Monkey Day

I have a new toy. It is a mouse that has no wire, and it has a pretty red light on the bottom that you're not suppposed to look directly at, but you do anyway because it's so pretty. I am having fun with my new toy.

But that's neither here nor there. I have an occupational time management technique I'd like to try out. Maybe some of you will find it helpful as well. I call it Monkey Day.

Okay, you know that client you have to call sometime in the next few days and he's a jerk and you're dreading it? He's a monkey. And you need to vacuum the floor of your office but you'll have to change the filter on the vacuum and you've got more important things to do but you can't stop thinking about your floor and how it needs to be vacuumed? Monkey. Those scenarios are office-oriented, because I work in an office, but most everybody has monkeys. They're not urgent, but they do have to be done eventually, and you feel a little queasy every time you think about it. Maybe for a painter it would be ceilings. I don't know. Jaimie, is it ceilings?

Anyway, today I got tired of feeling sick about the things I didn't want to do. So I did them. All of them, all at once. And now I feel so much better. So I think that once a week, I'll have a Monkey Day. I'm thinking of making mine Friday, because Fridays are a little more relaxed and I'm usually in a better mood, and because that'll give me a fresh start the next week so maybe Monday won't suck so much ass. No Monkey Mondays! Yay!

I hypothesize that two good things will come of this:
1. My backlogged projects won't pile up so high, so that even on the days that I have to deal with unpleasant tasks, there won't be so many of them.
2. I'll spend far less time worrying about things that aren't getting done, because I know exactly when they will get done. As a result, I'm not constantly beating myself up about getting them done now.

I hope this experiment works out to my benefit, but I'd also be curious as to whether it has broader applications. So if you're having monkey trouble, try it out and let me know how it goes. If it works well, I'll write a book and give you all a cut of the profits.

Goof

I just got completely derailed in the middle of leaving a phone message. I was midway through my message when somebody picked up the phone on the other end. I expected to hear a "hello" and then to have to repeat what I'd just said, so I quit talking and waited. No hello. They just hung up. Then I wasn't sure if the tape was still rolling, because they picked up and then hung up again and does that stop the tape? I don't know. I'd feel like a doofus just talking to air, but I'd feel like more of a doofus just dropping out in the middle of a phone message for no apparent reason. And that's when I realized that that's exactly what I was doing by sitting there like an idiot and not talking. By that time, I'd forgotten the last thing I'd said and took another few seconds to recover and stutter myself up to date. I quickly finished relaying my information, hung up, and spent the next few minutes wondering how much dead air I'd left on their machine. It felt like an eternity.

Does anyone else panic when their impromptu ramblings are being recorded for posterity? Does anyone else occasionally feel like most of their job consists of concealing the fact that they're a great big goof?

Goof. That's a funny word. And I'm a funny me. I'm such a goof. Goof. Goofgoofgoofgoofgoofgoof!

As promised

I remember this one great big huge margarita the size of my head that I drank one time and it was strong and salty and it punched me in the gut. That's the first and last margarita that ever affected my state of mind. Tonight was no exception.

I had four or five of those things. They were good, but they were too sugary. The sugar made me feel hyper and the alcohol made me sleepy. Does it not buck conventional wisdom to mix uppers and downers?

In the end, it wasn't the margaritas but the female kinship that made the evening. We acted like such girls, and I can't speak for anyone else at the table, but that's a rare pleasure for me. I hung out with people I so rarely get to spend quality time with, one of which lives about ten feet away. We talked about guys and sex and marriage and divorce and had a grand time, even without the benefit of margaritas you can actually taste the tequila in.

Marrrrrrrrrrrgaritas

I'm about to go have some. In about 30 minutes. I'm not driving.

This has been the week that wouldn't die. Jaimie and I were talking last night about how monstrous work has become for us lately and how I marvel at her ability to maintain her website, teach an art class, and take on creative projects in her spare time. I think my problem is my utter inability to multitask. One week, I'll eat, think, and breathe nothing but work. The next, I'll resolve not to work so hard and end up pissing away entire days. If you happen to run into Happy Medium, tell him to start returning my phone calls.

I'll get back with you later tonight and report on the margaritas. And I won't use the backspace key. Well, maybe just a little.

Celestine prophecies

We now interrupt Liz's VITALLY IMPORTANT WORK DAY FULL OF VITALLY IMPORTANT TASKS to bring you this message. And, incidentally, to preserve Liz's sanity for at least 24 more hours.

It's bad enough having 30 small things to get done in a day. At least then, I can make a big long list and feel really good every time I cross off an item. What's far worse, in my opinion, is having three things huge things to do for which you a) are solely responsible and b) receive not even a reasonable amount of cooperation.

So I quit. For like, 30 minutes. Nyeh.

In that 30 minutes, I will read and write blog entries, for that is what I wish to do with this time that is mine. Nyeh.

I read Laura's blog today and she was talking about fireworks and how that was a theme for her and Kris when they were dating. It reminded me that Chris and I had a theme, too. I have never before, and never since, stumbled upon as many freak meteor showers as Chris and I did when we were dating. It got to the point where sometimes we would go sit outside at night and make shooting stars appear. I considered it a public service.

I wonder if it would still work. Not that we would be able to see a damn thing in our downtown duplex with that security light sitting ten feet from the front porch. The country has its advantages.

Another thing that struck me about the fireworks/meteors thing is how strangely appropriate it seems. Chris and I are meteor shower people. Kris and Laura are fireworks people. I don't know why, but to me it makes perfect sense in a way that only random celestial events can.

