Middle me this

I am great at starting things. Fights, businesses, giggle fits in my boys. I am also skilled at endings. I can sell houses, close LLCs, pack boxes and move away. It is the middle that is tricky. Life is mostly middles. Here are just a few:

  • Household maintenance, with its endless cycles of dishes and laundry.
  • All the days between the goal setting of New Year’s day and the celebration of New Year’s eve.
  • The stages of a project between conception to conclusion.
  • The calorie counting and food logging of the diet after you have decided to lose weight and before you fit into the jeans at the bottom of your drawer.
  • The forehand and backhand drills of tennis lessons, post the thrill of selecting a new racket and pre playing a single game.
  • All of the errands, squabbles, and bad TV between your first date and your wedding day.

Like everything,  getting good at middles takes practice. Which of course is the middle itself. This might be a bit muddled but there are a few things I am sure help with turning the grind into something for which I am grateful:

  • Staying in the now rather than remembering or projecting.
  • Noticing rather than judging.
  • Accepting set backs as part of improvement.
  • Slowing down.
  • Letting go of the idea that each activity, conversation, and creative output needs to be everything to everyone.

In addition to yoga, meditation, and avoiding the rabbit hole of my sons’ mood swings I have a new area to practice practicing. I am writing thirty posts in forty five days for The Good Men Project. That is a lot of words to put on the screen. Particularly when I know they will be public. I am trying to focus on the writing process rather than the product of the post. Which I imagine will happen primarily between post 2 and 29. The middle of the process, which I recognize is where the real work of real life lives.

Do you have any ideas about how to prioritize process over product? What are you practicing these days?

 

Why I write version 4.

The word dump that allows the brain dump.

1.Because I think through typing.

2.AND to clear the words from my head. (Logic is not one of the reasons.)

3.There are people that want to talk about depression and miscarriage and money and sex who need an over sharer in their life. That might as well be me.

4.I want to have a one word answer to “what do you do?” at cocktail parties.

5.A $25 check made out to me is better than a $25 check made out by me.

6.I always wanted to make stuff but I can’t draw and I don’t consider offspring part of the creative process. Except literally.

7.Writing can be both messy and disciplined. I can have a brain dump, or revisit, reorganize, revise and reinvent. Guess which I do more?

8.Even though “new media” has a 30 hour life cycle it also offers immortality. It is both right now and forever.

9.It helps me remember me.

10.Having a dedicated place to be selfish helps me be present for other people the rest of the time. I said helps.

11.Knowing that I have a place to explore the spark of an idea helps me notice the spark. Phrases, challenges, individual moments can live twice. In the exact moment and again when I poke at them like the lump of clay they are.

12.It thickens my skin. The internet may have Captcha filters, but not reader filters. Many of the comments I get are mean. This allows me to reexamine and reframe my ideas, and remember that most emotional responses are from people’s own shit, not whatever shit I might have put out there.

13.I just believe in Putting Out.

What about you? Why do you do what you do?

Drafted

 

I might have hit an all time record today with posts that will forever live in the draft list.

I have written about Marlo Thomas in a tone that was too sicky sweet.

Remember this?

So his father bought him a basketball

A badminton set, and that’s not all

A bag of marbles, a baseball glove

And all the things a boy would love

And Bill was good at every game

Enjoyed them all, but all the same

When Billy’s father praised his skill

“Can I please have a doll now,” said my friend Bill

I have written about a documentary that I saw last night where I confirmed that I am a racist. I left with my mind spinning and a greater sense of hopelessness than before. The post I almost finished made me sound like a reductionist asshole so I scrapped it. There was one good part about a cross’ armpit. I guess you need to read it.

I started describing the two books on habits that I am reading simultaneously and how they led me to delete all of the games from my phone. Goodbye candy crush, goodbye 2048 and my magnificent high score, goodbye clash of clans and paradise bay, goodbye Pet Rescue and Farm Heroes and that other farming game whose name I never learned. Goodbye time suck, and goodbye mini-breaks. Goodbye distractions good and bad. Forget the brilliant studies and inspirational descriptions that led to the demise of my games. Just know that they are gone, and so is my escape from my own brain, and the doctor’s waiting room, and the boys’ whining. I’m just going to have to find another way to detach. It is like physical withdrawal. But I have never read more New York Times headlines than I have in the past 48 hours. Which is both a good and a bad thing. I scrapped those games, which means I have to be a bit scrappy with my free time.

