My 17-year-old cat, Zsa Zsa, is quite sick, and I snuggle with her whenever I can. One thing I have noticed is that she is afraid of my toes. Most of my snuggling with the cats takes place in the writing room. The writing room is really our guest bedroom, but it has all my books in it and a futon couch that folds into a bed. I sit on the couch with my legs up on a chair and write every morning with whatever crop of cats wants to come around. I always throw a blanket over my legs so the cats can snuggle on a thick, soft surface (no, my lap isn’t portly enough). In the warm weather, I rarely wear socks and shoes in the house. I also fold up the blanket a bit so that it covers the minimal amount of skin surface area so that most of my skin gets air. This leaves my toes exposed. After sitting for an hour with a cat on my lap, I must wriggle something. I thought my toes were safe and far enough away from the sleeping Z to not disturb her rest. I wriggled the right foot slightly. Her ears shot up straight in the air and she sat up slightly. I wriggled the left foot slightly. Her head turned as quick as a flash to follow the movement. “It’s all right, Z,” I told her. Those are just my toes.” She didn’t believe me. Now I have to be careful to not expose my toes to her when she is on my lap. Maybe I should wear socks.
Varmints!
I plan two activities for myself in the same time slot. It's happened ever since I hit the rat race. I think that I can get in a couple of hours of writing in the morning and start planning my day around that, then as I get up and shower and do my kitty chores and eat breakfast, I suddenly remember that yesterday I had solemnly sworn to myself to plant the last of the sedum and spiderwort before they wilt in their pots on the front porch. And then there is the kitchen mess from yesterday’s smash and grab’em dinner. Crap. And I forgot I promised Dave I would clear out that corner of the utility room where my shoes have apparently taken up residence. I should do that today, too. Sigh. How did I plan so much for one day? Forget leaving the house for any fun I’m-in-retirement activities such as wandering blissfully through fields of wildflowers or cramming two pounds of bonbons in my mouth as I watch Pride and Prejudice, the Miniseries. And aren’t I suppose to be a writer or something? Oh, wait. That’s where this started.
Now that I have discovered this aberration in my perfection as a human being, what do I do about it? Do I write everything down that needs to be done in a list? Naw. If I write the list on a piece of paper, I’ll lose it. If I write it up on my Palm handheld, I won’t look at it because it smacks too much of planning, which is an activity I have come to hate after 19 years in the software industry and just plain don't do. So, can I rationalize one quirky behavior by using another quirky behavior?
I know. I’ll just get into a new routine where I write in the mornings before everything starts happening, and plan to do any other projects after lunch. I already do my free writing when I first get up, so I’ll just cram in some structured writing on a novel, short story, or the biography right afterward. Hmm. I’ve been saying that for about 6 months now and all I’ve produced is a couple notes for blogs, which were great, but then I had to find the time to sit at the computer and type them up, and that happens about once a month. How do I get my writing out there without leaving the comfort of my writing room where there is no computer, just a notebook, a bunch of colored pens and three cats who take up all my lap space? What an insurmountable problem! Will Dave ever build that incredible, completely Ellen-Ergonomic computer table that makes you feel like you are sitting at a computer at all? Doesn’t he have better things to do with his time?
But I know this is just all in my head. How do you change the way your mind works?
Damn! All the time I spent writing this blog I was supposed to be writing my novel. How did that happen?! I know. I am a perfectionist. If I would just stop worrying about not getting stuff done and all the quirks associated with that and get on with my life, I would be so much happier. And there I go again, using one quirk to rationalize another quirk. Well, who cares? Ah, now that felt good!
I rode my bike to the fresh and organic vegetable stand a mile down the street from my house yesterday. I thought I would keep my 38-mpg-highway Honda Accord in the garage. Between me and Zweck’s is a major route called Airport Road. Four lanes, a bike path, and, for most of the way, a side walk. I felt secure riding my bike, even knowing that cars (and cyclists!) whizzed by at extreme speeds because my bike is a wonderful cross bike (a cross between a road bike and a mountain bike) with knobby tires and low gears so I can ride over rough ground. I was all proud of myself. I stayed on the left side of the road, riding on the sidewalk until it ended, then rode for a bit in the bike lane. I even felt magnanimous enough to ride on the dirt and grass on the extreme shoulder, to the left of the bike lane.
After filling my backpack with fresh raspberries, corn on the cob, garlic, onions, green and purple bell peppers, baby lettuce, and globe basil, I told the young woman who personed the cash register that I didn’t feel afraid to ride my bike on airport road because my marvelous bike allowed me to ride in the grass and gravel. I then got on my bike and headed down the road, this time with traffic, on the right side of the road. Again I felt extremely proud that I could ride over the lumpy gravel and tufts of grass on the shoulder. A moment later, as I pedaled merrily, I began to hear a thwap, thwap, thwap, to the rhythm of my pedaling. I stepped off the bike and examined my front tire. A large piece of gravel was lodged between the knobs. I remove it. Then I looked at the back tire. I couldn’t believe it: a huge nail was sticking in and out of the tire. It must have been quite sharp and sticking up at an angle out of something on the shoulder as I road directly over it.
I didn’t panic. I told myself that I could quickly and easily repair this! I pulled out the patch kit and read the instructions. I patched the tire, but the glue was a bit old and the patches didn’t adhere quite right. By the time I was done, the tire was flat. That’s when I remembered that I never attached the hand pump to my bike frame. Damn! So, I walked the bike the mile home. I felt good, though. I didn’t drive a car a mile to pick up a bag of organic produce, and now I am getting my afternoon constitutional in. Life is good. I am almost on as high a moral ground as my good husband, the voltage god.
When that noble personage got home, I told him about my adventure. “So, you patched the tire and it’s good?”
“Yep – well, I have to put on a new tube.” That’s when it hit me: “Oh. I patched the tire when I needed to be patching the tube.” I started to laugh. What else could I do? Geesh. Just when I thought I had my head together as a conservationist, conscientious consumer, and all-around outdoorsy person. “Dearest? What are you doing on Sunday?”
“Helping you repair a bike tire.”
“Good husband.”