Seinfeld Had it Right

Well, shoot.


I went out to breakfast with my friend Donna this morning and I thought I would write a stunning post about my breakfast experience in the diner because diners are so wonderful and so much a part of New Jersey culture.  As I was writing I had a strange feeling and I scrolled back through my posts and lo and behold, I’ve already done that.  Really, self?  Are you that mundane already?  Has your world narrowed that much?  How sad and pathetic.  How totally boring.  (How long can I keep this up, trying to fill a paragraph of words?  Get on with it, self.)


So now that I’ve been feeling that niggling sense of responsibility to get to the laptop and brew up some words, pronto, I find myself casting about for a thing to say.  Shall I wax rhapsodic about the pink bucket of Sharpie markers to my left, colors that beg to be uncapped and unfurled onto fresh white paper to create a depth of color that’s vibrant in contrast to the blindingly snowy day outside?  (I love me a sunny winter day where the snow makes you squint even inside the house.)  Or should I detail the success of the lasagna evening and the joy I felt at seeing my dear friend again?  (Don’t ask me about the layers – I forgot to write it down, but it was amazeballs.)  Should I go into exquisite detail about my current knitting project and how much in love I am with the yarn (Malabrigo Rios in Jupiter) and how much Netflix I am streaming while I’m getting the 579 stitches per round to behave?  I am almost done with all six seasons of Monarch of the Glen and while I love all the Scottish accents, I am sad at how the people have left the show one by one and the whole thing has fallen apart and how I feel obligated to watch it until it breathes its last gasping breath.


Maybe it’s time for a reflection on what constitutes an ordinary life, how the rhythm of not having a job to go to becomes its own rhythm and how I’m not even close to being bored yet and I’m downright happy these days to be snug at home instead of out and about at 7:15 in the morning when it’s got to be 10 below out there.  (Hello, polar vortex!  One of those fun things that nobody ever heard of before but now we’re all dying to use it in a sentence and be all, oh, yeah, I knew about that.  Not me.  I still don’t get it.)  I love being in jeans everyday and piling on my handknits and taking endless cups of tea and not worrying about SGPs and SGOs and NJASKS and HSPSAs and rotten administrators.  I am still anti-Christie and hoping dearly that his come-uppance is big and noisy because I believe in karma, and still pro-public-education.  I love having Oldest Daughter around as she pursues her Master’s Degree and we share time together (and funny websites and cooking and Sherlock-O-M-G).  I love anticipating the fun Youngest Daughter is having for her last semester in Knowledge College and the springboard she will have to her new life (don’t be scared, you can do it!).


Should I share the books I’ve been reading lately because I now have the time and energy to actually read some books and be wholly in them instead of snatching a paragraph here and there and coming away vaguely dissatisfied because it didn’t make sense?  And can I tell you how much in love I am with the concept of borrowing library books on my iPad?  Oh, baby, that is the best of all possible worlds.


Or maybe it should be a post on how much I enjoy seeing articles and pinterest boards and blogs on organizing and I get all jazzed about making labels for things and getting storage bins and boxes and baskets and planning a trip to Mecca (aka the Container Store) to get that lovely sense of “a place for everything, and everything in its place” but then I remember other people live here and I can’t get them to bend to my will.  I’m looking at you, bookcases filled with an untidy assortment of books, and knick-knacks and odds and ends that don’t have a home; if it were just me, these bookcases would be an artistic arrangement of only the beloved books, and not every ratty paperback that crossed the threshold, nor would it be a place where the odd volume sits across the top of the other books all a-kilter because there’s just no more room at the bookcase inn.  I’m also looking at you, basement and attic, where I envision shelves of tidy boxes housing items we retrieve once or twice a year because they’re useful, not because someone gave it to us twenty-five years ago and we (and you know I don’t really mean “we”) can’t bear to part with it.


Or, you know, maybe I could just write about random stuff that floats through my brain and needed a place to go.


Some day I might figure it out.


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