big ol' work-avoiding update
I have not written in a while. Well, actually I've been writing kind of a lot, but that's for work, and I keep telling myself I don't have time to write otherwise, even though I'm dawdling and taking to longer to do my work than strictly necessary. More on that in a minute. Anyway, I finally decided fuck it, I'll write something down. And of course it came out a tome, because it keeps me from having to write my work stuff. Settle in.
Mostly what's happened this last week is that I stayed out at my folks' house in Simi Valley to look after their dog while they went out to Virginia and saw my mom's folks. My parents' dog is extra cool - a big sweet black lab. She actually started out my sister the photographer's dog (which is why her name is Nikon -- the dog's, not my sister's), until my sister moved out of state and my mom didn't like the way my sister's ex-housemate was taking care of her - basically, leaving her alone in a backyard with two other big dogs almost all the time. The dog was essentially fine, but my mom kept dognapping her and taking her to "gramma's" house for the weekend, until the dog preferred that (and all the spoiling they gave her) to her real house, and then the dog was theirs. Then my mom complained that my sister "foisted" the dog on them, which my dad reliably points out is not the truth at all, but that doesn't always change her recollection. One thing that is absolutely true is that the dog has become the center of my parents' lives, and my sister and I are prepared to insist that they not go without a pet from now on - it just livens them up in a way we'd hate to see stop.
So I went out there to live with the dog so she wouldn't have to get boarded. That would have sucked, because she's middle-aged and her hips are bad and she apparently stops eating when housed with strangers. So I stayed in the four-bedroom house in Simi where I grew up and fed the dog and slept with her on the bed and took her up to run around the elementary school where I went till I was 12. Then at night I'd drive past the junior high I went to and the church I used to have to attend till I got to one of the half-dozen Starbucks that are now out here, none of which are open late enough to suit me. I'd try and write the stuff I have to get finished, with limited success, then go back to the house and feel slightly stir-crazy and wonder what the hell it is my life is all about lately, but then I kind of wonder that all the time now.
I'm actually still in Simi, as I write this, even though my parents are back - why? Because I brought my two cats out with me, and they're having a blast. They totally remembered the place from the other times, years ago, when I'd brought them out, so there was none of that hiding-under-the-bed-getting-used-to-the-new-place phase cats usually have - just a little period of adjustment to the big dog, who mostly just wanted to play with them. So now they're here in a big ol' house with a huge yard and a nice smelly garage full of places to hide and three people to pet them and I'm putting off the inevitable. I'm feeling huge guilt at the fact that they probably think they live there now and they won't understand why I have to grab them, put them in little travel boxes and take them back to my craphole apartment. My mom said she'd watch them for a few days if I wanted to go back to my apartment. Hey, isn't that how she ended up with a dog...?
You know what else I did while I was here? Had oral surgery. I don't have any kind of doctor or dentist out where I am, but my parents are all hooked up, so while I was out here I just used their connections to get this little bump on the underside of my tongue checked out. I went to see an oral surgeon at 2:00 last Thursday, and within about an hour and a half I had a mouthful of gauze, four or five stitches in my tongue, and a cheap bottle of Vicodin. (I kept trying to take a picture of my tongue stitches just to gross everybody out, but my camera is crap and won't focus on anything too small or close.) The removed part is largely suspected to be benign, but it's being biopsied nonetheless. My tongue still hurts some, but mostly looks totally freaky. I should show it to little boys, because they'd think I was cool. I have to go back for a follow-up on Friday. 'Nother reason not to bolt out of here. I guess. I'm really just not expected anywhere, which is both 1) convenient and 2) why I keep wondering what the hell my life is about. What the hell kind of life do you have if it doesn't matter in the slightest where you are?
So, about the writing. I'm having what I call Writer's Reluctance with greater and greater frequency these days, and I'd rally like to find out what it's about so's I can counteract it. See, I don’t actually believe in Writer's Block - in that case, all you have is either a choice you haven't made or information you still need. Research your subject, decide on a direction, etc., and you're up and going again. Writer's Reluctance is when you're being whiney and just plain don't want to face it at all. You're afraid of sucking, or afraid of not having any ideas for what you're supposed to do, or something. It all comes, if you just sit down, but you make your life miserable by procrastinating. I think the job I currently have is part of the problem - it's one of those ones that is being presided over by eleventeen committees, and you can't possibly get it right. Seriously, it has nothing to do with you, it has to do with the committee members making it impossible to please them - the notes you get are nonsensical and arbitrary and constantly changing (check out this post for exactly what I'm talking about). I know that no matter what I hand in, someone's going to make me change it to something I don't understand or like for no good reason. I guess that's a good enough reason for WR. But I do notice that my greater work "success" lately is translating to greater stress on my part and greater difficulty showing up for all the stuff I have to do. I find myself turning to old not-good-for-me stress-relievers that I'd previously put down. And if I'd just get this stuff done then I could go do the fic and the web-designing and other geeky stuff I like. Hmm. Anybody who'd like to share how they refuel and get excited about writing again is more than welcome to share.
Oh, and don’t even ask me when it is I'll be moving. My roommate certainly has no idea - she's surprising the hell out of me with her flakiness and second-guessing and date-changing. Currently we're supposed to give notice May 1st, to move June 1st, but I wouldn't bet the farm on it. I need to have a talk with her.
