Weed (s)

The Red Dog

I am not sure why I bother to weed my garden beds because the weeds grow in much more quickly than I can pull them or kill them with Roundup.  I even have help of the canine variety.  The Red Dog loves only one thing more than the swimming pool, and that is helping in the garden.  He is the reason why my house is not and never will be clean (another of my opportunities to practice being Sisyphus).  He is also the reason why my white jeans are permanently stained with large paw marks.  I used to go right around the twist when The Red Dog "decorated" my clean white jeans but now, I no longer care.  The reason I no longer care is that I no longer go anywhere that requires my looking clean and put together, so when The Red Dog comes at me wearing his mud suit and boots, my cammo pants hide the evidence.

Sometimes I use weed-pulling as an excuse to avoid doing things I do not want to do, like cooking dinner, going to the grocery store, cleaning the house, or working in my office.  When Hubby comes home and there is no dinner on the table, I tell him I am saving us tons of money by doing manual labor rather than hiring someone (who really needs the money) and suggest that he get us a pizza from Enzo's.  When the overdue notices start showing up in the mailbox because I have been "too busy" to sit down and write checks, I hide them and then have to spend two solid days in purgatory (my office). It is a good thing that Hubby doesn't get involved with the household accounts otherwise I might have to get a "real" job.

Then there are those opportune times, during tropical storms and 100% humidity, when I voluntarily go to the office with every intention of paying the bills and filing everything away that needs filing and shredding everything else, but decide to check FaceBook instead.  This takes an inordinate amount of time (all wasted!) and makes me want to do some writing in order to get my focus back so I can attend to the high priority tasks languishing on my my desk.  The unfortunate thing about writing is that once I start, I can't do anything else until I am finished -- no matter how long it takes.  It is a little bit like weeding in that way, which leads me to wonder whether writing is a form of procrastination.  (Better not go there.)

As soon as the sun comes out, a whole new crop of weeds will spring forth and I will have to get back to my futile attempt to get my gardens in shape.  My Highly Effective Sister and her Mister do not seem to have these problems.  They keep their garden in shape, get their bills paid on time, host frequent dinner parties, own numerous rental properties, travel constantly (for fun), and hold down Important Jobs!  And they each have graduate degrees.  It's enough to make me want to get out of the gene pool, except it is too late:  Hubby and I have already reproduced, ensuring that the next generation of Highly Ineffective People, like weeds, will keep the entropy going.

Copyright 2012 Teresa Friedlander, all rights reserved

Happy Hour

I have reinvented myself as a writer because that is a good job title for someone who accomplishes very little on a given day.  Today, for instance, I had planned to clean Daughter #2’s room because it hasn’t had a visit from the vacuum, dust rag, and toilet brush since April or May.  But first, I had to feed the dogs and make coffee, two things I do every day.  You might assume that I can do these tasks blindfolded and in my sleep, but you would be wrong.  This morning, I assembled the coffee carafe, put the paper filter in the basket, filled it up with ground coffee, and moved on to the next thing.  The dogs know to wait while I make the coffee, which is a very endearing trait.  I picked the dog bowls up from the floor and put them on the counter and stared off into space for about 30 seconds while I tried to remember what it was that I was supposed to be doing.  Dog food – right!

Feeding the dogs is very rewarding because the dogs enjoy eating the same disgusting food day after day.  Their food is truly revolting which makes me wonder WHY I am spending $150 per month on dog food I can only buy from the vet.  That’s a topic for another day.  This morning after successfully feeding both dogs AND providing clean drinking water, I was ready for my coffee, my little reward for getting out of bed and feeding the dogs, except I had forgotten to turn the coffeemaker on.  Minor glitch, I decided to put the time to good use and make my breakfast while the coffee brewed.  

Something about this morning was off and I couldn’t put my finger on it until I went to pour that first divine cup of java:  I had forgotten to put water in the coffeemaker’s reservoir.  I hadn’t heard the gurgling of the water, that glorious morning music which heralds the beginning of a new day.  I can’t eat breakfast without coffee, so I filled the reservoir and did some tidying up while the coffee brewed for real this time.  I must have lost focus somewhere in the family room while picking up newspapers and empty glasses because the wheat germ on top of my yogurt was completely soggy by the time I remembered that I had not yet had coffee and breakfast.  

By the time I had finished my breakfast and poured the third cup of coffee into a thermos for later, I was an hour late for my riding lesson.  Merde.  My trainer had already come and gone, thinking that I had stood her up, so took my horse out to let him run around with the cattle in sand arena.  He had a great time and we ended up in the round pen where we did some work on human-horse communication.  Unfortunately, the poor equine got overheated so I had to walk him around for an hour after hosing him down in order to get his heart rate down.  Then I noticed that he had cut himself while galloping madly after the bovines.  Merde, again.  I had to wash out the wound and fashion a bandage out of sterile gauze and duct tape.  By the time I had finished with this, it was close to high noon.  That was OK, however, because I still had plenty of time to clean my daughter’s room and make the dentist appointments which were overdue.  

I returned home dripping with sweat, stripped down in the mudroom, and headed straight for the shower.  Just as I was about to step in, the phone rang and it was the mortgage specialist who was helping me refinance the mortgage on our house.  He had a few questions he needed to go over with me, he said, it should only take a few minutes.  An hour later, I was still naked and answering questions (which I had already answered at least twice before).  Once everything was resolved, I took that shower and changed into fresh clothes.  A second shower was in my future because my daughter’s room was truly fetid.

First, I needed a quick bite of lunch so I made a PB&J and ate that while checking out the Sunday crossword puzzle which was created by a crazy trivia freak.  I couldn’t even figure out the three letter words.  Then my cell phone rang and it was Daughter #1, the one who lives in Savannah.  “Mom!” she said.  “I NEED YOU TO SEND ME MY CUSTUMES FOR DRAGON CON RIGHT AWAY!!!”  Uh. OK.  I didn’t have anything better to do (actually this sounded better than cleaning the homegirl’s room anyway).  It took a good 45 minutes to find all of the various components of the costume which included an enormous hoop skirt, red wig, bejeweled skirt,feathered bodice, and several pieces of unwearable jewelry.  “PLEASE PACK EVERYTHING CAREFULLY – I’LL CRY IF ANYTHING GETS RUINED.”  Uh.  OK.  

Three trips to the car with the costume stuff and away I went to the local pack-n-ship store.  “I need to send this stuff to my daughter in Savannah,” I said to the young and helpful-seeming young man who was on duty.  “UH, do you have a box for any of this?” he asked.  “No, that’s why I am here!  You guys are supposed to know how to pack stuff.”  “Uh. OK.”  Another highly effective person.  I hope for Daughter #1’s sake that everything arrives intact, un-damaged, and as she hopes it will be because I do not think I can survive her grief if a single pearl comes unglued in transit.

Fast forward to 8:00 pm.  I decided that the only way I could make sense of my ineffectiveness was to write about it, so that brings us to number 9 on the list of 7 Habits of Ineffective People:  happy hour.  I’m enjoying a glass of pinot noir while I wait for dinner to cook.  Merde.  I forgot to turn on the oven.

Copyright 2012 Teresa Friedlander, all rights reserved