On the first day of vacation, I was all: Yes! I have a week off! I am going to get SO much done! But first, I recharge energy.
Saturday: Woo hoo! This is awesome! I'm sleepin' in and sitting on the couch all day, LIKE A BOSS!
Sunday: Sweet. Tomorrow's not going to suck like it usually does!
Monday: Relaxin', yeah! I should probably do some work while I'm at it... But NAR! I have a whole week! WAHAHAHAHAHA
Tuesday: Hmm. I really should work on that stuff now... seeing as I'm going up north to see the folks this Friday.... Oh well. I do some of my best work under pressure. Sort of.
And now it's Wednesday. Or is it Thursday? Shit. I should get on that essay. But it's still early... maybe I'll work on it later.
And so on.
Problem is, I just can't seem to get into a motivated, up-and-at-'em kind of mindset. That's always the trouble. Why can't every human mind be programmed to be all like, "Work rocks and I love it and I want to do it all day"?
I meant to do something productive yesterday. I was going to get up at 7:45 in the morning and everything. I was going to eat some fruit and yogurt for breakfast, put on some real clothes, walk the dog, and sit down and plunk out an award-winning Holocaust essay. Then I was going to do push-ups and wall-sits for an hour to get the ol' muscles workin'. Then, I was going to volunteer at the Soup Kitchen and donate to some orphanages. Really. I had it all planned out.
It didn't work out like that, though. I got up at 7:45... for about two seconds... then I opened my eyes again and it was 9:45. Not my fault! It's a conspiracy against me!!
I sort of put on some real clothes. A tank top and pajama bottoms is getting close, right? I thought about all the wonderful, heart-healthy things I could eat for breaky. I just decided on a granola bar of some kind from the back of the pantry. We don't stock edible cereal or anything in this household. Just dirt and twigs and stale, whole grain ant colonies in boxes in the cabinet. I told Sir Reginald I'd walk him later.
I made some killer cookies that tasted like butterscotch and heaven. My mom had bought this bucket of cookie mix about two months ago from some little kids holding a fundraiser for dying puppies, orphans, and amputees. Or something along those lines. I guess she felt guilty. Anyway, I finally made them and they tasted just like the joy of saving a orphaned malnourished puppy with two legs.
I decided I must kill some time and watched 80s music videos on VH1 Classic (BEST CHANNEL EVER) for a while. I secretly wished I could muster up the inner strength needed to whip out a Word document and rustle up some good old fashioned Holocaust insights. But to no avail. I was too busy being seduced by the gravity-defying hair and innovative wardrobes of the 1980s.
I soon tired of the music videos, however. I was waiting to see my old standbys ("Sledgehammer" by Peter Gabriel, "Word Up" by Cameo, "Whip It" by Devo, etc.) However, they were no where to be found. So I decided to find something else useful to occupy my time with.
I meant to do something productive yesterday. I was going to get up at 7:45 in the morning and everything. I was going to eat some fruit and yogurt for breakfast, put on some real clothes, walk the dog, and sit down and plunk out an award-winning Holocaust essay. Then I was going to do push-ups and wall-sits for an hour to get the ol' muscles workin'. Then, I was going to volunteer at the Soup Kitchen and donate to some orphanages. Really. I had it all planned out.
It didn't work out like that, though. I got up at 7:45... for about two seconds... then I opened my eyes again and it was 9:45. Not my fault! It's a conspiracy against me!!
I sort of put on some real clothes. A tank top and pajama bottoms is getting close, right? I thought about all the wonderful, heart-healthy things I could eat for breaky. I just decided on a granola bar of some kind from the back of the pantry. We don't stock edible cereal or anything in this household. Just dirt and twigs and stale, whole grain ant colonies in boxes in the cabinet. I told Sir Reginald I'd walk him later.
I made some killer cookies that tasted like butterscotch and heaven. My mom had bought this bucket of cookie mix about two months ago from some little kids holding a fundraiser for dying puppies, orphans, and amputees. Or something along those lines. I guess she felt guilty. Anyway, I finally made them and they tasted just like the joy of saving a orphaned malnourished puppy with two legs.
I decided I must kill some time and watched 80s music videos on VH1 Classic (BEST CHANNEL EVER) for a while. I secretly wished I could muster up the inner strength needed to whip out a Word document and rustle up some good old fashioned Holocaust insights. But to no avail. I was too busy being seduced by the gravity-defying hair and innovative wardrobes of the 1980s.
