I weed whacked so much over the past two days (not counting today, a DAY OFF) with my new weed whacker that I can barely lift a leg high enough to step over the edge of the tub. Why does weed whacking use those hip muscles? That seems so weird. But you have to lean over in a particular way to avoid whacking all your toes right off, I guess.
It's terrible out there. It's a very bad year for the black flies, which swarm and bite and get in your mouth and ears and eyes and nose and hair. So even covered down to my wrists, with a hood over my head and a head net over that, in rubber boots up to my knees, I STILL get bitten. Ridiculous.
The lawn is not so very much cut right now. I've been catching up on the super tall areas, but the regular flat part is growing fast. Today landlord came over with extra tomato plants (nooooo!) and I showed him the wiring/switch problem in the front hall, where my new weed whacker also was, which led to a lawn conversation, and anyway I'm going to go borrow my old mower that I gave him and mow the grass properly tomorrow.
Except not the steep parts. I'm sticking with the weed whacker for that. The mower is heavy and wrenches my arms out of their sockets when I have to yank it around on that steep slope.
Good times, eh?
In other news, I have an awesome interview coming up, and I got a rejection notice for a short story today. I instantly (five hours later) went and submitted all the stories I could to all the places I could. Including that one. Bounce them right back on out!
Then it became clear to me that I need to write more stories. Like, every day. I should write a story a day. I wonder how long I could do that? If I made it a huge priority I might be able to pull it off. They can be short, after all. Flash fiction is bananas short.
I wrote my presentation and it's 1776 words. That feels like INDEPENDENCE so I'm unwilling to edit it even one tiny bit. I have a little bit of weird number OCD.
Oh and today I suddenly regained the ability to play fast sudoku. Nothing exciting happened to bring this about. I have no idea.
I keep doing all the weird packing things, like counting out enough vitamin gummies and probiotic gummies to last me while I'm away. And picking out earrings. And hand washing scarves, then neatly folding them up.
It'll be a relief when it's late enough for me to pack clothes. Even though I know I only need like seven days' clothes, I want to take absolutely everything. I pulled a million things out of the closet as part of my psychological pre-packing process. It's enough stuff for a month. Come on, now. It's almost like I don't want to leave anyone behind, though. Nooooo!
And I got the upstairs finally cleaned up and everything (almost) put away. Jeez. After I switched the day bed into the writing room, there was massive chaos. In part that's because I had a lot of clothes in the drawers of the day bed that suddenly needed to go elsewhere. I dealt with all of that last evening. It was kind of hellish, to be honest. It meant moving absolutely every garment in every drawer, reorganizing, refolding everything, storing a bunch of stuff in a Rubbermaid tote in the closet.
Okay, so that's a pretty mild version of hell, I admit it. But my knees and hips were already in agony from the weed whacker extravaganza and it was all kneeling and bending. Oooooof. Ouch.
I hope all these people publish all my stories and then I'm all story-published and thrilled and delighted. I want to be a story publisher person. Write the stories, send them out! That should be me. I can do that. Boy do I love writing stories. Whoop!
Especially since now I don't have to write about dreadful autobiographical material, which was admittedly cathartic, but some of those are definitely not publishable, alas. I cannot send them anywhere. I don't think. Can I? Maybe. I have to think more about it. Right now I don't feel like I can.
So get this: if I wear capri leggings from Walmart ($4!) and a giant oversized t-shirt that I usually sleep in (KMart, men's 2XL tall) then I feel like a million bucks. I feel like I can run and jump and ride bikes and do absolutely anything. If I wear my fancy expensive J. Jill linen trousers, all baggy, which okay I paid $8 for, but they were $80-120 new, then I feel ugly and awkward and terrible and like I can't do anything at all.
What is that all about? Is it just about sporty garb versus frumpy garb? I practically want to put my hair up in a scrunchie in this getup. It's awesome.
I figure I'll stick with the speedy garments. I'm not even packing any of my giant linen trousers. I will dress like an aerobics instructor circa 1985 and be happy instead.
Not really. I'm taking all my nice silky blouses, plus the silky tank dresses that are actually tops on me, which I wear as undershirts to cover my retreat.
I have clothing issues, apparently. I just reread a story I wrote about that. Yep. I have 'em. The part that is weird to me about today's navy blue leggings with red and white stars all over them, worn in honor of the Comey hearings and the defense of democracy against that utter jackass T***p and his abuse of power and all his various crimes, plus the giant navy blue t-shirt, is that clothes have such a powerful effect on how I feel when I never ever actually look in a mirror. Right? Like the received wisdom is that how you LOOK affects how you feel. But nobody sees me. So that's irrelevant. How I dress is entirely about how I feel instead.
These leggings are hilarious. But not as funny as the royal blue ones with the red and white hearts and curlicues all over them.
A lot of my clothes have turned out to be red and black, which mystifies me. That deep glowing crimson, though, I can't resist it.
I even reglued my Adidas Sambas for the trip. One sole was flapping in the front. I should wear them to see whether the glue stays stuck. I have superglue that I can use if necessary.
All those submissions tonight, that was pretty awesome. It was like work, in the sense that it had clear cut parameters and clear beginning and ending points and I could just work through it methodically and then be done.
Heck, maybe I can send out those others. I'm all torn about it. I mean, don't pre-reject something, right? Let them do it. There we go!
I'm craving pizza so badly that I'm in serious danger of going out and getting one tomorrow. I've been in pre-trip no desire to eat mode. Basically it's just been rice and yogurt, though today I made eggs with horseradish cheese and it was utterly delicious. I might make that again tomorrow, to be honest. If I don't get hot food and protein, I get all frazzledy and quietly frantic and then can't focus or do anything.
That is actually the sign of NOT TAKING CARE OF YOURSELF that I'm learning to watch for. I was not raised to take care of myself, or to think that I needed to be taken care of in any way. I'm only gradually starting to figure out that I have the right to want and need things and then get them. No duh, you might say, but it's a side effect of neglect and abuse, so whatever, I'm working on it. You treat yourself the way you have been treated, until you train yourself otherwise. It takes work.
Speaking of taking care of myself, I'm heading to bed. At a reasonable time. New mattress is freaking amazing that way. I can go to bed and just go to sleep. Outrageous! Glorious! Wonderful!
I spent the whole Comey hearing running around the house, cleaning everything up, sweeping, tidying, putting absolutely everything away. That hearing agitated me, even though I think it was the giant push we need to get that orange knuckledragger out of office and gone from our lives. I'm still amazed we haven't seen some kind of idiotic backlash from him. I imagine a team of lawyers actually sitting on him to prevent him from making things even worse for himself. What a jackass.
Comey was impressive, though. I feel like we might be seeing a lot more of him coming up. But that may be because I mistake anything I see on my iPad for fiction.