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.

TOO OLD!?

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.

Yesterday

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…

It’s Such a Small World, and I Don’t Have Much Time

Ramblings… 

First off, I have to say that someone put that earworm “It’s a Small World” into my head, and now all I can think of is the Disney music which goes with that infernal ride. Whoever dreamed that one up should be executed by hanging, lethal injection or firing squad, and all reminders of the “small world” should be thrown into a bonfire. For those of us suffering the post traumatic stress syndrome – earworm effects, we should all be given unlimited psychiatric services provided by DisneyCorp.

I am reminded of how small the world is when learning MIB and I like the same Subway sandwiches. I’m also reminded when my baby sister tells me her best friend moved here and works at a computer place where one of my ex-employees and ex-tenants works, and they know each other. I don’t need Disney to blast that mantra to me.

Ah, now that I’ve gotten that off my chest…

I forgot that I spent Thanksgiving putting up my Christmas tree. It’s an artificial one that I’ve had for fifteen years. (If you want to, you can read about it here: https://pandemonic.wordpress.com/2007/10/28/in-search-of-new-traditions/

Fifteen years is a long time in Christmas tree years. I believe it’s a long time in dog years and human years. During assembly, I noticed my tree was getting a little worn. Some of its limbs have lost their snap. Some have twisted off completely. It’s a magnificent tree, but I may have to retire it next year, hopefully to a shelter or school where it will get a couple more years of use.

This morning, I walked through the living room where the tree was, on the way to giving my bird some water. In tripping over boxes, I realized I haven’t finished putting it up yet! I was waylaid by the Thanksgiving turkey. Now I will have to find the time to finish putting up the ornaments, and I’m not sure when that will be. Last year, the same problem existed. I didn’t take it down until the end of January.

My dilemma is that I have too many commitments and not enough time. This is a huge problem. I started rewriting my novel for NaNoWriMo and became stalled by sickness and travel. In a way, I feel like like a loser for not keeping my head on task. I do feel good in that now I believe I have developed the story and the characters; it’s just a matter of getting everything down perfectly.

I’ve also not done much Christmas shopping yet. Christmas will be a low-key event this year. I don’t want anything, really. My son and his girlfriend will be here two weeks, and that’s present enough for me. My son, likewise, doesn’t want anything. He’s happy for the plane tickets. My husband, I’m not sure. He’s extremely difficult to buy for. Now, my daughter, she will come up with a catalog-styled booklet of her wish list. I told her that since times are not as flush as the last two years, she will not be receiving all that’s on her list.

I can’t believe it’s the end of November. Where does the time go?

The Forks in the Road Part II

My daughter and I had our discussion at breakfast about the previous night’s debauchery. I told her in all seriousness that if she continued to binge drink as she had, this was a sign of alcoholism. She disagreed and informed me that she liked to push the boundaries and see how far she could go. We had a discussion about alcohol poisoning, and that there’s a very thin line between being drunk and being poisoned. I again reiterated my concern over the amount she would be drinking and the time frame, and also whether or not she had eaten anything. (She hadn’t eaten much at my father’s party. It was heavy on the red meat and carbs, and she’s rather fussy about what she eats.) I also said that at college next year, I would not be around to pull  her sorry ass out of a similar situation.

We left the restaurant and continued to drive to past familiar haunts. It was such a beautiful day, very warm, and the sun shining. I was still quite upset about the night before, but glad that she hadn’t felt any lasting bad effects. My mission with her continues to be that of showing her if she does something, anything, there are consequences. It’s hard to tell if she’s listening. At this age, kids think their parents are stupid. We don’t know anything. We lived in a different time.

Driving up the mountain pass, my rental car decided to die. It didn’t just sputter and slowed down, it was dead. This was very dangerous, as we were in an area of sharp twisting roads where people drove over the 55 mile an hour speed limit, and there were no shoulders with which to pull over. I rolled over to a little spot where my tiny KIA could fit and attempted to call the rental car agency. There was no cell phone signal in this pass. So we sat for a few minutes and waited, hazard light on. Cars were whizzing around us, and honking, as if I could do anything. They were no doubt on their way to weekend fun, and we were  in the way.

I tried the ignition once, and the engine would not turn over. We waited a few more minutes. Finally, the thing came to life, and we started moving again, slowly. Several much faster vehicles blew by as I tried to maintain the flow of traffic.

