Laziness Squared and Other Stuff

I do not know why, but this last week, I have felt incredibly lazy. I feel like the entire world has passed me by completely.

Could it be writing jet lag from NaNoing last month? Accomplishing the goal was rather impressive, if I do say so myself. Could it be that with the onslaught of winter, I am doing some mental hibernating? I don’t know… I just feel like doing absolutely nothing.

This does not mean that I feel sleepy. No, I’m not sleepy. In fact, I find it very hard to get a good night’s sleep, because Mr. Demonic keeps the furnace set at 68, which means in our room (farthest from the furnace) it is a bone-chilling 57 degrees. He also hogs the cat, which is my major heat source. (Grace is not allowed to sleep with us, which is fine. I don’t need a fight on the bed. The two critters are already jealous of each other.)

In trying to break from the laziness, last night we went to the symphony, where we were treated to a new, very illustrious conductor, recently snagged from a Washington. (I’m not saying which one, to make it hard for some people to figure it out who it was.) Mr. D usually sleeps through part of the performance, which is embarrassing because we have box seats right next to the stage. Everyone and their second cousin can see us. Last night was no different. During the performance of Carmina Burana, instead of being situated on the stage (which was jam packed), the tenor sang from the box next to ours. Doing so meant that all eyes were on the man, and therefore many saw my husband being roused out of sleep by a thunderous voice. (I literally could have touched the vocalist.)

I would like to think my husband’s constant slumber was due to laziness. He likes to think he is concentrating intently.

The other thing we finally did this week was to talk to an attorney about our estate. The last time that was done was ten years ago. We have been procrastinating this chore for at least three years. Our children are now grown and life is more complicated. The pot is also smaller, but that is due to our recent economic woes. Our former executors and trustees are now deceased. It was time. Dragging the old guy (Mr. D.) to the attorney’s office was like getting him to go to the dentist or the optometrist — it’s murder, man!

Restructuring the trust meant I also had to renew the life insurance policy on my husband. Every time I mention the word “life insurance,” Mr. D has a conniption. He thinks I am looking to off him like some of the black widows on Forensics Files, when in actuality, he is worth more to me alive than dead. Besides, when I found out how much we owe in total on our various mortgages, my breath was sucked from my lungs. This policy isn’t even going to pay the bank.

My New Year’s resolution is to end my laziness. I don’t know how I’m going to do that, but perhaps if I keep looking behind my shoulder, I will at last find a reason to do so.

Odd Thoughts That Add Up To Good Stories

Over the weekend, my dear Mr. Demonic and I had our standard date night out at the local seafood grill. We try not to talk about business, but it’s hard since we own three of them and they are the parasites sucking the life out of us.

Both of us are over 50. I’m older than he is by about nine months. He thinks this is hilariously funny and that I’m so much older than he is. Never mind that we graduated from high school the same year. This has caused some tension, and for the past several years, I spend my birthdays in other locations, with people who love me. Well, with people who at least tolerate me. But that’s another story.

So, during dinner, we were discussing the awful economy. We couldn’t sell our house if we wanted to. Ditto for the business, and the buildings where the businesses are located. In one building, there is a 4,000 square foot space upstairs, that in a good economy, we could consider making genuine loft space out of. Right now, it’s rotting like the rest of the state.

Sometime after the grilled scallop appetizer (which was delicious, by the way), a heated discussion ensued about packing it all in and going elsewhere. We’ve had this discussion before. Mr. D, being a man, feels that giving up would be a coward’s way to act. On the other hand, I feel that it might save us from impending doom. Mr. D also has an unexplainable fondness for this state. Neither one of us is from here, and if I had my druthers, I’d be any place but here.

Mr. D then brought to my attention that he is too old to start over.


You’ve got to be shittin’ me, right?

This coming from the man who claims his gray hair is actually blond? Who says I’m getting old?

I tried to tell him that 50 is the new 30, but he wouldn’t have any of it.

The discussion led me to thinking over the weekend. (I know, I’m dangerous when I do that.) What if we were to sell everything and leave for pastures not as burnt up as those here?

Then I came up with a plan which later on, I thought would make a good story… I might work on that if I have more than ten seconds of time to myself.

I like going to cemeteries, so I could hunt up someone who is 15 years younger than me. (I think I could pass for late 30s. I’d be pushing it trying for anything younger.) Then, I would go and establish a whole new identity using the dead person’s information.

