Life's Block

A million ideas pop into my little pea brain every week.  And then they pop right out again, leaving no shadow of the great idea I thought they were at the time.  What causes that, anyway?  (Yeah, I know...  age, too much on my plate, the presence of a teenager in my life....  take your pick.)

I'm writing a book.  Or, I WAS.  I'm stuck.  Oh, so stuck.  I'm at that jumping-off place in the story, and now I have to decide which way to take the tale.  Once I decide, I'll probably be able to just pour out the ideas again.  We'll see.  Writer's block.

All out of ideas for dinner, too.  It doesn't help that it's really too warm to cook.  When the weather cools more, which is supposed to happen in two days, I think the inspiration to start cooking will hit me again.  We'll see.  Cook's block.

I need to clean my desk.  It's a mess.  Need to get my hind end in gear and fix this problem.  The trouble is, I have developed a very serious case of Metallurgic Transfer.  You know, where the iron in your blood becomes lead in your ass?  Yeah.  That's the one. 

The ceiling fans in my house are all disgusting.  A summer of constant whirring has collected a layer of junk on the leading edge of every fan blade.  The trouble there is that I was cheering so enthusiastically at my son's soccer game (it was a real nail-biter, which is odd in high-school soccer).  When our team scored the winning goal, all the other parents and I threw our hands joyfully in the air in the "goal" sign.  Wouldn't you think that a person with joint problems would know better?  Apparantly not, because I can't lift my left arm above about 20 degrees.  This, I must tell you, makes shampooing my hair a real challenge.  Pathetic.

What does that have to do with cruddy ceiling fans, you ask?  Strange thing:  when the electrician installed all those ceiling fans?  He put them all on the ceiling.  And since I am a whopping 5'5" tall, the ceiling is somewhat above my head.  I tried cleaning one of them yesterday and proved to myself again that it's a two-handed job:  I need one hand to hold the silly thing while the other one cleans the science-project off the blade.  I wonder what I'd have to give the hubs to get him to do that job?  Well, there IS always that one particular kind of.....uh..... marital currency.  Don't even need both arms for that, and it will buy almost anything. :-)

What I See--Alita

Oh, Alita! What can I say? We've known eachother for so many years! Alita and I became acquainted first because our husbands worked to...