In some ways it seems as if nothing at all is new, and that there a bunch of little things to tell you. Most not terribly important, but interesting or amusing or whatever. I feel the urge to write something, anything, and yet at the same time I want it to be interesting and funny and… *sigh*
Well. I suppose you’re used to me by now, aren’t you?
Our garden is exploding. First it was cucumbers (Free Pickles to Give Away reads the sign on my cupboard), then it was pumpkins, all lined up neatly and glowing orange on our porch, now it is tomatoes. Most of them are green, either the ones in the house or the dozens still out on the vines, but a few are turning red right now as you’re reading, and at some point in the near future (right in the middle of some other stuff that needs to be done yesterday) a large amount will have to be “done upâ€. I’m doing most of them up in a simple, probably unseasoned sauce. Run them through my food strainer to remove the pulp and seeds, then boil ‘em down for an hour or two, then off to my mother’s freezer to feed our overextended bellies on those long dark Sunday afternoons.
And we bought a new fridge. Or rather, we picked one out and told the guy Ron would be in by tomorrow to actually pay for it and arrange for its delivery.
This led me to having the big urge yesterday to tear apart every cupboard in my kitchen and clean it all out. To sort and to organize and to clean and to remove every unused item. I didn’t do it, as I had some running around to do with Mom and the girls (drugstore giving out 10 times the points on their points card) and picking up our Exhibition winnings. I also had to prep for Sunday dinner at my house, so I just couldn’t, even though I was itching too.
It was discussed, amongst the rest of the household, that maybe we should tackle the dining room first, since it was piled high (still) with yard sale boxes and craft supplies and books and junk and half-finished projects and school supplies and… You get the idea.
So here I sit, having a very large break because aside from some brief supervision by others, I have done almost all of it myself. I’m tired. I’m frustrated. I’m probably not in the best mood to actually write something that doesn’t sound like I am Eternally Pissed Off.
And there’s my mom’s voice in my head, asking what’s wrong honey, or am I tired or why do I sound so upset? When really, I just need a vacation from my life, or possibly, just maybe actually DEAL WITH stuff that is bugging the crap out of me.
Like those craft supplies. Boxes and boxes of leftover inventory of the junkiest stuff you can imagine that can be made into goods that sit around and collect dust while exemplifying the maker’s distinct lack of taste. It is a huge albatross around my neck. (“Albatross! Albatross!â€) I need to get rid of it, and badly. So much so, that one night I went through most of it like a madwoman, some small boxes and bags at my side. I did up a total of seven packages of assorted useful supplies for children, Large enough to be nifty and small enough not to feel like it was too much of a present, just to GIVE AWAY to seven of my friends around here. (Carol and Lisa, there’s your warning!) Sadly, it made narry a noticeable dent in the stash. What I really need to do is rent a hall and some ad space in the newspaper and have a big sale some Saturday. But I hesitate, because, well, it’s just one more thing to do that I don’t want to deal with, and then there’s the question of what to do with the leftovers when it is done. And what if I don’t sell hardly any? That would be a real kick in the head.
Back to the dining room, which is half clean. I started at the foyer door and worked my way around from the left. If I had gone right, it would have been an even more intimidating start, so I went left instead. I skipped over the craft cupboard, for now, as our own personal stash rivals the pile of Stuff To Be Rid Of. There are also some children who, alas, have not been trained properly in the putting-back of materials. I made it all the way past the fish tank, the sewing pile, the crafty boxes (which were hauled to the attic once again by Muscle Boy, who seems to have earned said muscles merely by shuffing boxes up and down three flights of stairs), the bookshelf in the bay windows, the windows themselves, the plants, the floor, and I took one look at the music shelving with its scattered cds and tapes no one listens to, and the china cabinet next to it, and said “Enough!†because eventually that would lead to the School Book Shelves and the School Cabinet with assorted crayons and markers and papers and things that needed to be organized yet again for the benefit of Those Messy Children. Who, at the time, were all three ensconced in front of the children’s computer and Playstation, having fairly earned the time doing Regular Chores. (The one falling asleep to a movie didn’t count. All she learned today is Not to Rub Lipgloss on the Good Wingback Chair. But it was very cute when she marched herself out to me, saying so morosely, “I sorry Mommy. No yipgoss onna chair. Emma keen it up?â€)
Then this leads my brain to its newly enlightened and frustrating state of, Why should there be separate things for school? Why can’t our books be books and not “books to read for fun†and “books to read for school� Why should we have to “get ready†for school when I believe, and KNOW that every day is a great learning experience? And who bought all these school-like materials anyway?
See what I mean? I can hardly even stand myself.
In other recent news, I need to upgrade my webspace as I have run out of space and bandwidth in the last two months. This whole much needed and loved web project for the benefit of friends, family and MYSELF is growing quite large. I love it, though. I dream about it. And yes, I have learned a heck of a lot of stuff. I’m actually thinking of taking an on-line course so I have the much-derided-by-me piece of paper that proves I know what I know. Sure does stroke the old self-esteem, though.
But again it is fall, and I think it falls into (heh, I made a pun…) the routine of preparing for winter, than internal rhythm of an agriculture-based people that needs to stock up and get ready for the long dark days and the sequestered nights. Or maybe it is the fact I finally stopped my internal summer routine, again with the schoolish routine, and realized that I could have been doing some of this stuff all along, instead of saying “But it’s vacation!†or complaining about the heat or hiding online, and what I am really upset with the most is my own damn self.
Again.
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