Rumbly in my Tumbly

Write one leaf about waiting.

(via writeoneleaf)

I’m good at waiting, but that doesn’t mean I like it. Sometimes I hate it. Usually when what I’m waiting for has a dollar value attached to it. Like when I’m waiting for a check. Or when I’m waiting for a project to be approved. Or when I’m waiting to find out about a project. Or when I’m waiting for someone to read what I’ve written so they can tell me whether it sucks or not. I’m good at it, but I hate it, and it creates the worst kind of anxiety, where I assume the worst possible outcome, that I will be hated, that I will be found out to be the fraud that I am. It is a kind of self-immolation. I douse myself in the fuel of doubt, then walk on coals.

It’s ridiculous. It’s stupid. It’s asinine. But I do it. And though I know it’s ridiculous and stupid and asinine, I do it anyway.

I’m good at waiting because I can wait, even as I burn, and wait and wait and wait. Though what this makes me, if I’m honest with myself, is bad at waiting, because I wait too long, thinking that I am at fault for how long it is taking, that whatever I’m waiting for is taking so long because I’ve done something wrong, and that whoever is actually responsible for me waiting will let me know when they’re ready for me. The check will arrive. Maybe tomorrow. I’ll hear from the editor. Possibly next week. I’ll check my email just one more time. Then just one more time. And again. One more time. And nothing.

Passive. Too passive. Passively waiting. Is there such a thing as actively waiting? I think there must be. I need to be better at actively waiting. At sending the notice that says “I’m waiting for you.” Politely, but active. Active all the same.

I’m waiting, but this implies my expectation of someone, of something, of movement outside myself.

In the mean time, bill me later.

Write one leaf about camping.

(via writeoneleaf)

This weekend. Family camp. Flathead Lake. Just like every Labor Day weekend for the last (how many years?) I don’t know how many years but enough that I should be getting used to it by now.

It’s really too long to drive for two days. It’s gorgeous up there, but two days? That’s hardly time to even get ready to relax, much less actually relax.

Okay. I know. It’s family camp. It’s Flathead Lake. And assuming we don’t get eaten by the Flathead Lake Monster, I will relax a bit, I will breathe some fresh air, and I will feel better when I get back.

But I kind of dread the time I spend just before we leave, packing and cleaning and planning and unplugging and all the whatnot that goes with it.

So, you know. Family camp. Flathead Lake.

See you on the flip side.

Write one leaf about air conditioning.

(via writeoneleaf)

Me: It’s getting kind of hot and stink in here.

Also me: Why don’t you turn on the air?

Me: I don’t really need it. It’s not so bad.

Also me: But you just said it was getting “hot and stink.”

Me: But it’s really not so bad. I mean, I’m getting kind of used to it. And the air is expensive, and doesn’t really fix the stink.

Also me: Except that it moves the air around in here.

Me: I guess I could open a window.

Also me: The windows are already open. That isn’t happening. It’s not working with the windows open. Still hot. Still stink.

Me: I guess I could run the air for a little while. I wasn’t going to run it today. I didn’t think we’d need it.

Also me: Hot.

Me: Just until it cools off a bit.

Also me: Stink.

Me: Enough already. I’m on it.

Write one leaf about something you've lost.

(via writeoneleaf)

I don’t know where the damn Curious George DVD is I can’t find the damn Curious George DVD do you know where the damn Curious George DVD is because it’s costing me a dollar a day until I find the damn Curious George DVD and my kid doesn’t even want to watch the Curious George DVD and that’s why it got set aside and probably shuffled under something and now I can’t remember what on earth might have happened to it and if I don’t find it soon it won’t matter we’ll have to sell the house and put the dogs to work weaving potholders and sending the children out to beg on the streets all because the library charges a dollar a day for overdue DVDs and how on earth do they get away with charging a dollar a day for overdue DVDs when I can rent the damn things for a dollar a week just down the street from the library and why oh why oh why did I check that damn Curious George DVD out from the library in the first place?

Can you tell me that?

And also, if you can tell me where the DVD is while you’re at it? That would be cool.

Write one leaf about going to the dentist.

(via writeoneleaf)

Yeah. I always hated going to the dentist. Who doesn’t hate going to the dentist? But I had this one dentist… he was the only dentist in town who would see kids. I don’t think he was a pediatric dentist. Far from it. But he would see kids, so I went to this guy.

No, I don’t remember his name. If I did remember his name I would tell you his name because nobody should be going to see this dentist.

He would load me up with novocaine or lydacaine or whatever kind of caine they were giving at the dentist’s office that day, and he’d wait, and he’d come back and start digging. And when he started digging he always told me to let him know if I could still feel anything. And always. Always I could still feel something. And not just something, but searing, stabbing pain.

So I let him know.

Usually I first let him know by reflex, my body jumping six inches or so in his chair, and I’d make a noise something like “Unkhk.” And he’d kind of ignore it at first, some frustration in his eyes, and when it happened again he’d ask if I still could feel that.

Well, yes, dammit, that hurts like hell.

So he’d sigh and drop his tools into a tray as if I was just being a pain in the ass, and they’d apply more of the novocaine and I’d wait some more and he’d come back again and I’d still feel it exactly as painful as before, except now my face was feeling more and more as if it were missing. Can’t feel face. Still pain. No face.

