This is the last day of NaBloPoMo, Bloglines, and it seems like I should end it with a bang and come up with some special way to bring this fun project to a close. But I can't write another word. I'm all written out! All dried up. I've tried everything. I've written about my dilemma to my MoFo sisters, and they seem to have some slightly misplaced faith in me. Margene's response was, "Norma will come up with something. She always does." Pffft.
I thought of trying to celebrate the number 30 somehow, but did some Googling and was uninspired. I wanted to find a photograph of me when I was 30, but it seems that none exist. I tried to remember what was happening in my life when I was 30. All I can really remember is that I had really big hair (a curly perm - shudder!), I was 20 pounds lighter than I am now, I wore suits and high-heeled pumps and pantyhose every day at work (shudder!), I did Jackie Sorensen's Aerobic Dancing all the time, Abigail was four years old, I worked in the courts full time as an official court reporter, and I was closing in on a diagnosis of thoracic outlet syndrome which led to a really shitty 31st year when I was disabled for five months and started two years of intensive psychotherapy for childhood trauma. So I really don't want to tell you about that.
I took up the knitting last night, hoping to have a completed mitten to show you, but I didn't even finish the cuff before I had to hit the sheets from exhaustion. I reasoned that maybe I'd get a bout of insomniac writing inspiration in the middle of the night, or I'd get up this morning with a fresh head, full of ideas. Nyet!
Yesterday I eavesdropped on a conversation in the medical school building. Two second-year male med students were talking near where I was sitting and knitting.
#1: "Hey, what's up?"
#2: "I'm doing a little tutoring in a few minutes."
#2: "What about you?"
#1: "I'm heading home. [woman's name] is mad at me."
#2: "Oh, really? Why? Because you went skiing without her?"
#1: "I guess so. But she had five hours of knitting. She never gets five hours of KNITTING, so I thought she'd be happy."
#2: "Why? Is that relaxing or something?"
#1: "Well, she enjoys it. I guess it's relaxing. (turning to me) We should ask you. Is it relaxing? Soothing?"
[I smile and nod, and keep on knitting, wondering do I look relaxed and soothed or old and wrinkled?]
#1: "So I thought I'd go home and do some cleaning. Cleaning always works."
I pipe up: "The cleaning? Good plan. And cook a meal."
They appreciate the maternal advice, and I got the answer to my question: Old and wrinkled. So I thought I could maybe turn that into a blog post, but I can't think how to write it.
I got up and started reading blogs, hoping for inspiration to strike. I did get some inspiration for knitting these mittens (pdf), but not for writing.
I ate a gigantic bowl of some sort of sugar-sweetened fancy Cheerios product that I found in my pantry in a giant Costco-sized box. WTF? We do not eat sugar-sweetened cereal in this house -- we hardly eat cereal at all. Would someone please explain to me how and why Abigail bamboozled her father into buying this one-ton box of sugar-coated Cheerios at Costco? (for I know it has to be she) SHE certainly won't eat it. HE won't eat it. Now I've just eaten a big bowl of it under the pretense of hoping it will help my brain come up with a blog post. I will not appreciate this at the gym later today, and neither will the Disney-cow yoga watchers. And so far on the brain? Nada.
I saw the cutest little puddin'head ever.
I saw the disturbing statistics at the Soaring Eagles Project
Needed Still (by December 17th):
I pledged four pairs of mittens a long time ago, and I've yet to complete even one pair. I plan to get on that this weekend. (Can you help, too, maybe?)
But still, I can't come up with a blog post.