Whenever I haven’t posted in a while, which is every other post lately, I put tremendous pressure on myself to write. I have about twelve drafts at this point from “Failure of a Working Mother” to “Fuck Kelle Hampton.” But I just have to post something, anything, because my anxiety goes through the roof every time I see “WordPress” on my toolbar.
On Valentine’s Day, my domain name expired, so I bought “mrsodie.com.” No more “2.” I may not be the first Mrs. Odie, but I am certainly the only.
I’m writing with a squirming toddler on my lap. She complains, “Mommy, I can’t see,” meaning the TV. So I just sat her next to me on the throne (my chair and a half from Z Gallery circa 1997). “I’m not comfortable!” she whines. I spent several minutes adjusting pillows and the ottoman and a blanket and arguing with her about how I need both arms to type. This is my writing career. Sabotage.
Work has been so stressful. I can’t be the mother I want to be, the teacher I want to be, or the writer I want to be. I feel like I’m just running in place. I’ve channeled my writing compulsion into emails and a syllabus with sometimes disastrous results. I need to retain a lawyer to follow me around telling me “Don’t answer that,” and “Say nothing.” It’s always been a problem of mine, this prolixity. I’m even doing it this very moment now. Strunk and White would slap my face. First Strunk, then White, then Strunk again. Rule of three.
My husband has been snoring on the couch since 8:00, so I guess I’m watching the remaining seven episodes of House of Cards, Season 2 by myself, If I can ever get these two kids, who napped until 4:30, to go the fuck to sleep. This is always the point where I say to myself, “Naw, save it as a draft. Publish later.” Notgonnadoit (Dana Carvey as President H.W. Bush).
I’m trying to hold it together, and not just live my life as “What happens between episodes of The Walking Dead.” Procrastination. We’re all infected.