Not a half mile later, the traffic had come to another dead stop. Just a couple of cars ahead, I could see debris on the road. One of the four motorcycles which had just passed us ten seconds before was a crumpled mass of metal, its rider several feet beyond. People from the first couple of cars ran out to offer assistance. Some were on cell phones. The other motorcyclists gently placed the rider on the side of the road. Someone kicked the debris to one side to get traffic going again.

My daughter asked if we should get out and help. I thought the situation was being taken care of, so when traffic resumed, we slowly made our way past, where we could see the rider was at least moving, although he looked quite dazed.

We continued on in silence. Then she asked if someone had run into him, or if it was his own fault. I thought about it. What difference did it make, if someone had tapped him? His bike could have just as easily slid on gravel on the road. He made a choice to go out for a run on this beautiful day, and this was the outcome. I’m sure he didn’t think his afternoon would end up with him lying on the side of the road.

I’m not a firm believer in Fate, because I think you can pilot your own ship in your own way. But sometimes no matter which fork in the road you take, there will be trouble at the end of it.

The Forks in the Road Part I

Thursday night, I did something a little crazy. It’s not something I am particularly proud of, or something I do on a regular basis. This situation did, however, end up illustrating the fact that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. It made me think hard about the fleeting results of our choices. It also shows that choosing the wrong fork in the road could have disastrous consequences.

Thursday was my dad’s 75th birthday, and all the siblings decided to surprise him by showing up at his door for an impromptu party. The six of us live in various locations in the country, far from the childhood home. I dragged my daughter with me; my son is in the process of trying to find a new place to live as well as dealing with college. In my daughter’s case, I say “dragged” because she was an unwilling participant. The previous Sunday, she hurt my feelings by announcing that in no uncertain terms, and also let me know my family was a bunch of kooks. (Okay, so we are, but heck, we’re family!)

On the plane ride and subsequent car trip to my hometown, we had a discussion on why when you’re an adult, you must do things for other people even if the actions or the persons are distasteful. For example, I don’t get along with one of my sisters and haven’t spoken more than a half dozen words to her in five years. If you must know why, it’s because of my father’s 70th birthday. (I should write this stuff down!) However, my mantra is to be pleasant and cheerful and act stupid. Fighting is the thing I’d least like to do.

At this point, my daughter asked me if she could drink during the party. At first, I told her “no” because she’s only 17, and added there would only be lite beer and wine, not what she likes to drink. She then brought up the fact that she was a captive, and a drink or two would make her mood more amenable to dealing with a family situation. I thought about it, and agreed. After all, she wasn’t driving, and we wouldn’t be there long. On the way to my dad’s, I stopped and bought a small flask of vodka and orange juice.

Before you think “what a horrible mom!” and report me to the local Department of Human Services, I must say this: I have allowed my children to drink under certain controlled circumstances. Both of them spent extended periods in Europe at 16 and drank. I’m sure both have been to parties and drank. I’ve told both, if you are stuck somewhere and drunk and can’t get a ride, CALL ME. I would rather come and pick them up than have them drive home under the influence.

The amount of alcohol I purchased for her wasn’t enough to get her drunk as a skunk. No. But then her 21 year old cousin decided to slip her some extra alcohol without my knowledge. When I went to leave to stay with one of my sisters, I found my daughter on the bed downstairs lying in a large pool of her own vomit. It wasn’t pretty. Some of my sibs were staying there with my dad. I tried to get her up, and couldn’t, so I tried to my best to clean up the mess before anyone came downstairs. Then I moved her to the couch.

All night, I was upset. I didn’t think I had given her enough to get that wasted, and then I felt bad. What if she had alcohol poisoning? I couldn’t exactly call my dad and say, hey, could you look at your granddaughter and tell me she’s still breathing? Because, heh, heh, she was drunk last night. And what if she did have alcohol poisoning? How could I ever live that one down?

At four a.m., I woke up in a start. I heard my daughter call my name, but she was three miles from me. Then I rubbed my eyes and went to the bathroom. I came back to bed, my skin burning as if I were on fire. “I’m going to hell,” I thought. I couldn’t go back to sleep so I went online and wrote my previous post.

At a decent hour, I called my daughter and she amazingly answered her cell phone. The level of relief felt was indescribable. I collected her a few minutes later, and we went to breakfast. This is where she confessed that her cousin had given her even more to drink.

The weird thing is that as she was describing her night, she said she awoke right at 4 a.m. and went to the bathroom. After that, she went back to the couch, where she felt so hot, she thought she was on fire.

The rest of the story later.