I’ve been having trouble turning ideas and thoughts into complete works. If you printed the documents that I’ve started and stopped mid page over the last month you’d have a tower of balled up paper. The image reminds me of the old days when I used to yank paper from my typewriter in frustration when I made a mistake or couldn’t catch a groove. I’ve never given much thought to the muse – I just sit down and write. But now that I’m considering this mental virus I seem to be suffering from, the muse seems to be shouting at me in Tourette’s fashion, then running into the closet to hide. That’s all I can think to say about what’s going on. See what I mean?
Maybe this was happening to Sarah Manguso when she wrote 300 Arguments. She pulls it off as compact and brilliant, each sentence a rich bite of decadent fudge that compels you toward one more nibble. Genred as memoir, it works beautifully. I mean, what’s memoir other than a collection of thoughts and stories of life strung together? Much of what happens to us is a patchwork scrap kind of quilt and there is much to ponder about the fabric of life.
Here are my wrinkled balls of paper, sewn together as best as I can offer so that I can get on with my life.
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I’m often hot at night, yet I like to sleep under a pile of soft blankets. Oh, and I want the ceiling fan on – low, not high. I like all cotton sleepwear – shorts, not pants. The sheet requirement is soft and clean smelling, (fresh linen scent, never vanilla.) Top sheet should be firmly tucked into the bottom but not on the sides as I like to slide my leg out on top of the soft blanket to adjust my temperature. This in and out leg movement happens at regular intervals throughout the night. I also like to flip the pillow to keep my ear against a cool side. Other than that, I’m not at all picky about sleeping.
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I have a later in life nut allergy. Trees and peas – all of them, uncovered at age 48. I’m not sensitive about the injustice of this depravation as we all have our things. I just miss crunchy Peter Pan on extra toasty multigrain.
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Smokin’ Hot Love Biscuit has an old wooden puzzle of the United States from the 1950s. The only part missing is a teensy little piece the size of a pencil eraser up in the Northeast. One would barely notice that there’s anything amiss at all – unless one is from Rhode Island.
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When I swear off gossip all sorts of juicy things happen.
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I spent an hour listening to a friend talk through the preferred space in her fitness studio (the back room,) and how to fairly allocate time in that area among her staff. During the phone call, her eight-year-old daughter interrupted our conversation in a desperate attempt to escape her younger siblings.
My friend said to her, “Why don’t you go to the back part of the playroom?”
“Because they are already in there.”
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I drink coffee to wake up and wine to power down.
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I don’t think that there is an absolute right and wrong way, but if there is, I’m pretty sure how I would categorize my way.
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The sound of someone eating an apple or slurping or smacking causes me to have thoughts and urges that I shouldn’t put in writing.
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The inability to admit fault or apologize are among the hardest of human flaws for me to navigate.
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I often ride around with my window down and my A/C and seat warmers both on.
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My high school math teacher harped on the importance of numbers. Turns out that I needed to know how to calculate commission and how to hire a good accountant. The rest of it has been words, glorious words.
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The sound of SHLB’s voice is one of my favorite things on the planet. His laugh, even better.
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There’s a lot of talk about the 2% of truth. Researchers maintain that there’s this bit of truth in most everything – even bold, intentional lies. It’s speculated that we also hoard 2% of our own truth, afraid or reluctant to speak it or act on it. Those two percentage points are where our blind spots or blockers may be lurking. I’ve been thinking about this concept more than 2% of the time. Ugh. Math. (See number 11.)
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I don’t want to say customer service is dead, but it has suffered a terrible traumatic injury causing chronic pain. Last week I checked into a hotel – nice digs, where I carry lots of frequent stayer points. When I entered my room and went into the bathroom, I noticed multiple drops of blood on the floor.
Surely that can’t be. Yes, blood. I’m not one to ick out, but DANG. I went back to the front desk and told the person behind the counter about the blood stains. It was more severe paper cut than stab wound, but DANG!
The hotel employee replied (with neutral expression,) “So, do you want a different room?”
Yes, indeedy.
