Late start on a day of inactivity

I had a couple of long phone conversations last night with especially close friends, working out some of my harder issues, bouncing ideas back and forth, a kind of unpaid-for therapy. As a result, I couldn't write this morning. I bored myself on every attempt.

It seems harder to write when all of the emotional intensity gets spent verbalizing. This is why I never talk about my writing when I'm writing. If I talk about it, then I don't do it on paper. This is also why I haven't published anything in about a decade. It's not "writer's block," it's "writer's over-regurgitation."

So, instead of writing, I exercised and walked the dog, and puttered around trying to figure out what to do next. Pull up the loft carpet? Move more stuff down to the basement? Make a sandwich? Why is it so hard to get motivated today?

I've plenty to do around here, many projects I want to finish before Bill comes home and tells me that the way I'm trying to do it isn't right, takes over, and then over-engineers it to the point where it really won't get finished at all. We work better individually or sequentially, like when I patch and tape the drywall and paint, and then he does the lighting installation. Bill and I have different styles, and only rarely are joint projects a good idea in our house. He is the clever, thoughtful perfectionist. He thinks and thinks and thinks and thinks and ... thinks some more, and then maybe, some of it will get done until a slight problem is encountered, and then he has another cup of coffee and watches the History Channel and thinks some more about the right way to do it. We have lots of these projects, most of them in quarter and half and three-quarters stages of completion. The tools are still out, the wires are hanging out of the ceiling, but nobody's home. Literally and figuratively.

I am the impatient one. I go out and buy the hardware or supplies, come home, dive in, and then when I hit a roadblock, or encounter unexpected difficulties (because I didn't think it through), I pitch a fit, or ask Bill for advice--then he sits down, has another cup of coffee, and thinks...while I fume or pitch another fit, or get tired of waiting for him and just finish it however I can, just to get it done. My "quality of work" is inferior, but by golly, things do get done. (I also clean up my messes and put tools away so they can be found again, so there). Bill's finished projects are beautifully done--that is, if they ever really get done. I keep thinking that there should be a way to integrate these two styles and get quality work done in less time than than a glacial epoch, but we've been trying for 25 years and haven't achieved that particular home-improvement Nirvana yet.

Finally, around 4 pm, I got started. I put a finish on the walnut trim moulding for the new kitchen dish cabinet, let it dry and installed it. I put all the dishes in the new cabinet. I installed a roll-out drawer for the under-sink trash and cleaned out all the grunge and jumble of cleaning products from that cabinet. I hung the spice rack on the new cabinet. I drilled holes in the new cupboard doors and put the knobs on that I bought at Ikea in Seattle this summer. I swept up the wood shavings and put away the drill.

My life insurance agent called while I was on the ladder (yes, I know, no one over 50 has any business being on a ladder, but realistically, if I fall and break my neck...well, never mind, let's not go there). The first thing he says is, "Hi, how are you?" Here's the dilemma: Does one enjoy a confidentiality clause with one's life insurance agent? If I tell him that I have cancer, will he rat me out to the company? Will my policy be cancelled or skyrocket upon knowledge of said medical condition?

Not having nearly enough time to work this entire line of thought, I wimped out. "Hey, love to talk to you, but I'm on a ladder in the middle of something, could you call me back next week?"

What a wuss I am. Maybe I'll have an answer for "How are you?" worked out by the time he calls again.