ish. Too late to read manuscript. Run to Olympia Sports for some overpriced heel
inserts before picking up Harry. My bum foot will need them walking hundreds of miles at The Big E fair
tomorrow. (Ok, maybe not hundreds, but without the insert it will feel like
it.)
At Olympia Sports and I suddenly remember that I bought gel inserts when I was at CVS the other day. Also remember that I left the clothes in
the washing machine at home.
Run home to stick clothes in dryer.
11:30ish. Search for house key I JUST used to open the
door.
11:45ish. Find house key in the bottom of my sunglasses case.
Now I'm late. Drive like a banshee to get Harry.
Not late. Pick up Harry.
Me: “So what
did you do for your first class?”
Harry: “We
just made some prosthetics.”
Me: “Starting
off slow, are you?”
Drive all the way to Rockville library, the only library that has a copy of the fiction book he left at school that he has
homework on. He looks around for books to take out. He decides
to choose only from the oversized section.
1:00ish. Leave with 32 pounds of books.
Stop by a craft fair to see a friend who was selling some
products made by Harry’s art teacher. Coasters sold out, but lovely chat with my
friend.
1:30ish. Head to Harry’s beloved Swap Shop at the Transfer
Station (read: Dump) so we can continue to live in the 70’s, 80’s, and 90’s. He
picks out albums for his record player, cassette tapes for his recorders, plus
movies for his most recent under $6 Salvation Army acquisition: a state-of-the-art
1990’s VHS player. He picks up some classic movies and fills a large
plastic bag with stuff he “needs.” I tell him he certainly doesn’t “need” any
of it, while asking the volunteer for a box for the Christmas breakables I’m
taking home. On the way out, he takes as many old National Geographics as he
can carry. (If you’re looking for a Nat Geo magazine from 1968-‘72, we’ve
probably got it.)
On the fourth trip from car to house to bring everything in,
I wonder if the neighbors will recommend us for TLC’s Hoarders.
2:00ish. Late lunch on the deck. Beautiful fall day in the
60’s. Harry rubs his goosebumps throughout lunch, unwilling to acknowledge he’s
chilly in his shorts and t-shirt.
Harry plays with swap shop loot. I text with my sister in NY
who just completed her first 5k and finished 2nd in her age group.
She literally just took up running 3 weeks ago. I pause scanning the pantry for
dessert and vow to train for a 5k. Ooh, ‘Nilla wafers. What was I saying about
running?
Walk to the pond behind our house so Harry can play
in the mud with the frogs and I can do some meditating. “Mom, look at this
frog.” “Mom, look at this wall of sand I built to make this stream.” “Mom, look
at these bugs in the sand.” “Mom, look at…”
No meditating.
Back to the house to do the rest of his homework. On a
weekend! Blasphemous.
4:30ish. Is it nap time yet?
Fresh air from the open French doors is making Carl frisky.
Play time with kitty.
Take the very wrinkled clothes out of the dryer from this morning.
5:15ish. Wonder if late lunch is enough justification for
a cereal dinner.
Some computer down time for Harry. For me, wash dishes
from lunch and prep for tomorrow’s trip to the Big E.
Guilt and hunger win over laziness. I make fish tacos for
dinner.
7:00ish. Loveseat. Sherpa blanket. Harry. Carl. Me.
Me: “Are we
going to the movies to see Storks tonight?”
Harry: “And
leave the house?”
Me: “You’re
right.”
Carl:
“Purrrr…”
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Carl, also Type A |
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