This would instantly make me a lot younger on paper. If a prospective employer asked my age, I could provide documentation showing that I am indeed 39.

I’m thinking the name of the story would be “Perpetually 39.” I think this scenario could lead to hi-jinks untold. I’m not sure I could pull off being fifteen years younger, but I could certainly give it the old college try.

Of course, doing this in real life would make me a law breaker at the least and a felon at the most, so I will not consider it as a viable option. I want to get out of this state, not be stuck in prison in it.


I walked on the beach for a couple of hours, which was really a treat because the previous night, it had been raining. I won’t walk long on the beach if it’s raining. The clouds broke and by the time I was finished, the sun was up and it was actually warm.

Then I took my son to school, and went back to my motel room to write for a few hours while he was in class.

After that, we took a little tour with a friendly real estate agent he had found on the internet. We looked at a couple of foreclosed homes and some in the process of short sale. They weren’t in his neighborhood, but they were easily accessible to the downtown area by train. Most were nice, a couple were very nice, and one was scary bad. That one had no floor (only subfloor) and about three years worth of garbage everywhere. Things were growing on the stove, and there was a ruined piano in the doorway. It was so scary, I felt myself getting itchy and imagined bugs had latched onto my pant bottoms.

At dinner, I asked him and his girlfriend their intentions. He’s a college student, with a year and a half to go. She’s just finishing her degree. Neither have a steady job. Oh, sure, he gets gigs once in a while, but with school being a priority he doesn’t have regular employment. Plus, he’s going to attempt a concerto competition in a couple of months, and is devoting all of his time to that. We’ve been financing his grand stay in San Francisco, but the kid is almost 21 and the gravy train stops as soon as he has a degree. After all, the Mini-Ms-Demonic starts college in the fall, and we have to concentrate on her for a while.

Anyway, I think my son and his lady are going to get married. I asked them, and all I got was stifled giggles. I must admit that they are a very cute couple, and she’s done a good job of making him over. (My thought is, I taught him all this stuff years ago, but now with positive reinforcement, it’s coming out.) They have only been together for about nine months, and I wish they would wait until they’ve known each other for a couple of years. Right now, they’re in the honeymoon stage, and I’ve been in that stage myself at least a dozen times. Most of the time, the glow dims with time. Then we had a serious discussion about the gravy train making its final stop. In about a year, he’s going to have to have a concrete plan for the next couple of years. Is it going to be graduate school? Is he going to get a full time job somewhere? Perhaps a teaching certificate so he can at least teach K-12?

Young Mr. Demonic has a college fund that he knows about that we’ve not had to use…yet. We’ve been blessed to have enough discretionary income to fund his junket into higher education, and we’ve been holding onto it in case he needs it for graduate school. I wouldn’t mind giving him the money for the down payment on his little house here, but for now, looking at houses is a pipe dream.

As I did when he was younger and now with Mini-Ms-Demonic, I told him to write out a concrete plan as to how he will make this work. I can’t wait to read it.

After that, I dropped them at his house and was too tired to do anything, so I fell into a very deep sleep.

A Layer of Fog Makes Me Lazy

It snowed last night after an enormous wind and bit of a chill; big, wet and fluffy flakes danced to the earth in the midnight calm. “They” (those meteorologists-who gave them a license to be wrong all the time?) said we could possibly get three to six inches of snow and that news sent the entire area into a panic, but instead we only received a dusting. This morning the temperature warmed to 40 degrees, and now we are covered in a layer of fog as well as a coating of snow.

Since the sky, the houses, and the streets have melted into a canvas of varying shades of gray, my ambition has lost color as well.

I think I will lay in bed, a heating pad on my back, and invite the Space Cadet Kitten to join me under the down.

Don’t Try to Have Sex When You’re Suffering From a Bad Back

For the obvious reasons, although not obvious to me until after the act. There’s momentary pleasure, but the resultant excruciating pain is not worth the wa-hoo.

The Case for Anonymity

When I was first lured here to WordPress, by my friend and internet boyfriend, I decided to make my WordPress persona anonymous. In other spheres of the internet universe, I am known by my real name. Some of the people who know me here also know me “out there” as well. A few of them have met me in the flesh. I know a few people from here and elsewhere as well. I know their real names and addresses, and their email addresses.

