Wednesday, January 16, 2013


3 WW
No actual story today.  I’ve been spending the morning deleting several lists from my stack of lists. 
Guess what? 
I’m not making any lists other than directions to get me from lost to found, and list for the grocer- or the grocer personnel who always think I need assistance in the grocery store and come to my aid. 
(Really I have difficulty in the grocery store because I think about what I want to cook, and the ingredients and my trips to the grocery; at times, have been hours long)  I do need help.  A trip to the grocer is a whole other story. 
Back to the list dilemma.  Lists are dismal to me.  They are reminders of days gone by, or tasks not completed, and a total chore if you ask me.  I may be waffling a.k.a .procrastinating and a list is equal to what I won’t accomplish.

People who are devoted to list, find list writing  a luscious task that makes them jump to joy to find their favorite writing pen and lined paper to proceed to make “the list” official.  While handy, I am not that person.  I am more of a live in the moment and if I forgot it- it was meant to be forgotten.  My lack of composure or direction drives some people I know CRAZY to the point that they vocalize it on a daily basis.  I am not apparently affected by their agitation, or I would put at least a little effort in my list making for their benefit only.  List making is laborious and I am refusing to do it. 
So you will not see on this blog:
2013 resolutions
Calendar of events
My check ledger
Top ten anything

Oh crap!  I just made a list.

Thursday, January 10, 2013

Not Stopping for Directions

Focused pair vacant
Not Stopping for Directions
The mist is beading up on the windshield. My thoughts are not interrupted on the timed swish, swish, swish of the wiper blades.  It is easy to get hypnotized when driving. I can’t be focused on the wipers.  The weather has been constantly changing between hot and cool temps and sunny to overcast.  It has been threatening rain all day, but only fog and drizzle so far.

When I started driving a month ago, I let go of everything.  There is me, this car and where ever I can drive. It’s odd to be this vacant.  I feel as if the person I was before, left and now there is this vastness I can’t get enough of.  This car isn’t my cocoon keeping me from the rest of the world, instead it is taking me deeper into this space that is gigantic and I want it to absorb me.  I have a real problem.  I want to obsess over something and I have nothing to obsess over. 
During the day, I listen to the radio as I drive.  It takes me back to my childhood, when we didn’t have a television and the radio was ever present.  I hope with all the technology that exists, radio won’t disappear.  Hours and days can pass without a word from my mouth to another human and it’s part of the experience.   Traveling without a destination is paired with exhilaration and fear.  I can’t explain what happened, all I know is that I surrendered.  I let go of everything I was in control of, got into my car and just kept driving.  The voices on the syndicated radio shows are the only thing constant in my life. 
I cannot decide if this is the last chance I have to live or the only choice I have.  

Saturday, January 5, 2013

The Hour or the Second

Happy 2013. Today marks the 300th 3WW.


The Hour or the Second

On the street I am lingering,  I need to be in motion, but instead of walking in a straight line, I am circling; pacing, in a short length of four steps and then returning to the place I started.  I need to be somewhere in fifteen minutes and I am thirty minutes away.  I am debating if I don't show, will it matter? 

Two weeks ago I got the invitation in the mail.  It was wrapped in a pale baby blue envelope and when I read the return address, I was startled.  The invitation is unexpected. 

When my girlfriend and I still played with dolls, I considered mine intelligent enough to love poetry, and my playmate would consider her doll a stunt dummy in training.  Childhood was more than twenty years ago.  Dolls have been long packed away and pretend parenting was traded with real life, when I turned twenty three. I had a beautiful daughter that challenged me as a person from the moment she took in her first breath and every exhale since.  She didn't turn out to be like my doll, she didn't love poetry, and every time I made a rhyme, she rolled her eyes and giggled.  Through her high school years, we would discuss her assigned school poetry readings and when stumped at the depth of the meaning of it all, she would question me, her mother, for guidance, to which I would reply a dramatic dissection of the piece, again eyes would roll and a giggle, before she decided I knew nothing about poetry and would give herself permission to interpret the piece herself.   I love her independence and encourage her to do the difficult things, but never exposed her to daredevil parenting antics that my adventurous playmate of my youth exposed me to. 

I opened the envelope and read the invitation.  It was a postcard invitation.  One side was pink and the other side was blue and a big question mark separated the two colors.  Immediately I grieved the invitation.  It would be difficult to select a shower gift. More than the unknown gender of the gift I hesitated when I saw the RSVP at the bottom.  I am horrible at meeting deadlines.  Each time I see a deadline, I make note of it, then don't uphold the deadline date. I have to make an elaborate "Sorry" story when I do RSVP.  I don't know the reason I do it, but I never fail to miss a deadline.  People have made it clear to me that I will be late to my own funeral. It doesn't matter how much nagging is sent to my ears; I remain idle until I am late. 

I did the deed.  I went to the baby superstore languished over what would make a good impression; I remembered the best baby shower gift given to me was a stepstool from my aunt and uncle. I decided if I loved the stepstool, it would still be a non gender gift that would be appreciated for the toddler years.  One stepstool and diapers later, I reviewed the invite again and I surprised myself when I was not late to RSVP, and did so immediately to a voice message. 

The day has come and I debate again if my gift is impressionable or not and I am pacing with a wrapped stepstool in one arm and a gigantic package of disposable diapers in the other.   To people watching my indecision, I must look as if I am awaiting labor of the child this very day.  I believed that the invitation was sent a bit early, for a birth, but knowing the personality of the expectant mother, there would be at least two showers a month until the arrival of this first born child.  I considered again, if I might wait to go to another shower in the future or even hold the gift until the birth. 

I don't have social anxiety.  I didn't expect the invitation, because at our last social engagement, the soon to be mother and I squabbled over the soon to be father and his intentions.  The mother and father of the unborn are not married.  I expected a wedding invitation before the baby shower invitation.  I really hate it when friendships are conflicted over boyfriends, but it never fails.  Despite this fact women have not learned to maneuver both relationships until compromise is agreed upon.  Never less, I love her.  I don't love him. 

My feet decide to go forward and I arrive at the party.  I deposit my gifts in the pile of others and mingle with the guests until I find the mother to be.  She looks not pregnant.  Eager to know the date of the baby's arrival, ask, " When are you due?"   She laughs and says, "My baby is already here, playing in the back yard, come have a look." She takes my hand and leads me to the backyard.  I don't see a child being passed from guest to guest.  I must look confused.  My friend bends over, and I think she must have a cramp, so I am immediately concerned.  She pops up, "Meet my baby, CiCi!" She squeals.  I gasp, and can't stop the oohs and awe’s spewing out of my mouth. Wide eyed, I see she is holding a fluffy white poodle.  This shower is for her new puppy!

My gift is ridiculous.