Finally, djmrswhite's book is proving hilarious and making me an even bigger fan of his than I was. :) His hubby moroccomole's book is next.
Mostly what's happened this last week is that I stayed out at my folks' house in Simi Valley to look after their dog while they went out to Virginia and saw my mom's folks. My parents' dog is extra cool - a big sweet black lab. She actually started out my sister the photographer's dog (which is why her name is Nikon -- the dog's, not my sister's), until my sister moved out of state and my mom didn't like the way my sister's ex-housemate was taking care of her - basically, leaving her alone in a backyard with two other big dogs almost all the time. The dog was essentially fine, but my mom kept dognapping her and taking her to "gramma's" house for the weekend, until the dog preferred that (and all the spoiling they gave her) to her real house, and then the dog was theirs. Then my mom complained that my sister "foisted" the dog on them, which my dad reliably points out is not the truth at all, but that doesn't always change her recollection. One thing that is absolutely true is that the dog has become the center of my parents' lives, and my sister and I are prepared to insist that they not go without a pet from now on - it just livens them up in a way we'd hate to see stop.
So I went out there to live with the dog so she wouldn't have to get boarded. That would have sucked, because she's middle-aged and her hips are bad and she apparently stops eating when housed with strangers. So I stayed in the four-bedroom house in Simi where I grew up and fed the dog and slept with her on the bed and took her up to run around the elementary school where I went till I was 12. Then at night I'd drive past the junior high I went to and the church I used to have to attend till I got to one of the half-dozen Starbucks that are now out here, none of which are open late enough to suit me. I'd try and write the stuff I have to get finished, with limited success, then go back to the house and feel slightly stir-crazy and wonder what the hell it is my life is all about lately, but then I kind of wonder that all the time now.
I'm actually still in Simi, as I write this, even though my parents are back - why? Because I brought my two cats out with me, and they're having a blast. They totally remembered the place from the other times, years ago, when I'd brought them out, so there was none of that hiding-under-the-bed-getting-used-to-the-new-place phase cats usually have - just a little period of adjustment to the big dog, who mostly just wanted to play with them. So now they're here in a big ol' house with a huge yard and a nice smelly garage full of places to hide and three people to pet them and I'm putting off the inevitable. I'm feeling huge guilt at the fact that they probably think they live there now and they won't understand why I have to grab them, put them in little travel boxes and take them back to my craphole apartment. My mom said she'd watch them for a few days if I wanted to go back to my apartment. Hey, isn't that how she ended up with a dog...?
You know what else I did while I was here? Had oral surgery. I don't have any kind of doctor or dentist out where I am, but my parents are all hooked up, so while I was out here I just used their connections to get this little bump on the underside of my tongue checked out. I went to see an oral surgeon at 2:00 last Thursday, and within about an hour and a half I had a mouthful of gauze, four or five stitches in my tongue, and a cheap bottle of Vicodin. (I kept trying to take a picture of my tongue stitches just to gross everybody out, but my camera is crap and won't focus on anything too small or close.) The removed part is largely suspected to be benign, but it's being biopsied nonetheless. My tongue still hurts some, but mostly looks totally freaky. I should show it to little boys, because they'd think I was cool. I have to go back for a follow-up on Friday. 'Nother reason not to bolt out of here. I guess. I'm really just not expected anywhere, which is both 1) convenient and 2) why I keep wondering what the hell my life is about. What the hell kind of life do you have if it doesn't matter in the slightest where you are?
So, about the writing. I'm having what I call Writer's Reluctance with greater and greater frequency these days, and I'd rally like to find out what it's about so's I can counteract it. See, I don’t actually believe in Writer's Block - in that case, all you have is either a choice you haven't made or information you still need. Research your subject, decide on a direction, etc., and you're up and going again. Writer's Reluctance is when you're being whiney and just plain don't want to face it at all. You're afraid of sucking, or afraid of not having any ideas for what you're supposed to do, or something. It all comes, if you just sit down, but you make your life miserable by procrastinating. I think the job I currently have is part of the problem - it's one of those ones that is being presided over by eleventeen committees, and you can't possibly get it right. Seriously, it has nothing to do with you, it has to do with the committee members making it impossible to please them - the notes you get are nonsensical and arbitrary and constantly changing (check out this post for exactly what I'm talking about). I know that no matter what I hand in, someone's going to make me change it to something I don't understand or like for no good reason. I guess that's a good enough reason for WR. But I do notice that my greater work "success" lately is translating to greater stress on my part and greater difficulty showing up for all the stuff I have to do. I find myself turning to old not-good-for-me stress-relievers that I'd previously put down. And if I'd just get this stuff done then I could go do the fic and the web-designing and other geeky stuff I like. Hmm. Anybody who'd like to share how they refuel and get excited about writing again is more than welcome to share.
Oh, and don’t even ask me when it is I'll be moving. My roommate certainly has no idea - she's surprising the hell out of me with her flakiness and second-guessing and date-changing. Currently we're supposed to give notice May 1st, to move June 1st, but I wouldn't bet the farm on it. I need to have a talk with her.
Finally, djmrswhite's book is proving hilarious and making me an even bigger fan of his than I was. :) His hubby moroccomole's book is next.