I scrapped the fifth sex post in as many weeks. It just gets boring. The writing I mean. Obviously.

I didn’t even leave the post I started about the IRS in the draft folder. It is totally gone. Summary: I won my 2012 audit, but the victory is short lived because the 2014 tax extension is crashing and burning.

All of this virtual wadded up paper brings to mind a video that my friend shared about privilege. I am totally sitting in the front row. But I have such bad aim that my paper ball may not make it into the recycling. Which means I can smooth it out and try again.

Please watch the video with your kids. So maybe there is a reason this post didn’t end up in the draft folder as well.

 

 

 

Present Tense

Don't say a word.
Don’t say a word.

There are times I feel younger than my age because of weird enthusiasms. Like when I lean in with glee to hear about a friends sexual interludes, or when I joke about nutsacks with my kids, and obviously when I pretend the pool cue is a tail and trot oddly around the game room.

Then there are times when I feel about 16 for more sickly reasons. I measure up my outfits against other moms at school pick up, I force myself to stay late at a party for fear I will miss something, and when I rebel against an assignment as if someone were trying to lure me into their basement and feed me only salad for the rest of my life. Or something equally terrifying.

In my early college years I walked around with perpetual writers block. I was surprised I could even move my body there were so many words stuck inside my head. I thought my condition was emanating from me like waves and wanted to warn people away from me for fear it was contagious.  They were magical creatures these other students who could do things like start writing, stop to pee or even go to the gym and then START AGAIN. What was this madness?

Since leaving school I have lived a life without assignments.

Any deadlines I have are self imposed. The work I do changes with the month and my mood. There are things I have started and finished, and many more I have started and stopped. Never to START AGAIN.

My wordpress blog dashboard is full of drafts. Probably a ratio of 4:1 to the posts I publish. My blogging style fits me.

  1. I write,
  2. I publish.
  3. There is no three.

I skip the hard part. The review and improvement. The changes small and large. The rules of grammar. The need to weave in a different perspective for a different day.

For the past year I have been sucking at writing a book. This thing is terrible. Unreadable. I have plugged away though, sometimes even reflecting and rewriting. Occasionally I add structure that might (in theory) make it understandable to someone other than me. One day I might do something with it. For now I am using it as practice, a place to experiment with voice, and even more so with a more disciplined version of writing. It is a story from my past. One I want and need to explore but it can come slowly. No has any expectations for a product. Not even me.

This month I got back into writing short form work. I have a spreadsheet where I track the things I submit. Some are syndicated versions of posts I have made public on my blog. Others are originals. In contrast to my larger project I am trying to write in the present tense. Which is presently making me tense.

Last week I sent a query letter to an editor at a The Good Men Project. In the body of the email I spat out a writing sample. It rolled out in a single sitting. I was pleased when she asked to publish that piece as is with just a title change. There is nothing better than writing something and never having to see it again. I wanted this piece to stay in the past.

This time I was wrong though. It got a fair amount of shares through their website and has been picked up by several other outlets for syndication. This is good. Except for the ways it is not good. It means I have had to reread the piece and realize (how could I not have known) that it set in the past and written in the past tense. Worse than that the longer life of this piece means I had to answer truthfully my mother in law’s question about the topic of my article (sex with her son. Except I just said sex. Which was slightly less horrifying.) It means a few other websites have approached me about writing for them. I realize that I should be putting this last one in the good list.

But I am like a sucky 16 year old so I won’t.

I reply politely and with fairly good grammar to each inquiry email. When they ask for a pitch I send a pitch. Guess what happens next?

They ask me to write what I told them I would write.

It turns out this is crushingly hard. I look at the listicle  one outlet has asked me to write. The entire thing was 80% finished in my reply email. I cut and pasted that to a word document. Were it has taunted me for two days. Who knew a chipper little list could be so angry.

“Finish me.”

“I don’t hear anything”

“Finish me.”

“I don’t even have the words to write you, how can you have the words to mock me?”

“Finish me.”

“Fuck you.”

 

This piece (like the other three I have agreed to write) was my idea and sport my deadline. That doesn’t seem to matter at all. I might as well be a college kid again, fighting against Psych and Poly Sci., kicking and screaming against the invisible force that wants to tie me down, limit my topics and my time.

