Nothing to Write About

Husband: Write about the cat eating his chicken wing.

Me: That’s really dull.

H: Introduce a narrative, make it interesting. How he was meant to eat it on his mat but didn’t so I had to wash the floor.

M: Wow. That is dull. I’d do better to talk about the time you punched yourself in the face.

H: And I was completely sober.

M: And you were allowed to operate machinery

H: A pulley isn’t ‘machinery’

M: It is.

H: That’s proper English?

M: It’s machine-ish.

H: See. There’s a blog post, right there.

M: You still punched yourself in the face though.

H: Shut up.

M: Just sayin’

 

 

 

 

 

Which came first?

HUSBAND: Do you want this hard-boiled egg with your salad?

ME: What egg?

HUSBAND: Umm, the one left over from Friday…

ME: But I ate that for lunch.

HUSBAND: You can’t have, it’s right here *opens palms revealing a hard-boiled egg*

ME: But it was the one in the door-compartment.

HUSBAND: No, this is the egg because because it’s just where I left it in the fridge…

[Insert lengthy description of its placement in the fridge]

[Insert realisation I ate the wrong egg]

ME: I’m going to die.

Reality Anonymous

The me you read here, is the real me.

While this is my anonymous space, I’m sure that if someone from my real world found this blog, they would recognise me.

I have a friend (also happens to be my cousin), who knows I’m here. My online friends know I’m here.

That’s it.

Sometimes I’m more me here as I share my struggles with anxiety disorder, my thoughts, quaint anecdotes, hopes and fears.

Sometimes I’m less me here as I have to contain those conversations to keep my reality anonymous.

I want to write about events in my life. I toy with changing names but still it feels too close to my heart. It feels so transparent that anyone could deduce who I spoke of. So I keep quiet. Remain vague. Deflect certain topics. Stay hidden.

Then I wonder if I’m protecting myself from strangers or people who know my reality.

Still. That’s a whole other tangent. And it’s not to imply I’d start to speak ill of people if I dropped my guard, only that sometimes I envy those who show themselves wholly with grace, kindness and confidence.

Sometimes I wish that could be me.


nanopoblano1

Day #25

Object Memories

I’ve spoken before about the stories of objects and my struggles to let things go because of their associations. Because of who owned them and who they were important to. And perhaps proving I’m not a complete hoarder, I do and try to have a clean out from time to time.

I’m thinking about having a market stall soon, to clear out some clutter and my mother is pitching in with some of her own things.

Today though, she handed me Grandma’s sewing kit to sell.

I gasped.

Mum sighed, ‘I know. And look, the handle.’

Grandad had fixed the handle. He was practical with ideas to make things better. He was a fixer. It was Grandifcation.

I took it home and stared at it. I remembered Grandma using it. I unpacked it of things Mum clearly didn’t intend to dispose of and I knew Mum hadn’t opened it. She couldn’t. She’d let the sewing box go, but the rest was too much.

Grandad died in 2004, Grandma in 2012

It’s still raw.

What was left in the sewing kit was unremarkable and yet these buttons and spools of cotton panicked me. I feared they were important to Grandma and I did not know it. There were two dried rose buds and I wondered if they were from a wedding. Should I keep them?

img_20161119_173012

This is the hardest part. Trying to reconcile objects with heartache. Trying to convince yourself that the memories matter more.

But it’s hard.

The next person who inherits these things will know even less, will care even less. And while this is life and perhaps even how things should be a lump forms in my throat and my eyes ache with unshed tears.

Strangely, Grandma was the most unsentimental person I’ve ever known but knowing that doesn’t make this any easier. Though, Grandad was the opposite. They were an odd couple.

I miss them.

I miss them muchly.


nanopoblano1

 

Materialistic

My proclivity to collect things panics me at times.

At the top of this list – I worry I’m materialistic. I worry that my anti-materialistic beliefs are hypocritical owing to the plethora of stuff in my house.

Materialistic

I don’t feel I’m money-oriented,  I don’t feel excessively concerned with material possessions.

I like to think I’m a protector of objects.

Which is a worry.

My concern sounds excessive.


 

nanopoblano1Team Tiny Pepper! GO TEAM!

Making Choices

I wrote and deleted a lot yesterday.

Memes inundated my Facebook feed.

I felt there was truth to them but I said nothing.

I didn’t touch the ‘like’ button.

I didn’t ‘share’.

I left the social media circus quietly.

I turned off the television.

I looked on from the other side of the world.

This was not my election.

I had no control.

But I choose not to be part of the negativity machine.

It does not help.

Fear does not help.

Panic does not help.

You have made your stance, Mr Trump.

You have set your bar.

You have won the vote.

This is democracy.

Now.

Prove me wrong.

Be amazing.


 

nanopoblano1Blogging every day in November. Meet the team!

Define a Waste of Time

I’d love to know what you think constitutes as a waste of time.

I have this niggling worry everyday as I find myself spending more and more time caught up on the internet. I’m on social media, or I’m Wiki-hopping from one interesting link to the next. Or I’m taking too many photos of the cat so I can ostensibly capture an instant on Instagram.

I’m not necessarily saying these things are a waste of time, but I can’t claim they’re not either.

I’m not even a big social media addict. Twitter and Instagram and WordPress are my big distractions. I rarely check Facebook, and except for Instagram, I don’t have any of these as phone apps. If I duck out from work to get lunch, I’m not among the people in the queue who browse their phones.

I found myself going to my laptop this morning to look up something simple and became so distracted by the alerts and reminders and emails that I completely forgot my original purpose. Time ticked on. By the time I closed my laptop and thought about changing out of my pyjamas, I realised I’d intended to check the weather forecast.

Completely revealing my age, as a child my aunt and uncle had a Commodore 64. Which at the time, was A-MAZ-ZING. My brother and I played on this thing for hours and hours. Children don’t feel quite the same level of guilt as adults but as much then as now, it’s not that I don’t enjoy my computer time – only that I think it could be better spent with something I enjoy as much, if not more. But it’s easy, isn’t it? You get caught up and before you know it you’ve been browsing your Twitter feed for an hour.

How do you waste time? How do you willingly spend time but regret it later?


nanopoblano1

Tiny Peppers, blogging every day in November – you can find them here!

 

 


I just spent five minutes trying to find an appropriate meme for this post.

I stopped myself.

No meme for you, more time for me.

Did I make the right choice?