Rather than continue with my listless wallowing yesterday, I decided to use the last sunny day we're expected to get for a while to get some things done. I did this in the hopes that my Super Type A personality would kick into drive once I started feeling those endorphins that come with checking shit off a list.
Most of you who know me have come in contact with my intense desire to nest everywhere I live, so, even in a dorm room, I end up decorating it like a studio apartment in the East Village. This is partially to do with my "I Am My Own Wife" syndrome and partially to do with work. Aesthetically, Ergonomically, I can be a bit high maintenance. I don't write if I don't feel comfortable. Instead, I'll just clean, or paint, or...if it's really bad, start cutting and sewing.
Which is exactly what I did yesterday after a delicious score of street furniture I saw making its way out of a townhouse on London Street. I'd been looking for a rolling bar cart and a different kind of end table to help complete my room. Voila! There they were! One of the nice mover guys even offered to drive me, my flat mate and the stuff back to our place. Oddly, he added, "As long as you don't mind that I'm taken. I have a boyfriend." Sarah and I looked at each other...???... (let's just say I may be writing a short story about a gay Scottish Bear with a baby face who works construction.... cuz, you can't make that up!)
As I suspected, once I was on a roll, I was on a roll. I busted out paint and scissors and glue and finally got around to lining the back of my book case with the fabric that will eventually also cover the pelmet I'm going to make. I roasted a whole fryer chicken and made a rice casserole. I even jimmy-rigged one of my 27 layers of bedding to be sort of a bedskirt until I can get that sorted out. (Brits don't use box springs for some reason, making bed skirts difficult with a lot of beds, but listen, I got a lot of stuff under that bed and I don't want to see it.)
And then, I started work and I did work. This morning, I was able to follow my own 10AM-6PM writing edict that I set out for myself back in January. People laugh at me because I often wear my Ferguson ring on my wedding finger when my right finger hurts due to that little Stitches incident (if you want to read that short story, you just let me know). They mistake it for a wedding ring sometimes. I laugh back and say, "Yep, I'm married to myself." Which is true. I am my own boss-- I hired myself to write full time. And I am my own wife. I make a nice little domestic paradise for myself to come home to after a long day of work.
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