The Creepiness of Life

It's happening again. Every couple of weeks I sit myself down for the "all you're going to do is write" lecture. I hang tough for a few days and then... life creeps back in. I know I can't keep life out, and I don't want to. I would, however, prefer to limit my involvement in it until the late afternoon hours.

But how do you hold life back? This week is a good example. Monday was trashed as we had to drive 3 hours to Fayetteville and 3 hours back to deliver the Saturn to Blair's sister. Tuesday morning I had my eyes dilated--the only time Blair could work into his schedule to take me--and couldn't sit at a computer or read a book for 4 hours afterward. Right there, two working days down the drain.

Or is it really? Nothing is stopping me from working in the evenings, except myself. I'm a morning writer, useless after 2 pm. Plus, I only get to see Blair for 1-2 hours each night--I'd prefer to take advantage of that versus sitting in front of a computer while he's home.

Blair raised a good point the other day when I was complaining about how I let "stuff" get in the way of my writing time. "You always make time for running," he said. "What's the difference?"

Hmmm. Excellent question. Part of the difference is I run with people. I make time because I know people are waiting on me to show up. If I have to run alone... a lot of times it still get skipped (or mileage reduced). There's no getting around the fact that writing is lonely. It's you, a laptop, and your thoughts. And the really hard part is doing the work while having no idea if there will ever be a payoff. I'm fine being a starving, struggling artist for two years, so long as I know that at the end of the two years, it was all for a purpose. The not knowingness is maddening.

But I've shaken myself off and given the speech yet again. I've marked out 8-noon all week next week as uninterrupted writing time. No checking e-mail, answering phones, doing laundry, petting cats, eating meals, running errands, or scheduling meetings. Four hours is not much to ask of myself. But if it's four hours of butt-in-the-chair-doing-the-work writing time, the payoff will be immense.

So don't call, don't write, don't e-mail, and don't bother me... unless it's after 3 pm. =)

Dena

Killer Squirrels Never Die... They Just Hibernate Away

They're back. Like an unwanted cold or an unannounced visit from the in-laws, the return each spring of the killer squirrels is never cause for celebration. Yet as I type, there is mad scrabbling in the walls and ceiling surrounding me, and the sound of dirt dropping through our ventilation system. Stupid squirrels. Why can't they take a hint and leave us alone?

I'm putting off calling Critter Control, although I know that's what I'll be reduced to eventually. $150 for a house visit and poison baiting. Never mind that the Harris household has taken a bit of a financial punch this month in terms of cat dental surgery, a new-used car, an eye exam and new contact lenses for me, and just this morning Blair went to the doctor because the cat scratches on his neck is actually a cat bite and inflamed. They gave him a tetanus shot and a 10-day dose of medicine. People, the well is dry.

And ... oh dear God. Something just shuddered in the wall in front of me, right behind the vent. It was the sound a dog makes when it comes out of the water and shakes itself dry. Or the sound a killer squirrel makes before launching itself through a heat vent onto the head of a person sitting at a computer, typing.

Fine, I give. I'm off to call Critter Control right now.

Bloodbath

We barely escaped alive.  I'm speaking of two nights ago when our normally docile Olivia cat "went monkey on our ass" to quote a recent saying of Blair's, and attacked.

It wasn't her fault. Since her dental surgery, she's had to take these huge horse pills twice a day. We'd almost gotten it down to a science. Blair scooped her up, I stood behind them and opened her mouth, popped the pill in, and done. Took all of 5 seconds. Except two nights ago we weren't quite sure the pill had gone down and so repried her mouth open to check. We didn't have a firm grip on her and I could see the panic in her eyes as we tried to peer down her throat and then she got a paw loose.

"Abort! Abort!" I said.

"No, I've got her," said Blair, trying to get a grip on a squirming cat.

I tried to help, but she was already mostly free and used our hands and necks as grip pads for her claws to launch herself to the ground. I escaped with only a few scratches on my hands and arms. Blair looks like he came under mortar attack. His neck has two sets of deep puncture wounds, making it look like he was set upon by vampires.

I felt bad for Olivia that we'd scared her. But later that night when I walked into the bedroom, she was already there, curled up tight against Blair's back, one paw stretched out and resting lightly on his shoulder.

"It was so sweet," I told him the next morning.

"Please," he said. "That paw was just her way of saying, 'Check out my kill.' We're just a bunch of prey to her."

The pills end Thursday. We're all looking forward to it.

So Long, Saturn

Today I say goodbye to my 1996 white Saturn station-wagon. The car I was loathe to drive at first but which has become my loyal friend. I'm driving it to Fayetteville today to hand it over to Blair's sister. The poor thing (meaning the car) has no idea what's in store for it...

I went with the 2002 Toyota Camry for my "new" car. Here's my reasoning: it was the easiest choice. I am not a car person and the thought of spending even just a week test driving cars, comparing cars online, and dealing with car dealers was enough to drive me underground. My friend Kim hit on it when we had lunch together last week. "You should just buy the Camry," he said. "I can tell by your tone you want nothing more to do with this car buying process."

Bingo.  The Camry was there, the price was right, I know the person who owned it before me and so know it was serviced and taken care of... let's just end this. And so now a beige Camry sits out front.

I called my friend Trisha to break the news. She was disappointed, but nice about it. As she said, "The only reason I complain about your cars is that you are such a fun person and your choice of vehicle never reflects that." Fair enough, and I appreciate the back-handed compliment.

But for now, maybe I'll just get a personalized license plate that reads "StillFUN".