For the last three months, I haven’t posted a thing on my blog. The election has come and gone, several new assassinations and attacks have occurred worldwide, one of the barking zombies came close to death from eating a sick werewolf or perhaps an anemic vampire bat, and R almost had to have back surgery. And still I couldn’t write. Too much anger? Too much fear? Not enough prunes? Who knows. However, I have finally come to the conclusion that I need to write something, anything, to entice my muse to return. So I’ve written down a few ideas that might get me going again, a few things I could write about. To whit:
Last September we moved. Again. We move about every three years or so. You’d think we were in the military. You’d also think that by now I would have gotten rid of some of the detritus, but no, boxes still wait in the garage and my room. I look at them and sigh. This is supposed to be our last move, our retirement haven. I shouldn’t need anything that’s still in a box, can’t even remember most of what’s in those boxes. But I can’t make myself give them away without even opening them one more time. I should write about this.
Speaking of moving, nothing is harder on my knees. Not that I do a lot of heavy floor scrubbing or anything. I just tend to trip a lot over ladders and electric cords or stub my toes on the top of a new set of stairs I’m not used to climbing. Every time I trip or stub, I fall hard on my knees, resulting in a bruise that starts under my toes and goes all the way to about an inch below my hip. Every three years or so, one of my legs looks like I just had a full-length avant garde tattoo placed. I should write about this.
Organizer Peter Walsh says he looks at the boxes and boxes of Christmas decorations in clients’ garages and says to himself…ok, I read it a few days ago and forgot exactly what it was he said, but it was something about people having way too many decorations for any sane person to even think about. At this very moment there are 12 boxes, three large loose wreaths and a couple of bags of Christmas stuff in the garage waiting for me to attack them. Aside from the fact that Peter Walsh is anal, I should write about this.
I remember when Christmas decorations were all about the red and the green, maybe a touch of silver, a smidge of gold. Now all of my favorite magazines are showing gifts and decorations and holiday clothing in chartreuse and puce and teal and neon orange. I thought traditions were traditional. I should write about this.
My significant other has a new love—Taylor Swift. Looks like an angel. Sings like an angel. I should be jealous but I’m not. I love her too. So how come he doesn’t feel the same way about Michael Bublé? Barry Manilow? Josh Groban? Hmmm. I
should should not write about this.
Four out of five: Not bad. Not great, but maybe a new beginning. Prunes, anyone?