Blaaahg
I'm afraid my evil plan didn't work: despite trying to embarrass Mr. C, he still wants me to write another blog post. In fact, he seemed pretty thrilled by the last post, which -- as you may recall -- was nothing special; however, when I sent him an e-mail ('cause that's what you do now: you text instead of talk) with a link to the post, he responded back with "YEESSSSS!!" I think that's the most-excited he's gotten about anything I've said since he was 4 (and then it was "Don't worry; you don't have to wear pants today").
His only complaint, in fact, was that the post got too sentimental at the end; he had no patience for the lines about the "young man in the next room" whose mother wasn't just "watching him but seeing him".
I kind of liked that part, since that's as close to PDA as you're probably ever going to get from me. But he wasn't having it. At. All.
Which just proves, yet-again, that he's my child.
So we're back for Round 2. And Mr. C's excited. "Do you know what today is?" he asked me yesterday.
"Groundhog's Day," I promptly responded.
"No. Well, yes," he said. "But what else?"
"2/2/22," I said confidently. (I had just figured that one out a few hours before, and was pretty tickled about it.)
"Oh! I guess. But what's coming up in two days?" he hinted.
"Your winter campout with the Scouts," I immediately supplied.
Foiled yet-again, Mr. C pressed one last time. "And....?" he said.
I thought for a second. Two days would be Friday, February 4th. The 4th of the month.
Shit. My self-imposed deadline for writing a blog post.
"I kind of hoped you'd forget about that," I grumbled.
"Nope!" he helpfully chortled. "What are you going to write about?"
I sunk further into the couch, trying to burrow into the cushions while concurrently reaching for the bag of chips near my feet. Those tasty morsels remained frustratingly out of reach due to:
1) my puny core, whose muscles have atrophied over the last few winter months spent on the couch and
2) my bulging belly, whose growth has become exponential over the last several years and which now taunts me by stubbornly blocking my path to everyday things. (It's like having a large cat in your lap: one that keeps you from being able to reach your toes, and whose presence necessitates your husband needing to help push you off the couch whenever you want to go to the kitchen.) (For more chips.)
After watching a few moments of me struggling like a turtle that's been flipped onto its back, Mr. C took pity on me and grabbed the bag of chips at my feet, handing them to me.
I reclined even more into full-on Roman-Emperor mode, sighing happily as I plopped the bag onto the convenient shelf created by my voluptuous belly. I shoved a handful of chips into my mouth.
"I don't know," I finally mumbled around a mouthful of barbecue-y deliciousness. "What do you want me to write about?"
"I don't know," he helpfully responded.
"I could write about Scouts, since that seems to be all-encompassing," I suggested.
But it's really more all-encompassing for me, and not Mr. C, so he just shrugged.
"I could write about fostering kittens?" I suggested.
But it's not Kitten Season right now, so we don't have any new fosters, and Mr. C was unimpressed.
"What would be most-embarrassing for you to have me write about?" I asked innocently.
But Mr. C was far too clever for that, and remained silent.
Sigh. Maybe I'm in a creative rut just because it's winter. Bee and I have a little something called "No-Nag January": after the stress of completing business orders all December, finishing off the last craft shows, and executing a tasteful and meaningful (ha!) Christmas, we are each allowed to do absolutely nothing all of January without our loving spouse giving us crap for it.
Bee struggles with No-Nag January. He is not a cold-weather guy, but wants to be outdoors: biking and motorcycling and Doing Stuff in the warm weather until the sun finally sets at 10 pm. Since he is instead stuck indoors while the grey morning skies quickly turn pitch-black at ridiculously early afternoon hours, he goes a little stir-crazy during the winter. There's only so much TV he can watch.
I, on the other hand, flourish in No-Nag January. So does my belly. And my Netflix account. We are perfectly content to sit by the fire, eating grilled cheese sandwiches and watching crap TV. If only we could reach the bag of chips easier.
I think I was meant to be a bear, hibernating all winter and lumbering through berry patches all summer, napping in the sunshine and huffing at anyone who dares disturb my slumber.
 |
| rub my belly or leave me alone |
How can a big-bellied-bear such as myself be expected to come up with something creative and witty and worthwhile right now, when we're still groggily waking up from the indulgent pleasures of No-Nag January?!
Mr. C is due home from junior high at any moment. I suspect he's going to come upon his 40-something mother, despondent on the floor in front of the computer, whining about not feeling inspired. She may even roll onto her stomach and start pounding her feet and fists onto the floor -- toddler-in-a-full-on-tantrum-style -- screeching and crying about deadlines and ennui and just wanting a goddammned grilled cheese, is that too much to ask?
Then he'll regret begging her to re-start her blog. (Ha HA! The day is mine!)
So, in the interest of not "blogging just to blog", I shall now wave my white flag and give up and hope inspiration strikes me in a few days, or a few weeks. And Mr. C will have to just recognize that he'll either need to give me an inspiring topic upon which to write, or accept that said inspiration will likely take the form of a monologue on Scouts. Or fostering kittens.
But at least he'll get a bonus blog post out of this mess.
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