It doesn’t seem to matter that that force is me.

My past on the page was not perfect and my present seems to be just as tense.

My balls

For years Leo has annotated our Apples to Apples cards. Instead of beachballs the smudged marker now reads “MYballs”

He uses it like a punchline the way my preadolescent self tagged “in bed” to the end of each fortune cookie slip. It never fails to amuse him, and generally the rest of us as well.

“Oh dear” exclaims his older brother and Leo looks at him through slitted eyes. Too soft, he seems to say. “My balls” he corrects and they run off together, small problem averted for the time being.

I am trying to focus on the state of the union. Turning the page as Obama advises. Closing loopholes for the companies with lobbyists. Making higher education possible.

Instead I am thinking about Bill Belichick’s balls.

Leo would be proud but I am as deflated as they are.

I listened to the fans call in to the sports talk radio excited to turn their own page on the other Patriots cheating scandal. Spygate was in the past, and a Superbowl victory would prove to our detractors that we could win on football alone.

BB has used loopholes, I imagined legal loopholes, to give his team every advantage. His use of eligible and ineligible receivers (legal but confusing) is a recent example of studying the rules and use slight variations to give his team a formation that would leave the defense on tilt. Our coaches level of preparation, attention to details, and mantra turned tag line of “do your job” has appeals to me. He is combing the very rule book that I eschew.  He has the ream run crisp routes through the corners I cut,  His staff is studying angles of sunlight and how it will impact receivers perception while I just see the weather.

It is mindfulness wrapped in football. Live each moment, don’t look beyond this play. Or evidently this psi.

It sucks that they cheat. Most of the country already discounts their success. Although the game they got caught on was a blowout the week before that was not. I stood in the stands screaming and stomping as they came back from two 14 point deficits.  I celebrated what brought them back: their tenacity, their positivity, their teamwork.

Their balls.

I sketched out the problem. Oliver’s brow furrowed. His interest in rule books is legendary, he is so exacting it is almost not fun to play a game with him. He was silent as I told them of my disappointment. Leo was not.

“My balls.” When I didn’t roll my eyes with mock disapproval he broke it down for me. “You know, instead of the Patriots balls, MY balls.”

I get it Leo. But I don’t.

My balls.

 

 

If you could just be sad somewhere else

Destination ImaginationThe cat sits in her chicken pose, dreadlocks growing from her jutted out shoulder. Even her good eye is goopy. I cant see her tail stump but I know it, like her deafness, is there.

She is not an attractive specimen.

Oliver walks slowly from room to room mewling about an assignment he doesn’t want to complete. He usually just puts his head down and gets his work done but for some reason the fictional chef and his good smelling tomato sauce is not inspiring an essay.

Steve is traveling again and I am just about holding it together. Sure my pjs were on at 4pm but that was AFTER I went to the grocery store, had a meeting about the school auction, checked in on the house renovation and coached the 5 loudest 4th graders in the world through Destination Imagination. It was one of boy’s birthdays and three of us had provided snacks. They worked through cake pops, cupcakes, cookies, potato chips, pirate booty, and oranges. Their normal volume was emphasized in direct proportion to the sugar in their bodies.

After that, and the cat attack, and the dinner prep, and the approximation of dinner eating came clean up and homework. I did the dishes, soaking my shirt as usual, and joined the boys in the living room where they were crouched around the coffee table working. As uncomfortable as this looked it was not as bad as some of the other corners they squeeze into. Some of their best work has come between bed and side table, next to open closet doors, even on the toilet.

Leo was trudging through when Oliver began his light complaints. How could he possibly write three paragraphs on such a question. On it went. I indulged him by reading the prompt and its accompanying “story”. It was uninspired. I gave him sympathy then told him to write it or skip it.

Time passed. He continued to suffer audibly. Sniffling. Moaning. Strange light mewing of displeasure.

I left the room. Perhaps if his audience disappeared his act would as well.  No, it followed me down the hall. A ghost of essay misery.

“How?’ He asked. “How?” “How can I possibly write an essay when I have no good ideas?”

I told him it didn’t have to be good. It just had to be written.

And  I opened my computer to take my own advice.

Someone should listen to me.

And it won’t be the deaf cat.

 

Its sort of funny

Ah- choo.

Crap.

AHHHH-CHOOOO.

Well now I’ve done it.