So we did this two or three more times. And he’d get more and more frustrated. And he’d toss his tools with a little more gusto and when I jumped he’d sigh with ever more aplomb. Until finally I’d just let myself relax as much as i possibly could and I wouldn’t let on that it still hurt like hell because the last thing I needed was another injection of that crap that wasn’t working in the first place.

I don’t know why I still had pain. And frankly I don’t care. And the asshole dentist didn’t seem to care either. As far as he was concerned, I was a problem, and you could see it on his face, and you could hear it in his voice, and I could feel it in my head. He was impatient with my pain and impatient with his dental assistants and impatient with the world.

Damn. I still hate going to the dentist. Anymore I let them gas me up because I’m so worked up by the time I sit down in the chair that I’m pretty sure I could create phantom pain. Or I could create phantom phantoms. But the gas lets me relax and lose myself to whatever they have on the television.

Look! Gingivitis! That’s awesome!

Write one leaf about doing nothing.

(via writeoneleaf)

No matter how hard I try, I can’t do nothing without doing something.

And you can’t either.

But sometimes it is worth trying.

To do nothing.

Now is not that time.

Time to make chicken.

Write one leaf about your pen (or other writing instrument).

(via writeoneleaf)

The only pen I’ve found that I consistently adore is the Liquid Expresso Medium Point pen. They’re inexpensive, they have just the right width of line, and they just plain write the way I want them to write.

I’ve always wanted to find a fountain pen I like really well, but I’ve had some trouble. I had a Lamy for awhile, and I liked that, but I lost it. And anyway, I think I might actually like the Expresso better in most situations.

There are two actual real-life problems with the Expresso. The first and foremost problem is that it can be hard to find. Or rather, it can be hard to find without the entire array of colors, all by itself, just the black pen that I want and no others. Frustrated, I once ordered a box of black Expressos from Amazon (via Office Depot, if I remember correctly), and they shipped me the Extra Fine version of this pen (which I despise). They eventually corrected the error, but I was annoyed enough that I haven’t ordered them again for fear that this will happen every time. Because having it happen one time is apparently enough for me to consider it a trend.

The second problem with the Expresso pen should be obvious. The name. Is idiotic. Is asinine. Is ridiculous and hazardous to my sanity. If I didn’t love this pen so very much I wouldn’t be caught dead or alive with something called “Expresso,” ever. Ever ever ever.

But dammit, I love this pen.

If I found something similar, something that didn’t bleed through pages and made just the mark I want it to make, I’d switch in an instant, just because of that ridiculous name.

Expresso. Please. It makes my fingernails hurt when I say it out loud.

But you know what else? Having that pen around makes me want to write things on paper. And that’s a good thing to know. Just having a pen that makes you want to make marks on surfaces—its a happy place to be.

So I’m gonna go do some of that right now.

Write one leaf about Friday.

(via writeoneleaf)

Friday.

Last day of the work week.

First day of the rest of your life.

Trash day.

Day that begins with “Fri” and ends with “day.”

Day that reminds me I didn’t accomplish as much during the week as I’d hoped to accomplish.

Sometimes Good.

Sometimes full of the dickens.

Mostly full of the dickens.

Day that waits for you.

Day on which UPS packages may or may not arrive; they better arrive or else you will have to wait the entire weekend; rechecking tracking number which says it’s on a truck in town but there’s always a slight chance it won’t be delivered anyway because this has happened to you before; waiting.

Day of waiting.

Must be better things to do.

What did I do with my to do list?

Coffee.

My coffee cup is empty.

Must have more coffee.

And a shower.

Maybe lunch.

Friday.

Write one leaf about taking out the trash.

(via writeoneleaf)

It never fails.

Every week, I gather up the trash bins and start putting them into the big bin to take out to the curb. Every week, as I’m doing it, the same earworm strikes again.

“Take out the papers and the trash.”

I don’t get the whole song. Just enough to make me insane.

“Yakety yak,
don’t talk back.”

I don’t think I actually know much more of the song than that. And I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know because I have a feeling this would make the earworm more powerful. As if I were feeding it. I don’t want to feed this worm. I want it to stop.

I remember, at first, I found it somewhat delightful that I remembered the song as I was performing the act. It reminded me of my stepfather, who, if the song were playing on the radio, would have sung along loudly and stated the year that it was released (1958—I just looked it up). We could never argue with him on the year because we had no idea. That thing I just did where I Googled “Yakety Yak” and found more information than I ever cared to know about it on Wikipedia? We couldn’t do that at the time, and I have a feeling this would have spoiled a lot of his fun.

My stepfather died before I ever had the chance to correct him on a release date.

Dammit, I didn’t mean to go there, but there I went. I was going to be lighthearted and happy and joke around about an earworm and that was going to be it. But here I am talking about my stepfather and how I never got to spoil his fun using the internet.

The connective tissue between brain and heart gives me the willies some days. Think this way fire up this emotion. Walk down that path and be jolted into the past. Wake up with your heart racing and a hankering to eat an entire box of Oreos.

The papers and the trash are out at the curb. Go ahead and take it all away. There’ll be more next week.