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I received two texts in the last month from unknown numbers. Is it odd how much satisfaction I’ve gotten out of considering potential responses?
Text: Hi Barry
Potential Responses:
Barry is on maternity leave. He had a little lamb.
Barry is back in rehab. He asked me to let you know.
Barry is missing. They just found his phone in the woods. When did you last see him?
Bitch, I told you not to text this number anymore.
Text: Dr. David? My puppy is very slow and won’t eat dog food. Can you make an appointment for me?
Potential Responses:
I don’t typically see humans, but if you want an appointment, I’ll make an exception.
How slow? Have him run a timed mile.
Why would you expect a puppy to eat dog food? Geez.
Make the puppy some chicken fried steak for goodness sake. He’s hungry.
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I went for a massage and the greeting went like this.
Massage Therapist: “How are you doing today?”
Me: “Great. How are you?”
MT: “I’m doing well. I really need to take a shower and you are my last client.”
Me in a thought bubble: WHY would you even SAY that?
MT: (After several minutes of what sounds like some type of severe digestive distress.) “Don’t mind my tummy noises. I have a rare condition where my “burper” doesn’t work.”
It would be an exaggeration to say the sound was every minute. It was every 92 seconds.
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Our dog doesn’t like other dogs, but she loves most people. At fourteen, she has become a good judge of character. In the past year, she has pooped in the guest bedroom twice. In both instances, it was after guests had slept there. On these occasions, we found out AFTER the people left our home that they scored less than stellar on the good person scale. We now call it the “Fergie Review.”
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Cousins may be the best of all relatives. They are your generation. They don’t have the baggage of siblings, yet they understand the dysfunction and sense of humor of your family and upbringing. My cousin, Ellen, and I created this theory.
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I can’t decide which troubles me more, know-it-alls or indecisives.
Guess it’s know-it-alls.
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Every summer, I wish I could back in time and go to camp. I loved all of it – the sleeping bags, the fireside songs, the hikes, canoeing the murky lake, the dining hall complete with those little boxes of cereal that you could use as a bowl. Four words of deliciousness: Indvidual-sized, Frosted Flakes. I went to 4-H camp on “scholarship.” I was grown before I realized it wasn’t merit based. If the donors did research on camp experience and a little eight-year-old country girl, the ROI would blow their argyle socks off.
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SHLB and I have been trying our hands at song writing. So far, we have written about the temptation of cheating, Grandpa Oscar, rain in the mountains of West Virginia, an almost sixty-year-old piece of rope, and my larger than life cousin, Martin. It seems that if our lives were songs, they would be country, or maybe, Elvis. But, “That’s all right now mama, anyway you do.”
Not a chick, but can relate. Funny/strange how some minds work, yet amazing when you can ‘hear’ the odd thoughts of kindred souls.
I love this! Is this the experimental memoir exercise for the next meetup? Also, Jack tap tap taps his spoon on his bowl when he’s trying to get the last of the ice cream, and sometimes it puts me directly in the mind of the narrator in Tale Tell Heart, so I totally get No. 8.
I love this! Is this the experimental memoir exercise for the next meetup? Also, Jack tap tap taps his spoon on his bowl when he’s trying to get the last of the ice cream, and sometimes it puts me directly in the mind of the narrator in Tale Tell Heart, so I totally get No. 8.
I love this! Is this the experimental memoir exercise for the next meetup? Also, Jack tap tap taps his spoon on his bowl when he’s trying to get the last of the ice cream, and sometimes it puts me directly in the mind of the narrator in Tale Tell Heart, so I totally get No. 8.
I love this! Is this the experimental memoir exercise for the next meetup? Also, Jack tap tap taps his spoon on his bowl when he’s trying to get the last of the ice cream, and sometimes it puts me directly in the mind of the narrator in Tale Tell Heart, so I totally get No. 8.
I love this! Is this the experimental memoir exercise for the next meetup? Also, Jack tap tap taps his spoon on his bowl when he’s trying to get the last of the ice cream, and sometimes it puts me directly in the mind of the narrator in Tale Tell Heart, so I totally get No. 8.