I soon tired of the music videos, however. I was waiting to see my old standbys ("Sledgehammer" by Peter Gabriel, "Word Up" by Cameo, "Whip It" by Devo, etc.) However, they were no where to be found. So I decided to find something else useful to occupy my time with.
I thought about it. This is a perfect day to waste all of my time and not write about the Holocaust. I might as well take advantage of it. What is my favorite thing to do when I am alone at the house?
AHA!
I SHALL WATCH OLD BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN CONCERTS!
My obsession with this musician often wins on boring home-bound days. I have my mother to thank for that, and all her rock and roll brainwashing. You must understand that the event of simply watching a concert becomes much more than that to me. It becomes a special occasion. A massive undertaking. Try not to judge me for it. I'm sensitive.
Stop it. I can just feel you judging me.
In any case, the first big question is which concert to watch. I picked out one from the 80s (Yes I have a large collection of concerts spanning his career). Stay with the general flow of things today.
Then, I had to change into appropriate Bruce-watching attire (Stop with the judging). This all depends on who I want to pretend to be. Should I dress like an obsessed fan? Naw. Too easy.
Yup. I could sport my blue jeans and a white tank top, throw a bandanna around my head and pretend to be Bruce himself. But I've done that one before. Or I could go with one of my head scarves and pretend to be Stevie the guitarist. Or I could just tie scarves and bandannas all over myself and pretend to be Nils, the other guitarist. My hero!
Hell yeah!
Then I've got myself a battle plan, and I watch my concert, dancing and playing air guitar like nobody's business. I sing too. Sometimes I even sing a harmony, but I think those sound better in my head than they do out loud. But it doesn't matter that I don't actually own an electric guitar, have never written a song in my life, and that I am not actually the person I'm pretending to be. In my head, at that moment, I couldn't be freer.
I AM A ROCK STAR.
Of course, across the woodsy clearing in her little mushroom-shaped hut, the Sentinel Lady watches me through her big picture window with calculating eyes, probably wondering if I've finally gotten into my mom's expensive tequila that's "hidden" in the pantry.
IT'S CALLED FUN, WOMAN.
It's okay, though. I don't let things like that get in my way of a good time.
AHA!
I SHALL WATCH OLD BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN CONCERTS!
My obsession with this musician often wins on boring home-bound days. I have my mother to thank for that, and all her rock and roll brainwashing. You must understand that the event of simply watching a concert becomes much more than that to me. It becomes a special occasion. A massive undertaking. Try not to judge me for it. I'm sensitive.
Stop it. I can just feel you judging me.
In any case, the first big question is which concert to watch. I picked out one from the 80s (Yes I have a large collection of concerts spanning his career). Stay with the general flow of things today.
Then, I had to change into appropriate Bruce-watching attire (Stop with the judging). This all depends on who I want to pretend to be. Should I dress like an obsessed fan? Naw. Too easy.
Yup. I could sport my blue jeans and a white tank top, throw a bandanna around my head and pretend to be Bruce himself. But I've done that one before. Or I could go with one of my head scarves and pretend to be Stevie the guitarist. Or I could just tie scarves and bandannas all over myself and pretend to be Nils, the other guitarist. My hero!
Hell yeah!
Then I've got myself a battle plan, and I watch my concert, dancing and playing air guitar like nobody's business. I sing too. Sometimes I even sing a harmony, but I think those sound better in my head than they do out loud. But it doesn't matter that I don't actually own an electric guitar, have never written a song in my life, and that I am not actually the person I'm pretending to be. In my head, at that moment, I couldn't be freer.
I AM A ROCK STAR.
Of course, across the woodsy clearing in her little mushroom-shaped hut, the Sentinel Lady watches me through her big picture window with calculating eyes, probably wondering if I've finally gotten into my mom's expensive tequila that's "hidden" in the pantry.
IT'S CALLED FUN, WOMAN.
It's okay, though. I don't let things like that get in my way of a good time.
Or you could fully drape yourself and mic stand in billowing purple scarves and be Steven Tyler.
ReplyDeleteI'll take that one into consideration.
ReplyDeleteI'm so glad that your mother helped me break out of my adult prison today and your blog graced the screen of my otherwise sterile work computer. You crack me up - p.s... the above blog is an awesome college essay. So you were productive afterall - you are three years (2.5 if you want to be exact) ahead of other people your age.
ReplyDeleteThanks Shanna... Oh and as a warning: don't try to eat my mom's chocolate. She can get nasty when it comes to that stuff :)
ReplyDelete