It’s cold. I have snot in my nose, my sinus cavities, and running down the back of my throat. Every time I sneeze, I pee a little. My skin is dry. My panty liner is wet. My house looks like Miss Havisham should be eating wedding cake in it. With paint flaking from her like my dry skin, DaisyTheTrailer should be in a junkyard guarded by German Shepherd/Rottweiler/Doberman mixes. Our backyard is a minefield of dog poop and mole runs. My car has salt and road filth left on it from the trip to West Virginia nearly two months ago. A door, purchased at the Habitat store for Daisy, rots in the carport. My MIL was SO right about me.
The dog is barking to be let in and Rachael Ray’s annoyingly chirpy voice is annoyingly chirpy background noise. I’m too tired/sick/lazy/grouchy to go to the other room and bitch slap Rachael by turning off the television or let in the dog. I might get up to grab some more coffee. And then again, I might not. Did I mention that it’s cold.
It probably doesn’t help that I’ve been bingeing on Criminal Minds. That show can be a little dark. But. Shemar Moore. It probably doesn’t help that back in 2015, I decided to move the home office into the breakfast room. It’s still in transition, so I have neither a working home office, nor do I have a working breakfast room. We are the Americans who eat on TV trays, the flicker of prime time reflected on our faces. Kumbaya.
It probably doesn’t help that people are picking fights on Facebook, even when there isn’t anything to fight about. The meme was funny. It wasn’t supposed to bring on discussion about the finer points of what do you tell your daughter. It was simply trying to bring levity to a dire situation. I give up explaining. Fine. I won’t be funny then. I will return to my cave, Gollum-like, blow a loogie into a wad of toilet paper and search for my preciousssssss. Shemar Moore.
My snot-filled mind wanders. I wonder if Homeland Security is monitoring my actions through the camera on my computer and if they gag at just HOW many times I pick my nose. Sorry, NSA, that stuff is GLUED up there. What I need is a crotchet hook. I’ve got one somewhere, probably hanging onto an unfinished scarf I was trying to crotchet. I suck at crotchet. I suck at finishing things. Perhaps it’s the unfinishedness (if our president can say bragadocious, I can say unfinishedness) of my life that has me in the doldrums.
There is a joke that says, “Happiness comes from finishing things you’ve started, so, I finished an open bottle of merlot, an open bottle of chardonnay, the box of Girl Scout cookies and the rest of the cake.” Even that kind of happiness evades me because I grew up in a family that never took the last of anything. It drove my neat-nik mother crazy. Boxes upon boxes of cereal with one serving left. Packages of Oreos with two broken, crème-filled souls tucked into a corner. Every meal, there would be one last piece of cornbread. One spoonful of green beans. One last pork chop. Spousal Unit grew up in an eat-it-til-it’s-gone family, with moves like SEAL team six. Insertion. Move fast. Take what you want and more than you need. Extract.
Bless his heart, after nearly three decades, Spousal Unit still has no idea of the looks he gets at my parents’ table. The looks that say, “Tina, I thought you married up. He just ate the last slice of cornbread.”
Mmmmmm. Cornbread sounds good right now. I could probably finish some cornbread. I just can’t seem to finish anything else. Last year, I took a quilting class with my friend Kathy to help with the winter blahs. This year, the unfinished quilt remains stretched on my grandmother’s quilt rack, consuming twenty square feet of basement real estate. Kathy’s quilt also remains unfinished. She is renovating a house and is grumpier than I am. I should tell her about Shemar, but first I should finish some things.
I need – nay want – to finish this blog. I want to finish the quilt and finish moving the home office into the breakfast room. I want to finish Daisy’s interior and repaint her flaking exterior. I want to finish the photo album from my dad’s 80th birthday party. I want to finish the third draft of my novel and finish hanging stuff on the walls from when we moved here ten years ago. Part of me wants to finish that fight on Facebook.
I’m motivated. Call me the Finisher. I’ll finish ALL the things. Move me to Finland because I am FINNISH. Hashtag Just Finish It. The February Funk is lifted because I am finishing. I am woman. Hear me finish. Watch out dog hair tumbleweeds, you are finished! Did you see the finish on that trailer? Booyah!
First things first. I need to finish Season Three of Criminal Minds.
Shemar Moore. Preciousssssss.