Shut up, spider senses.

Twice this week, I have found myself amazed by two things:
1. How much you don't know about a person
2. How accurately you can guess about what you don't know, even if you'd rather not

My lesson of the week is to trust my instincts about people a tad more. In both cases, I sensed big trouble and haggled it down in my head until it amounted to no big deal. As it turns out, I grossly underestimated the circumstances.

I know I do this because I hate to think bad things about people without some kind of supporting evidence. And actually, I had supporting evidence. I just wanted to believe that people can change. And I do believe that, but also, when a person changes, you'll know it. A leopard doesn't just go around parading new spots without being noticed.

I'm a Super Geek! Super Geek! I'm super geeky!

I'm about to put on my Dungeon Mistress hat again (why does that title sound so...dirty?). To answer your question, no, I don't really have a hat. But if I did, I wouldn't be ashamed of it. It would probably be a crown. Maybe even a tiara, as a reverent nod to that rare bird, geeky femininity. But I don't like hats, so there ya go.

I honestly think that more women should take roleplaying for a test drive. It's imaginative and cerebral and intellectually stimulating. It's a workout for your brain that involves problem-solving, morality issues, identity exploration, and all sorts of other cool stuff us girls like to throw around recreationally anyway. I think we could lend some depth to the game that the boys, with all their talk about whose composite bow is bigger, are sorely lacking.

In other news, Chris will be working all weekend long. So in typical grieving widow fashion, I think I'll go to a concert. David Wilcox and his Amazing Magical Capos are playing at the WorkPlay Theatre in Birmingham, which is a venue I've been wanting to check out anyway. I'm going to invite some far-flung cousins I haven't seen in a while. It's been a while since I've had time to do anything spontaneous or social or...at all. So I'm hoping I can seize the carp and do something fun with people I love.

Things That Shall Come to Pass Because I Will It So

1. I will continue to go to the Y at least three times a week.

2. Chris and I will finish Laura's birthday CD, regardless of the fact that her birthday was two months ago and counting.

3. Duplex renovations will be completed.

4. We will purchase a brand new car which will get excellent gas mileage and last for 20 years with minimal upset.

5. I will be as funny as Cookie when I talk about my awful neighbors (not you, Kelly).

6. I will someday not have crackhead neighbors (not you, Kelly).

7. When I think about going to the afternoon service next Sunday, I will not be contentedly curled up in blankets on the couch in the middle of a SciFi original movie.

8. I will stop rotting my brain by watching SciFi original movies (but they're so funny).

9. I will remember to take the suit Nibbler peed on to the dry cleaner.

10. I will make time to visit my grandparents more often, while I still can.

The first step to recovery

I've just been talking to Jaimie, who called from Tennessee after a hard day's work and one too many margaritas. She was telling me I don't blog enough.

This, after an e-mail from Laura saying something to the effect that she was getting ready to bitch me out for not updating when she caught my post on Thursday.

Well guys, I'm sorry I can't be a perfect poster like you. No, really, I am truly envious of your clockworkesque updates. I'm grateful to have something new to read every day and I wish I could do the same for you. But the thing is, I don't have the time. It's not that I don't have the time to sit down, type something out, and click on "Publish". It's that I don't have the time to have a life that's interesting enough to write about.

Hi, my name is Liz, and I'm a workaholic.

Maybe it hasn't gone that far, but it's definitely in the genes. So you guys, continue to be my accountability partners. If I'm not posting enough, it's because I'm working too hard, and you have my permission to yell at me about it.

You're THIS close to being off my reading list, buddy.

Dear Mr. Salvatore,

If I may offer a small critique, please stop making the endings of your books so dismally depressing. It's affecting my work.

Let's look at Sea of Swords with some objectivity, okay? You went to great lengths to concoct some half-plausible reason why Catti-Brie would happen to have a healing potion on her person when she found Drizzt. How hard would it have been for her to have two? Let's give ol' Drizzt something else to feel guilty about why don't we?

Jerk.

Love,
Liz

Okay, thanks. You can go now.

I remember way back a couple of weeks ago when I thought, "It sure hasn't rained very much lately. I wish it would." Because I like the rain. I like it so much that when it began to fall again, I was happy about it for the first three days or so.

But now it's getting old.

What is this? Day 5? And no end in sight, apparently. I think it's starting to wear on me. It's just dark all the time, even when it's not pouring. And people change in the dark. They get moody and reclusive and depressed. Not that I'm particularly moody or depressed, but I have noticed that I really don't want to be bothered and when the phone rings, I take it as a personal affront.

On the dreary, rainy day that was yesterday, a nurse came and stuck me with needles. Twice. It hurt a little, but I was a big girl. She stuck Chris too, but only once. She took two vials each of our blood, and then she just walked off, like she wasn't going to give it back. "Hey!" I said. "I thought you just wanted to look at it!" And she cackled and sped off and probably found a dark alley to park in while she did shots with MY blood. Damn vampire nurses. They normally only come out at night, but she could come out in the daytime because of the stupid clouds.

That didn't really happen. But a nurse really did come and steal blood. And pee. And she really did have to stick me twice. So really it's just the second part that I made up. And the part about her being a vampire I can neither confirm nor deny, but I always thought vampires would be mean, and she was pretty nice.

She was really there to make sure Chris and I were healthy because we're taking out life insurance policies on each other. So as soon as that stuff gets processed, we will officially be worth way more to each other dead than alive.