Last night I was under the gun, having issued a Mayor McCheese press release the evening prior, and felt my only hope for posting the When the Vows Break review before bed was to silence my phone. It had been a couple days since I’d last heard about Youngest Sister’s shenanigans and by my calculations that meant a breathless (and exasperating) update was imminent — one that might siphon the concentration needed for selecting the appropriate screenshot of Patty Duke’s unfortunate hat.
Alas, I was outsmarted by a crafty relative who, annoyed by my recent habit of forgetting to reenable text and call notifications, escalated their bid for my attention by adding Crankenstein, who must always be reachable, to our discussion. I’m ashamed to say I tried to stay out of the conversation; tired after another mostly sleepless night and acutely aware of my diminished ability to multitask, I wanted to remain focused on the review. My self-imposed deadline was met and for a moment I felt a silly sense of accomplishment, a high I’d like to experience more often.
It’s not that I don’t accomplish things in the average day; simple tasks just take longer than before and require more physical and mental effort. I want more time to write frivolous things and work on my stupid projects, like the lighthouse. As Naomi Osaka kicked off her Miami Open bid this evening, I used a gizmo to cut some floorboards and primed the parts of the cottage where they’ll be glued later this week. There’s still pre-staining, sanding, regular staining, more sanding, and then sealing to complete.*
The wallpaper might also go up this weekend, depending on what the mailperson brings in the coming days. Some of what I need can be purchased locally, which is my preference, and for the rest I rely on the Internet. It’s torturous for Muriel, a tireless watchdog already driven mad six days a week by the presence of the Postal Service on our porch. Our letter carriers deliver on foot and she unfailingly growls, barks and howls as they shove mail into our house. Now she’s further outraged when she hears a ‘beep’ accompanying the scanning of parcels containing tiny shingles and kits of confusingly small furniture I’m meant to assemble.**
Over the next week or two she’ll have cause to issue more verbal threats than usual: I’ve ordered LEGOs and charming kits for a rundown town I want to build (it’s both more and less complicated than it sounds — you’ll understand when I share some photos), and tomorrow I should receive an exciting set of movie models I can’t wait to build and paint. Each represents an opportunity to feel like I’m not simply running in place… not to mention additional excuses to silence the phone.
* I could’ve used an awl to notch planks on the existing cottage floors, or purchased stick-and-peel flooring, but where’s the fun in that? This is supposed to be a labor of love; labor requires work.
** God forbid they open the storm door to hide small packages from the street; Muriel activates Cujo mode when anyone touches that door. A few days ago I was home when a substitute mailman stashed a pharmacy delivery there for safekeeping; a window was open and Muriel’s meltdown sounded so ferocious that it attracted stares from a utility crew across the street. The mailman cheerfully barked back at her, and when I opened the entry door to thank him and he got a look at her, he laughed. She was not the hellhound he expected, just a pipsqueak with the voice of Barry White and the temperament of a territorial cokehead.