I may be one of the luckiest people I know.
I have an incredible husband: he cooks, he shops for groceries, he schleps our kids everywhere, he is funny, smart, extremely literate, kind, considerate, he indulges my rages with admirable patience, and he never ever demands anything of me that he knows I simply can't give.
I have three amazing kids: they are healthy, smart, kind, socially successful, resilent, considerate (like their dad, I might add!), funny, they make dinnertime a real party and for the most part they are happy.
I am friends with some of the best people you'd want to know: they go out of their way to help me out, have fun with me, take care of my kids, take care of me, provide me with regular allotments of good red wine, make me laugh, they are tremendously kind and considerate and when we get together we always have a good time
I am healthy, I am happy, I have great interests that keep me happily occupied and for the most part I feel complete. I need to take stock of my life like this more often ... gratitude is a nice thing to indulge in.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Sunday, February 8, 2009
checked out
I feel like an old worn out library book
with a scummy scratchy hard avocado green cover
that no one ever pulls off the shelf
to consider as an viable reading option.
In short, I'm not feeling the literary love.
Because my mental circuitry has been clogged with other more pressing matters, I haven't had the time (nor the inclination) to stroke the keyboard. No words come forth and want to pour forward. No real urge to share. Or care. Sorry.
I'm going to blame other things. It certainly can't be because I'm lazy. Or feeling stupid and inarticulate. It must be because it's cold and wintry. It must be this extra fifteen pounds I'm lugging around on my outrageously disproportionately sized thighs and all that weight is surely weighing down my sluggish brain.
Regardless of my lame excuses, I am still thinking about my story. A lot. And I'm doing lots of lovely research about my story. A lot. And I am trying not to be too afraid to get serious and final get down to business and start plotting my story.
In the meantime, (to press my analogy a bit further) my card hasn't been stamped here in awhile because I can't seem to get the gumption to "get off the shelf" and make the words work.
with a scummy scratchy hard avocado green cover
that no one ever pulls off the shelf
to consider as an viable reading option.
In short, I'm not feeling the literary love.
Because my mental circuitry has been clogged with other more pressing matters, I haven't had the time (nor the inclination) to stroke the keyboard. No words come forth and want to pour forward. No real urge to share. Or care. Sorry.
I'm going to blame other things. It certainly can't be because I'm lazy. Or feeling stupid and inarticulate. It must be because it's cold and wintry. It must be this extra fifteen pounds I'm lugging around on my outrageously disproportionately sized thighs and all that weight is surely weighing down my sluggish brain.
Regardless of my lame excuses, I am still thinking about my story. A lot. And I'm doing lots of lovely research about my story. A lot. And I am trying not to be too afraid to get serious and final get down to business and start plotting my story.
In the meantime, (to press my analogy a bit further) my card hasn't been stamped here in awhile because I can't seem to get the gumption to "get off the shelf" and make the words work.
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