Steve looks at me with sympathy from the bedroom door. He is dressed and ready to ride his new bike to go food shopping.

Oliver flat out laughs. “Its sort of funny how you smile and frown at the same time.”

I’m sitting on the bed with my laptop trying to spur some sort of post, and now I am going to have to get up and change my clothes and the sheets.

Since the new kitten with her less than perfect litter box skills and the old cat and her literal pissed off protest our lives have been full of pee. Not that much of it mine. Until now.

It has been 8 years since I have given birth and being a mother has changed me.

Its sort of funny that I used to love to sneeze. At least at home. Now I feel intense dread. I have peed in meetings, at dinner parties, and during almost every work out in the past eight years. I know what people say about particular exercises and have practiced them at every stop sign I have hit for the better part of a decade. I think those smug moms have not given birth to 10 pound babies.

I look up from the computer to catch Steve’s eye again. “Are you leaking some fluids?”

I tell him “I probably shouldn’t put that in the blog.”

“Is that what you are writing about? Peeing in your pants?”

I walk off to the bathroom without answering.

It doesn’t sound like such an important topic when he says it out loud.

I have read about evolutionary biology and how its advances are leaving a constantly more slender sliver for the non overlapping belief in both god and Darwin.

I have read about the re-election campaign for Colorado’s democratic governor. How his mid level gun control policy of limiting magazine size to 15 rounds might cost him the election.

I have brushed Oliver’s mint smelling clean hair as he sits in front of me wrapped only in his white fuzzy blanket. I wonder whether to show him the pictures of the Japanese volcano erupting. The images up on my screen include buildings completely covered with ash, housing what is estimated to be 35 dead hikers. Before I can figure out how difficult that would be for him to see I have sneezed and he has left the room with his own half smile half frown.

The op ed about workplace evaluations and how many many more women receive criticisms related to their personality than men has stuck in my head. I can’t remember the figures, which or course are only two clicks away, but the idea is in there. Words like pushy and bitter litter descriptions of women in management while their male peers are called forward thinking and leaders.

This last paragraph has been sitting here for a few minutes as I watch the Europeans retain the Ryder Cup. Steve had turned on the match a few hours ago and walked away. Although he calls himself a sports fan I have not seen him sit down and commit to a game, match, whatever, in the twelve years we have been together. Through my combination of sports love and general lack of interest in leaving the bed I have finished many many games for him over the years. I watch the champagne cork prematurely ejaculate and Rory sneak into the crowd to hide his own leaking fluids.

Looking back to the laptop the curser blinks and I remember that this is the name I am going to give my book. Curser.

Which means I need to up my game on the cursing department. This has been a very effective time together. I have learned a lot. I will take 30 round magazines off of my Chanukah wish list. I will never hike near a volcano in Japan. Steve totally owes me for finishing the Ryder cup and probably hundreds of hours of other sports viewing as well. I should start criticizing men based on their personality deficiencies. Oliver needs a bathrobe.

It is pretty fucking unlikely that there is a god.

And if there is, she is probably smiling and frowning while sitting in a puddle of her own pee.


Since I wrote this post the US has reclaimed the Ryder cup, Oliver owns a bathrobe and some amazing women have launched underwear that contains pee. That reads SO WRONG. Underwear that holds pee. There very well may be a god.

 

 

 

 

Denvurb

I wouldn’t say we have really arrived, but we are here.

The house is both better and worse than I remembered. Worse in that the rooms are smaller, the window sills more rotten, the dead moths more copious. Better in that I can see my way through it. It is more than a putty/paint situation, but less than a tear down. This is my renovation wheel house.

The neighborhood is putting on a show. It has been unseasonably rainy here although we haven’t seen a drop and everything is leafy and green. I hear sprinklers have something to do with it, but so far the dusty desert has not shown its face. Walking the tree lined streets with my head swiveling side to side to take in the 1910,20,30,40 2014 architecture it feels like it could be home someday.

We eat dinner at our friends’ house,the boys running back and forth the the playground. Their neighbors enter through a back gate, mojitos in hand. Their chairs are red and modern for the accrual brick and mortar room and board store less than a mile away. They have invited our new next door neighbor to dinner and he reveals himself slowly. Most of the way through dinner we are all laughing and I feel a sort of settling.

The host asks about my blog.

