into the pit

The basement is once again rearing it's ugly head... as much as a basement can do, what with being at the bottom of the house.

I've had an overdue note appearing in my email for the last month: phone the contractor. I am so procrastinating.

I'm at an impasse regarding what kind of bookshelves I want him to build. I've found a table that I like [not sure if SigOther likes it, but if he was really terribly concerned, he'd've come shopping with me] and I thought that would clear everything up with respect to the bookshelves. It hasn't.

I'm at the point now where I may just phone our guy up and get him to finish the basement without all the extra cabinetry work. I feel kind of bad about it, because the woodworking is the stuff he likes to do. There is still a little woodworking to be done in the living room and we're definitely going ahead with that, but I fear that if the basement is to ever be finished, it will have to be in stages. I know that's not ideal but my visualizing powers appear to be at an all time low and my motivation is fast racing to join in.

I've now tentatively scheduled the basement clean up for the upcoming long weekend [unbeknownst to SigOther, and in and around getting my hair done and going out to friends' for supper]. After that, we get the contractor back and try and set some dates.

I need deadlines and scheduling; that's the only way to get things done around here. Otherwise, I just simply get used the appearance of the ugly old basement. Kind of like I have for the last five years...

'tis the season

Hallowe'en fast approaches, but I'm already past that and thinking of Christmas.

Yes, shoot me now.

I've not actually bought any presents yet, but have already figured out a few people's gifts and have been harassing others for ideas. I've even started drafting my annual cheesy-yet-obligatory letter. Now, I just have to buy the cards.

I send out about 50 cards a year to various friends and family (SigOther has a big family) and, for some, that's the only contact I have with them all year.

I figure that's better than a kick in the head.

I could just send out the letter and stop feeding the holiday card giant's pockets, but this year I've decided to try posting the letter online [not here - elsewhere]. I will still need some manner in which to inform the masses of the location of the letter. So, cards it is.

Locating the perfectly inoffensive card isn't easy, as it's mostly me who is easily offended by overt religious sentiments, overt cuteness or overt blandness. If it makes me roll my eyeballs, I don't buy it. I have the same issues with all cards - birthday, mother/father's day, weddings, etc - but since those are for a particular person, I can take their opinions into account and loosen up on some of my own issues. But, when presenting my annual sentiment to a large group of people, icons and phrasing become more critical.

No, it's not brain surgery. And I know that each and every card is likely discarded before the new year. However, for the brief moment that is read and/or displayed, the existence of an obnoxious glittery little cartoon bear vs. a stylized non-denominational snowflake makes a difference.

Every now and then I wonder how, in the age of computers, places like the post office and stationery stores stay in business. And then I remember.... me, at Christmas.

Lois Fish Palliative Society

This society was mentioned on the news tonight and I wanted to make note of it while I remembered. I've not yet had the chance to go through the site thoroughly, but certainly intend to in the near future. What I gathered of the concept from the newscast struck me as something most worthwhile and, for me, worth the time to look at a little closer.

which way did that truck go?

It's that season once again, and I've been hit.

Everything has started up - choir, poetry class, writers' workshops, board meetings and who knows what else I'm forgetting about.

I have to prepare a couple of poems for this Thursday evening and have something on the sidelines [likely the same stuff] for Sunday afternoon in case the opportunity presents itself to have work reviewed.

I've got pieces that I've been working on, but I'm not sure that I'm ready and willing to offer any of it up for critique. I'm still thinking 'what the hell was I thinking, exactly?', and I hardly need that sentiment reiterated by the masses. [okay, none of the masses that I've had the pleasure of workshopping with would actually say that ... not outloud, anyway.] I mean, it all made sense when I wrote it...

Really.

But, that's what my lunch hours are for: editing poems, listening to choir midis and reading draft documents. Now that the season's turning for the wet, dark and dreary, it's good that everything's started up again.