Amoeba Life

Discipline. It's a tough word for me to implement in my life. I'm having a heck of a time with it in all those areas that show.

I need the discipline to clean my house. The cobwebs are a clue.
I need discipline to pull weeds. Our front bed is green, but it's not because the vinca's taken off.
I need discipline to eat healthy. I've eaten popcorn, a bowl of Raisin Bran, some cheese and crackers, frozen grapes and a handful of chocolate chips today.
I need discipline to exercise. I did go to yoga, but I didn't even try to do the "Growing Tree" pose.
I need discipline to write this blog. My last entry was back in July.

I need somebody to come over here and give me a paycheck. Maybe that would encourage me. I don't get an evaluation from anyone. Maybe that would put me on notice.

Kent is way too easy on me. He tells me I'm pretty, have a great figure, and shouldn't pull weeds because it might hurt my back. He tells me to go ahead and eat another cookie, that I can exercise tomorrow and that nobody reads this blog anyway.

He never complains about any money I spend. He thanks me for making dinner when I put (almost) anything in front of him. I can't remember him ever pointing out that I needed to clean - even when Francie has torn up a tissue out of the trash into five hundred twenty-eight million tiny shreds. I don't think he notices the cobwebs, either. He's pret' near close to perfect. I won't mention the two things he does that I don't like. I think I would sound petty.

It's good and bad being married to someone so wonderful. It's good because I am probably the least stressed wife on the planet. It's bad because I am probably the least stressed wife on the planet.

I'm convinced that stress is the great motivator that I'm lacking. When I worked, I got much more done than I do now that I'm a freelancer. Shoot, I remember putting in a full day at the newspaper, then coming home and painting our living room pink (it was supposed to be salmon) while Billy Joel sang about his Uptown Girl.

I think I even got more done when I had kids at home. That's arguable, but possible.

Now my days are my own. Time is as shapeless as an amoeba. No supporting structures. On any given day I have way too many options. I can write. I can paint. I can read. I can make phone calls. I can write notes. I can clean. I can weed. I can exercise. I can eat. Whenever I want to.

The choices are paralyzing. I'm a girl who can't even decide whether to get a chicken taco or a Mexican sandwich when we go to Tribeca. How am I supposed to decide what to do with my LIFE every day?

I think I need to start making more lists. I used to make lists. I'd go through and check things off at the end of the day. Sometimes I'd add something to the list after I'd done it, just so I'd have more to check off. It was a great feeling of accomplishment.

Yep, tomorrow I'm making out a list. In the meantime, anybody want to go get a cup of coffee?

Time Keeps on Slipping

Oh, my word! The days are flying by as fast as Francie runs when she herds cattle. Technically, she's never herded cattle anywhere but in her dreams. But if she had a herd, she'd herd them fast. I can tell you that for sure.

But, I digress. My point was...is...that time keeps on slipping into the future (didn't the Steve Miller Band sing about that back in the '70s?) . My week has been packed fuller than that one suitcase you're allowed to take on flights now. In fact, if my week had been a suitcase, I would have been charged for packing too much weight. Note: Before I would pay extra to take stuff somewhere, I would unpack right there in the airport and leave important items, like shoes and underwear, behind. Do they allow you to make donations to the homeless when you're in the airport? I think it's a good idea. Just think of all those dangerous tubes of toothpaste that could go for bettering America's dental hygiene.

But, I digress again. I've spent the week inside the world of Nathan Stubblefield's father, "Captain Billy." For those of you who don't know -- and there are undoubtably very few of you who don't since I try to work it into most conversations as casually as possible -- I am writing a book. I know. I know. It sounds impressive; but, it also sounds a little cliche. Isn't everyone writing a book? But, this book is going to be published. I have a contract. La-tee-dah. Now you're a little more impressed, aren't you? That's more like it.

Motes Books is publishing it as part of a series about Kentucky heroes, which brings me back to Nathan Stubblefield. He is the hero I'm writing about. Murray, Ky., claims him as their native son and some folks there (and elsewhere) claim he -- not Marconi -- invented the wireless radio. Thus, the research into Stubblefied's past...

Which leads me back to my point, being...Let's see, was I talking about time slipping into the future or Captain Billy's diary? Oh, well, never mind. Suffice to say that researching and reading and writing have completely consumed me. Time has slipped. It's now the future.

If you'd like to hear more about Captain Billy, who grew up on a tobacco farm, put himself through law school after very little "real" schooling, became a captain in the Confederate Army, kept a diary of his service in the Civil War, wrote an autobiography, and married his children's governess (after their mother died!), stay tuned or let me know, or both.

And, if anybody has any wonderful anecdotes about Nathan, do tell! I'll give you tons of credit and may even send you a free, signed copy of the book.

La-tee-dah, indeed.