I haven’t been writing here. As you undoubtably know. I haven’t figured out what I want to do with this. What it has meant and what it could mean. There is something about this fresh start that makes me hesitate about sharing shelburbia with the new denver people. Do they need to know about my depression and diet, my views on sex, hugs and answering machines? Could those be stories to tell in person over dinner tables, in real conversations instead of written ones?

I’m not sure yet. So I hesitate before answering my host. In that pause my new neighbor chimes in…the one who will live six feet from my bedroom…”can you believe these people who just say anything on these blogs? Just tell everything about themselves?”I laugh.

“I’m not sure we are going to bethel best neighbors.” I tell him.

And in that moment I realize that blog or no blog it will all come out eventually. “What do YOU write about?” He asks.

The table buzz has quieted. There are many eyes on me. Steve’s are amused. My old friends are supportive and a bit wary. The young la friends are open and interested. And the neighbors? I can’t quite read him.

“Money, sex, depression, parenting….and tomorrow you can read about you, and this dinner.”

I can read him now. He is not that uptight. “I guess I don’t mind if you put everything out there…I’ll just be careful what I tell you.”

So I have navigated this first meeting. He will be appropriately wary about intimate details, which probably is no changeat all from how he normally behaves. I will work out the purpose of this blog. Or not.

Somehow I imagined that a filter would arrive in this new time zone, but I can tell from this dinner it has not.

During a story about a neighbor thinning the trees in his years because the overgrowth is too thick to penetrate his property I interrupt the story with “a man doesn’t like it when he can’t penetrate his property.”

15 minutes later when I am rounding the kids to go the mojito neighbor introduces himself to me. I had skipped him for now, already realizing that my capacity to be appropriate was low. He works his way over with his oldest son. The boy is wearing a minecraft t shirt so I aim leo at him and try to avoid the “whydidyoumoveherewhatdoyoudo” conversation. I feel on safe ground with minecraft. The dad tells me the son watches YouTube videos. I ante up Leo and comment on the foul language. I am treading on unsafe ground again. I just learned from his wife about the church camp that their kids attend. I should probably stay away from parenting, and fucking bad language. But we are here.

He tells me he turns off the videos when the language gets bad. He has his arm on his seventh grader, I look down at gap toothed leo, entering second grade and say. “I let them watch, I just tell them not to use bad language”

It sounds ridiculous even as it comes out of my mouth. Sort of liaisez faire and impossible at the same time. It is the truth though, and this was the exact reason I didn’t want to meet another new face. When I am tired, when I have mentally moved on from the party, I really shouldn’t talk.

As I Shepard Leo away, thanking the hosts, I hear the seventh grader arguing his case. “I won’t use those words…you swear dad and I don’t repeat that.”

Maybe I will make the mojitos next time and all will be forgiven. Or at least forgotten.

Relax

I woke up today, our last vacation day, without an agenda.

At dinner last night I was worried that Oliver would be running us around when his newly freckled face wrinkled and said he didn’t want out last day on the island to be a LAZY day.

“What would you like to do?” Steve and I asked him. Steve would be working so his question was amused, while mine held a bit of anxiety imagining drives to 90 degree mini golf courses and trips off island to visit his one Florida friend.

“Well, we should start with a cannonball contest in the pool and then dig in the sand, take a quick dip in the gulf, relax before lunch, make lunch at home, then pool, then gulf, then you know…” His voice trailed off.

So, like every other day here. Without the walk to the ice cream shop.

We were up late last night. Both boys had napped. Another hallmark of vacation. Sun, sand and saltwater make them sleepy in a way they can’t resist. Oliver napped right on me. It had been years since our skin blended in that kid nap sweaty stickiness. I laid for almost 90 minutes without moving him. It seemed possible that this would bet he very last time he napped on me. Although he calls himself a snuggly cuddler in reality his cuddles are quick and full of motion. He arranges himself with his pointy elbows and chin against you into just the right position, sighs with happiness and instantly breaks away. The cuddle is completely one sided. His exit often includes a skull grinding against my clavicle or a full force push up off of my shoulder. I’ve learns to lie still during these snuggles, any motion on my part sets him off immediately, like a neighbors cat who we have not quite tamed.

After 90 minutes of Oliver nap I had meditated and day dreamed, and mental listed and finally just needed to get up. I had composed a bit of a vacation blog post in my head and was planning to grab Steve’s laptop to check in on shelburbia for a bit before my literal return.

