I just had a really good idea. Some day I want to remodel my kitchen. It will happen when I'm in my fifties and THAT'S FINE. There is a wall I plan to tear out. A wall that is constantly spattered with food and grimy and nasty. I hate looking at it because I can't properly clean it. It makes me feel pretty angry sometimes because I scrub and scrub and it is still scummy and gross.
I can learn how to tile on that wall. I don't want to keep it permanently so I am completely free to make weird choices and mistakes.
I think my brain just exploded with joy.
I think I'm weird.
I think I am the luckiest person in the whole world because I have stupid intense urges and an indulgent partner who can afford my fairly cheap DIY projects. He doesn't care what I make the house look like.
In fact, he likes finding out what I want to see in the world. He says, every so often: "I didn't believe you that _____ change would work the way you said it would but you were right."
I feel like my "art" is my house. And I'm really not normal so I don't have or want a house that looks particularly normal. It would be false advertising.
Welcome to Wonderland.
You would be amazed how often people try to turn the doorstop in my house so they can walk through a wall. I painted a hobbit hole under a rainbow and used the doorstop as the doorknob. People can't tell that it's just a painting. I don't think it's that realistic.
My in-laws told me to "buy something for myself". I think I see an increase in the "home" budget for a little bit. I'm going to eek it out and keep myself busy.
That probably isn't what they meant. But it is what will make me happy. That's why I'm glad they sent money.
I'm sure that is a rude thought. Oh well. I'm pretty excited about having a whole bunch of extra money that I can spend on art projects that make my house better for me.
I have to figure out how to involve the kids or it won't work. This is going to take planning. Luckily that is my favorite part.
This is what me distracting myself from feeling bad looks like. I have an idea! But I can't sprint right now. I told Noah that I really want his time. That means no sprinting. That means figuring out how to do the projects entirely with the kids in a way that is fair (and educational) to the kids.
This is going to take planning and thought. What projects to do first--well, first I'm waiting to get the logs back so I can finish the playhouse. That will take about a week once I get the wood back. I will be glad to get all the debris up. Finally. Well, most of it. There is still a huge branch in the back that is waiting to be dismantled. The guy who helps me with my yard had problems with his chain saw last week. I think he doesn't mind how eccentric I am because I actually don't ask him to do much. Trim the front hedge and clean up my messes. I don't even ask him to weed. But he faithfully comes twice a month.
I don't know why I am being evasive on the internet. I'm feeling intensely lonely and yet like I have positive feelings. Not feelings that incline me towards folding the four baskets of laundry at my feet. I'm tired and whiny. I have been doing a lot and we are going out tonight. I am burning a lot of spoons today and this weekend is going to be overwhelming. I will get through it but I may not be talking much by the end because I will be bitchy. I hate that. It feels not fair to the people who see me on the end. But it will be what I have to give.
I will be polite but not chatty. I will make a few awkward positive comments of gratitude about being invited because I am really glad that I am invited. I like them. I am really enjoying watching their life from this distance of rare visits. But I don't have anything else to give and big events are not a time to talk about any of the shit that I think about all the god damn time.
I get low on ability to remember what "polite" language is like. Noah and I don't talk like that.
God I love Noah. And he's in a phase where bugging him at work all day isn't polite.
Thank you internet. I love you. You are always there for me.
I was thinking about how maligned short stories and novels were in their initial heydays.
Blogging is a terrible horrible low-brow writing form.
I've been doing it for what? Ten years.
Where am I going with this?
I'm going to tell you a secret, internet. I really want my whole story to be one that is one that can be picked up and read in its entirety. I think I am interesting. I feel like an asshole right now. That's kind of awesome. I don't think you will all like me. I think you will often think I am a fuck up. But I'm an interesting fuck up. I think.
I just don't have time to tell you the story yet. And that means you get weird snippets. I feel weird that you read this year after year. I know that some of you have been following for a long time (btw--it is now a serious pain in the ass to find comments on livejournal. I won't be responding or able to read the syndicate comments for much longer so don't bother leaving them there. Soon-ish I will have an actual website and then I don't know what will happen. ) and I don't want to lose you.
I feel weird about that. I'm trying to figure out how to put my entire blog archive together. I have already told a lot of stories and I don't really have the hand-strength to type them all again.
It would be fun to reread and figure out where the most interesting stories are. Lisa--I will find the story of the Dear Jane lady and re-post it. It is on livejournal.
Now I'm babbling. Ha. Talk to you later internet. You just became too personal.