not writing

Is It Over Yet?

I ate all the fruit, I must be healed by now.

I ate all the fruit, I must be healed by now.

Isn’t that the loveliest fruit basket?  Sent to me by a friend, and it didn’t have strawberries, so I was actually able to eat it.

I’m working hard on staying, well, if not positive, at least fatalistic. Yanno: life happens, accidents happen, what can you do, blah blah, blah.  And in the scheme of things, I was lucky.  I fell forwards instead of backwards, which would have been worse for my back, and most certainly would have cracked my skull, thick as it is.  Nerd Child has been home this week (Spring Break), a huge bonus, getting Art Child to and from school, keeping me company, and generally helping out.

Art Child has been feeding the tank, and Husband and Nerd Child even got the water change done yesterday, so the fishes and corals are taken care of. I think Little Incredibly Dumb Dog has given up hope that she’ll ever be taken for a walk again.  I’ll just be grateful for pee pads, and she’s learning to enjoy sitting on the terrace.

No, I haven’t written anything, still feeling scattered and shattered.  Unless checking my Submittable submissions and lurking on the writing website counts–in which case, I’ve been hugely productive.

I’m impatient, and refuse to believe a multi-fractured pelvis is going to hurt for as long and be as much of a nuisance as predicted.  Every night I go to bed thinking, tomorrow I’m going to feel much better. By yesterday I was feeling fairly blue about the whole thing, and then Husband came upstairs with a package that had been left with the doorman for me.

I have the best friends.

I have the best friends.

Seriously. The best friends ever. This was sent by a friend who is laid up herself, how incredibly generous is this?! Chocolate heals all, doesn’t it?  It has calcium, that has to go a long way towards getting my bones back where they belong.

So yeah, my everything still hurts, and the road to recovery is longer than I want to admit, but the support, check-ins, and well wishes (along with the above treats) from friends is greater. Thank you!!

 

A Good Morning

I see you lurking.

I see you lurking.

True, my eyes are bloodshot as usual, but when I woke up and went out on the terrace, I had a moment.  A really good moment. I could see stars.  Several–the sky was that clear.  And dark.

I was able to do my abbreviated yoga routine without hurting myself, another plus.

I know the summer is really over, because I’m sitting here with hot tea instead of iced.  Still took Art Child to school wearing my shorts and flip-flops, though.

In between yoga and waking the girl, I found this on the table.  He did it.  Husband found the absolute perfect card for my annual 29th birthday celebration.

The new new math. Or, if you prefer, the new middle aged math.

The new new math. Or, if you prefer, the new middle aged math.

I was able to get a decent amount of crap sorting and tossing accomplished yesterday, only 3,493 more piles to go!  Unreal.  How does so much shit accumulate?  I look around and swear I don’t want any of it, I’m going to throw it all away.  Then I start sorting through, and can only convince myself to part with half.  I can weed through the kids old schoolwork.  I don’t really need every test, homework assignment, and nursery school painting.  I can’t throw away Man Child’s 9/11 journal: his eight year old perspective on what happened from a child’s point of view here in New York, in the days and weeks following the attacks.  I can’t throw away Nerd Child’s book from kindergarten, which he dedicated to himself, because he did the work.  I can’t throw away Art Child’s early art, or the eleventy billion logs, notes, and receipts that comprise her medical history.  I can’t throw away the Christmas card from Husband, assuring me the prior bad year would soon fade from memory.  (lies, by the way–crystal clear)  I can’t throw away my old, snail mail rejection letters.  Can I?  Maybe I can.  Though they are safely tucked away in the file cabinet, it isn’t like they’re making a mess.

I went up to the new apartment, stared down the ancient monster of a range that comprises half the kitchen.

Chocolate pudding brown. When it was in style, it was called coppertone.

Chocolate pudding brown. When it was in style, it was called coppertone.

In case you’re wondering, I’m going to bring my beautifully plain white stove upstairs with me.  The work is being done.  I’m not sure how we’re going to eat for the rest of the year, but most of the major cracks and holes in the walls have already been repaired.

I haven’t worked on my short story in several days, and doubt I will today.  I’d like to, but there’s more crap sorting to do.  I’m still waiting on agent responses for Astonishing, and as I sort crap, I can imagine my little email bing is notifying me of an offer, and fantasy-stock my soon to be real (maybe, I hope) new tank.  One of my friends is making plans to come and visit later this fall.  Whee!  We’ve never met in person, but after years and conversations, photos and laughs, she’s as real to me as Fatigue.

Anxiety, crap, and all, I’ll take these moments.