Diarist

I’ve always liked that word. Diarist. There was a whole genre of writers who became famous for the detailed diaries they kept. I like to think of them as my ancestors, the ghosts of blogs past. And so I’ve taken up the mantle of a diarist.

Which is why I decide that it’s a useful thing on which to spend a few minutes when I have random thoughts during the day that I choose to write them down. Thoughts that spring up as I’m direly bored from a day spent trying to forget that the work I ought to be doing, that I ought to have been doing for the last month, is impossible due to construction that we were told would take “a couple days, a week max.”

Beans and cornbread

And I’m hungry, due to my recent descent into the sugar-addled wasteland of free office food and the fact that my body is still getting used to the idea of eating only real, whole foods, traditionally prepared and bursting with nourishing goodness.

Which is also why I’ve been attacking the coconut oil fudge and Bubbie’s pickles that I stashed in the office fridge like some sort of starved… well, whatever kind of animal might have a taste for pickles and fudge. Maybe a pregnant hyena.

And I start to dwell on what I have left to do during the day and why it would actually be the responsible thing to give up on work and go home early.

I have to go home and do laundry, I think. Oh. Well, I have to go home and do laundry and get dinner started. I have to go home and do laundry and bake cheesecake.

Sounds good, doesn't it?

Oh. Yes, that will do.

Except it doesn’t because on the way home I pass a tiny turtle desperately trying to cross the road.  I miss him and the car behind me misses him, but I know it’s only a matter of time before he ends up meeting his little turtle doom.  And I break down in sobs while trying to finish my drive home.  Over a turtle.

But then I get home and the guy from the apartment next door who occasionally ignores that I even exist (though he always greets my husband) is come out from checking his mail and I’m trying to figure out how much of my face I can hide behind the sunglasses that are really too dark to leave on indoors.  And when I get in the door, I notice a key left in his mailbox, so I poke my head out and ask him if he knows he left his key in his mailbox and he doesn’t and thanks me.  And I feel good in that way that’s particular to doing something nice for someone you don’t particularly like.

And, luckily, my husband hugs me and soothes me when I get inside and tell him about the turtle.  And things start to look a little better even though, that poor turtle.

But from here on out, it’s all cheesecake and old seasons of True Blood.  And that I can handle, even if I never do get that laundry done (I didn’t).

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