Leo intercepted me with a pool request so we took the torpedoes and continued our conquest of the “tippy bottom” of the pool. I had demonstrated the handstands and flips of my girlhood. Amazed at how incredibly dizzy the forward flip made me he argues strongly against any attempt at a backwards one. That was the one I loved though. I felt like I was of the water at his age, and that move had seemed particularly effortless. It had the bonus of slicking my hair back in a smooth sleek way that defied it look while dry.

So I showed him, and like I imagined he loved the hair do.

It was 15 minutes before sunset so we snapped a shot from the pool and got out much more quickly than other visits.
image

The boys were up until 11 last night and Steve and I much later. He successfully snuck out to work on the lanai (Florida parlance for screened porch) and I kept snoozing to the sound of cereal and iPads.

I finally got out of bed to the buzzing of my phone at 9. It was my mother on the train to work. She has been commuting between Manhattan and Boston, is about to wrap up the semester and hop the pond to give a talk in London. Her partner had his third stent procedure this past week. Although I had checked in after that and knew it went well I also knew this wasn’t an easy time for her.

So I answered.

Without caffeine.

My vacation mind set wasn’t an exact match to her commuting one. The call had a purpose.

“What is your plan with your blog?”

“I don’t have a plan. I’m trying to figure out what I want to do.”

“Well, you have to put something up there. You can’t just build an audience and then go literally silent.”

I paused. I had no answer. I mean, obviously I could do that. I had done that.

For such a simple and selfish (in the descriptive rather than judgemental sense) thing as a blog I have not figured out the rules. They are personal between writers and readers, but often unsaid. Many blogs I read begin with a promise of a weekly post and then drift into frequent apologies wondering where all the time has gone.

For a while I tried and mainly succeeded to post every day. Now I am not.

I don’t know about the deep meaning of the blog, or it’s functional schedule. It’s more of a pay as you play sort of thing.

Maybe the pool then the gulf, then the pool.

Ill be back here. I’m not sure if I will change the name or set a schedule or erase some of the categories. Maybe the gulf. And the pool.

Work Out

I moved out of my office yesterday assuming the next few months would be too busy to spend time there.

Just 20 hours later I am sitting at Village Wine and Coffee trying not to listen to other people’s conversation as I research spending on Early Childhood education.

The problem is I find the ladies of Shelburbia more interesting than studies from 1960. I don’t want to. I want to focus on the piece I am writing for a pre school in Rhode Island, but the competition in the middle school girls basket ball team is so intense, and their voices so passionate that I can’t turn my ears away.

There are four tables occupied in here today and I know three of the groups. The fourth is hosts an attractive couple probably in their seventies and at one point they introduce themselves to table three based on a bit of conversation they overheard and I overhear them and realize they are parents of a friend. I stay out of it, or else it will get really loud in here. And I am supposed to be working.

It was one degree as I drove in. Denver is 34. It doesn’t sound so warm on its own, but 33 degrees is significant. The boys were guessing they will have indoor recess. This winter just won’t quit.

So I will quit it.

Next weekend I am packing up our winter stuff. Maybe not the kids, but Steves and mine. That’ll show it. Our life is getting smaller. Disappearing into boxes. No office. No wintage linens. If we host it will be on a bare table. Which incidentally is how we always host. Saturday I threw out the art supplies. Cracked glitter glues, dried up stamp pads, single googly eyes, half twisted pipe cleaners all of which have gone untouched since the neighborhood girl retreated into her house at the beginning of winter. 9 months ago.

Sort of like me with the office Leo grabbed some recycled paper yesterday and told me he wanted to make a project. “Good luck”, I told him, “I got rid of most of the supplies.” I came up with a great roll of small point pens that are usually off limits. He eschewed them asking for his stamp pads. Gone. I told him. “Like Simon?” he asked. “Why are you giving away all of our stuff?”

I decided not to mention the vintage linens. That might be the last straw.

I’m pretty sure he can work it out.

Through the window of the coffee shop I see a friend approaching. She has recently moved and I remember her telling me how much she got rid of in the move and how little she missed it. I believe that.

The new house has very little storage. A one car garage and a dirt basement from 1913 that I plan to pretend doesn’t exist. I am hoping it will encourage me to stay lean, stay away from the glitter glue and delete the ebay app from my phone. It will however have an office. So I won’t have to work out. Which, if today is any indication, is a good thing.