One of a few things I'm trying to not dwell on.

Linda — Thu, 09 Jul 2009 17:23:00 +0000

Here’s the backstory if you’re new here-
or if you’re like my husband who only hears the words that come after steak, beer, bed, free or panties.
I wrote a (steak) novel- actually three, but here- to minimize dwelling potential- we’re only talking about the one my agent read, liked, edited and last week pitched to a bunch of (beer) hot NYC editors.
It’s summer, so of course I have plenty to do to keep me busy (panties) during the waiting period- which I have been told can be three days, four weeks, five months, six years or somewhere short of forever. So I wait. And I check my horoscope and the tarot and throw chicken bones like rune stones. It’s just that, I am so freaking good at dwelling… that I’ve about given myself a (free) crazypersonbreakdown- which is good for prepping a body for bathing suit weather, (steak) and pretty good for sleeping long periods of time or drinking large bottles of wine.

I blame the crazypersonthing on (panties) travel, planning, packing, (beer) kids and all their messes and friends and problems and arguments, money difficulties, (steak) the IRS, running another literary business, (beer), replacing household appliances, hiring workers and (bed) prepping our house for sale, while trying to figure where to move, how much to spend and when. Add in (free) difficult work and personal relationships and a growing dislike for (panties) your location in the world, and you pretty much have a recipe for disaster. Or at least the perfect combination of events that lead someone like me to buy a first class ticket on the train to crazypersonville, Xanax included.
I’m not complaining. really, I’m not. I’m just stating the facts. I’m just sharing in the way one might share one’s thoughts, feelings, ideas and current status with her loving caring extended family over a Sunday Dinner. (though in my family? We ignore all the bad shit, only talk about the done deal stuff that won’t hurt anyone’s feelings and definitely never mention hopes or wishes or desires because that’s all just dreaming and God knows where dreaming gets you… nowhere little girl with her head in the clouds, and guess what? No one ever wins the lottery or beats cancer either.)
( beer, panties, bed, free, steak)
Mostly it’s my fault for taking too much on. For feeling superior over normalcy, for desiring more and more- not the material stuff, just the wrapping up of the regular stuff. If I had a real job in a real office I would be the one with the uber-neat cubicle, the one who was never late, who stayed overtime and always always cleared her desk before she left for the day. You, as my co-worker would hate me for making you seem incompetent, and I would spend all my free time trying to get you to like me. Going places with you I never wanted or needed to go, planning events that would please you and offering, always offering to pay, to drive, to negotiate, to make things simpler. In my head, you’d be my friend, and I’d think it was all normal, sane.
But it isn’t. Which brings me back to dwelling- which makes me think I have way too much brain time on my hands because I now have twenty pages of new novel experiences and insight to the characters in the work in progress, all from my crazypersonville experiences of the past few months, and honestly? This may be some of the best work I have ever done- and that’s not fucking crazy to dwell on.
Is it?

Sensitive Guy- at least where skin is concerned.

Linda — Fri, 09 May 2008 12:29:00 +0000

Instead of enjoying a wonderful yoga session yesterday, I was sitting in a doctor’s office looking at this: One week old POISON IVY . Trust me it was uglier in person.

My son was blessed/cursed with sensitive skin. Certain fabrics give him rashes, he sunburns and freckles in minutes and has permanent tattoos where a pencil poked through his jeans pocket and jabbed him in the leg.
The boy wanted the doctor to be stymied at this ugliness of the poison ivy, he imagined it might be another HOUSE episode, but that only made Dr. George laugh. Those shows are so unreal, he told my son ( the kid who wants to be a gynecologist) “No ER doctor delivers babies or diagnoses cancer..”
and when it came time for the steroid shot and the antibiotic injection… the doctor left–leaving us to call after him, “Oh yeah, DOCTORS don’t give shots. That’s a nurse’s job.”

Of course, since I kept the gimpy one home, we used this experience to learn about doctors, treatments, homeopathic remedies and skin.

your interesting item of the day:
skin is the largest organ of the integumentary system made up of multiple layers of epithelial tissues that guard underlying muscles and organs

Now, I have to wash my baby, I mean CAR and finish packing for an overnight jaunt where I hope to meet my dream agent, or at least get a damn good meal and have some laughs. Though, last time I went to this restaurant, the valet busted my husband’s side view mirror off and I spent a rain soaked ride home with my arm out the window. You better believe I’ll be watching them this time.

Linda Sands » sick

One of a few things I'm trying to not dwell on.

Sensitive Guy- at least where skin is concerned.