In my case, I don’t mind for most people to know me as the One True Me (meaning the real me, the one with a real name and address and social security and phone number). I really have nothing to hide. Besides, if a person really wants to track you down, there’s a way to do it online, and you don’t even have to divulge your name or location. I’m also a writer-wannabe, so eventually I want to be recognized as such, using my real name.

Now, my husband is also a real person. In “real” life (meaning the physical, non-internet life), he is a pretty big wheel. He’s often quoted in newspapers and such, and if you were to Google his name, you’d find a lot of material there. Unlike me, he doesn’t want the notoriety of his real persona out there. He’s a private, introverted sort of a person, whereas I’m a loudmouthed, opinionated crone-in-making.

My kids are also online. Both use their own real names, which is a bit scary to me. One is only 17 and she can get herself into a lot of trouble. In fact, she has gotten herself into a bit of trouble, but not the kind where we’ll be making the ABC Nightly News. The other one is college aged, and he can get into troubles of his own by using his real name. He’s been touched by an early anti-establishment gene which he obviously received from his mother. I have to remind him to weigh his position carefully and choose his words with even more care, because someday someone may look up his rebel streak on Facebook and refuse to give him a job.

I know of people, here and elsewhere, who want to keep their real selves secret. Some of them do so because they don’t want to be harassed by wackos and nutjobs. I’ve never been stalked online, but I’ve been stalked in real life, and if the online type is anything like the real life stalking, it’s equally as demeaning, invasive and frightening.

On WordPress, I wanted to let some of my weirder thoughts escape from my mind without my friends and relatives in the “real” world who know my “real” name think that I’m totally insane. My “real” self is generally upbeat, somewhat positive, and speaks with a reporter’s voice (or so I am told). So “Pan-Demonic” may seem borderline psychotic at times. I’ve invited some of my “real” friends who know me here to WordPress, with the caveat that they not use my name in comments. If they do, their comment will be zapped.

I can’t see having that kind of freedom if I’m weighed down by my “real” self. However, I understand the case for anonymity and support anyone who chooses to go down that path.

Feeling Sorry for Myself Because of Sleeplessness & My Body Fails Me

I don’t know why my daughter sees fit to burst into our bedroom at 12 midnight to rouse us from a sound sleep to announce this tragedy in her life or that. Unless the house is on fire, I don’t need to know anything about anybody until the next day.

After her big news (her kitten peed on her bed), I was the only one in the house who couldn’t get back to sleep, so I spent most of the early morning hours watching crime shows on the Discovery Channel. Usually, it’s some husband who has murdered his wife and thinks he’s gotten away with it until foiled by forensics, but according to my spouse, it’s the other way around in real life. His new favorite crime show is “Snapped” on the Oxygen Network. They feature only women who “snapped” and murdered their husbands on that show, so he is getting a perverted sense of evildoing.

After fitfully tossing about for a couple of hours (he is perennially hot and I am continuously freezing my ass off), I finally drifted off around 4 a.m. At five, my husband leaps out of bed totally refreshed and starts sawing lumber in the basement. He is painting the dungeon downstairs a mixture of purple, green and brick and redoing all of the wood trim while he’s at it. Meanwhile, I am moaning and half dead from the night before.

Around nine, I decide to get up. I have things to do, like finish the decorating the Christmas tree, go shopping for provisions, make my son some tasty treats, like brownies and cookies, and make osso bucco for dinner. (I must say, my osso bucco rocks! as does my brownies and chocolate chip cookies.)

Since my husband was still downstairs sawing, I had to maneuver around his mess with my bins of Christmas decorations. Once I started working, I began to get into a  Christmas spirit, albeit a tired, sleep deprived one. I always forget about the ornaments I had purchased in the days after the last Christmas, at a discount, of course, so it’s almost like opening presents before the big day.

Alas, I bent over to reach for some crystal stars, and my lower back went out.

The one thing about getting older is that it sucks that your body can no longer keep up with the rest of you. Now that you have money, smarts and experience, your physical being starts its slow decent to the grave. The last time my back went out, I was pretty much toast for a week. It could have been the fact that any slight movement would cause enormous pain, or it could have been the borrowed Vicodin. No matter.

I don’t know who to blame this on. Myself for not being very fit and therefore subject to a bad back? My kitten for peeing in the bed? My child for waking me up? My husband for continuing to sleep like a rock? The Discovery Channel for thinking up programming that captures my attention? The Christmas tree? The sawing downstairs?

I think I’ll see about finding the leftover Vicodin…