The First Time

When I was a kid, I was fearless (I, and about six boys from grade school, have the scars to prove it). As I grew, the pain started to filter through, sending a Bat-signal to my brain that called rationality and "grown up" to the forefront. Seems like a good thing, right? But is it?

The first time we do anything is new territory. Because of our childhoods, because we all have some version of the warning siren in our heads, the first hint of pain sends us scrambling. And it doesn't have to be physical pain - I'm the Empress of allowing emotional (pride) pain end something before it's even begun (pefectionist, hello). Even if I make it past the first physical or emotional hurdle, if any hint of the beacon sounds I run like the girl I am.
Not lately, though. Oh, I dithered, procrastinated, and excused (my usual avoidance-dance), but the last few weeks have seen ... completions - in plural.

I'm stunned. This year's theme, "house to home (for almost free)" was one I just knew was doomed before I began. And yet ... I still put the raspberries on The List, and though it took three days of one-to-two-hour-shifts (my hands) and much whining, I not only finished it, I finished it well. And then the cabinets ended up rough draft (and hand-painful), too, but though they took twice as much work as I thought they would, I finished. Again!

I didn't think I would, not after that first day with them - I did it the "right" way, using the template provided by the manufacturer, making my little marks and hammering a nail into the cabinet (because I couldn't fit a drill in there). When that initial drawer finally went it, I thought "oh, crap" because the idiot thing was too far back - and I really did follow the directions to the letter (if only because I'm allergic to mistakes)! Anyway, I pulled the whole contraption out, used a bit more common sense (I laid the rail and "drilled" the first pilot hole in place) and it turned out perfect. The second went easier and faster, and the third took me no time at all. Even the swap out and the pull to clean beneath the oven (which hadn't been done since it went in a decade ago) went quicker because I wasn't intimidated anymore.

See, the first time is always the worst time. Once we figure that out, once we realize we know more (or have learned more) than we thought we did, the rest is cake.

Or a well-organized, fabulous-looking set of cabinets:

Rough Draft

Okay, so I wimped out on Valentine's Day and went with our traditional wander-around-and-buy-something-on-the-road thing (instead of tearing up the floors), but, hey, I was getting the flu - it hit me while we were out, too, and we ended up going home early. The Big Lug cooked me chili for dinner (when I'm sick I get weird cravings), and then I listlessly channel surfed until an early bedtime. But I got quite a few things off my list on Friday, so the weekend wasn't a total wash. I just can't cross "pull carpet" off yet.

I might not even want to - not yet, anyway. See, if I pull the carpet in the hallway, I'll have to pull up the threshhold to the bathroom - and if I do that, I'll expose all the layers of tile there. What if we have asbestos? The Big Lug says I'm good at "troubling trouble" but this is the way I think - did I ever mention my brother is head of a big company that deals with toxic waste issues all over the world? And he warned me not to mess with that stuff? Plus, if I peel the hall, I'll want to get the crappet (you read it right) out of the bedroom, too, which is a huge project ... and then I'll want to paint, put up the new curtains, build a headboard, take the frou-frou off the current, imitation Early American furniture, and, basically, make more work than I'm willing to take on right now.

I'm already in deep with the cabinets. I actually put in the three sliders I wanted to install. Done. I turned to cross it off my list when I realized I could take one from the other cabinet (the one I installed just a week ago), put it in for the fry pans, and replace it (with the one that wouldn't fit under the stove) so that it would hold all the storage ware comfortably. More work? Yes. Frustrating? Oh, yeah. But ignore it, I won't.

I'm learning. Fixing up a house is like writing a book - you think you have a handle on the basic story, even most of the details, but no matter how much you brainstorm or even outline the work, once you actually start writing all you ever get is a really "sh*tty first draft." (John Steinbeck knows!)

That domino effect is a big part of why I haven't done this stuff in the first place (writing, too). Yet this time, surprisingly, I found myself shrugging over the drawer and pledging to get it done this week. Apparently, I'm not willing to let the required work (and patience required) stop me any more. It simply won't take that much more time and energy to just do the work.

But not today. I'm still pretty sick (recovery is more exhausting than the illness), and the Big Lug is home (I'm sneaking this blog out in pieces). Also, I worked all day yesterday and even today - I've already seen one student (this morning), talked to another on the phone (after lunch), and peeked in on my email and essays I might have to grade (none there, thank heaven). My life is a bit nuts, as usual, and I have to slow down a bit right now.

Not for too long, though. I have a taste of what can be.

I'm dying to change it into what is.

Progress

Okay, so I'm not perfect. My hands are nearly a half-century old (abused by fighting, as well as heredity), and since I spent two days using clippers (to both cut down the canes and cut them into 6" chunks so my trash guys would take the thorny things) my poor arthritic appendages just weren't happy enough to let me finish screwing down all those rails for the organizational drawers.

The patch looks great, though. Remember the before?

Well, look at it now!


Since it's winter, you might not appreciate the seemingly subtle change, but, trust me, it's night and day around here. Cut, cleared, and mulched. In a couple of weeks, I think I'll plant snow peas in that now-empty, middle space - snow peas don't tend to last past May, which is when the thicket really starts to fill in (and cuts off the sun).

As for the drawers ... yep, there's one thing that'll transfer to the new ToDo. And though I got my blood work done, I'm still avoiding the mammogram. (That's two.) The pull-soldering event will happen when I figure out how to hold onto the fidgity little thing, which even the Big Lug can't envision (and that's saying something) - three things shifted on. And, unfortunately, eBay is dependent on a friend's schedule, because she already does this and promised to help me out ... and I refuse to learn this from the ground up, too. (Four.) Oh, and I tossed one more thing to the next list, too - a carpet pull is slated for this weekend. (Hey, don't you judge me - it's a two person job, believe me, and everyone knows nothing says "I love you" more than ripping up a mile of dirty, dust-mite-excrement-ridden olefin and polyester!)

I'm not displeased. You saw my list. Everything else is done - the only thing I'm waiting on is one more bid for the electrical, but come hell or high water, we'll have our new panel by the end of next week. And, yes, I put Start a novel. Any novel bigger than life - not at the top of the new list, but at the bottom, separate from the rest. See, every writer knows that the last image is always stronger than the first.

So let me leave you with ... not an "after" picture, but one "in-progress" ...


Can you appreciate the other problems with those drawers? Old cabinets, no removable shelves, 5' 10" me. And though I couldn't have gotten even that far in two years ago I was still ... that is to say, I couldn't ... well, I'm stuck there - right there, no further - for a reason.

Now you know why I hate mammograms.

Tests

Ow, I ache. My hands, my legs, the scratches on my arms, everything hurts. The raspberry thicket is considerably smaller today but my muscles aren't thanking me. Nor are my knees thanking me for the work I've done so far on the cabinet drawer installation. My brain is actually cringing because I'm eyeing the tax files with the same determination. But I'm not ready to give into those wussy body parts. I was tested recently, again, and found out I'd fallen face first into the road ... again.

Let me set the stage for you. About ten years ago, a pair of memorable characters decided they wanted to live in my brain for awhile. Actually, they decided they wanted their own series (mystery), but though I put them on paper, though I plotted out the first of what I thought would be several books, none of it had that spark, that magical something that would give it a life of its own. It was flat. Maybe, as usual, I overplanned, or maybe I was only writing a mystery because one of my friends had hit it big with her series (and so I was trying to be what I wasn't); for whatever reason, the books died. But the characters didn't.

Over the years, both of them have occasionally popped their phantom heads into my twisted little psyche, just to see if I was ready to let them tell their story. I always peeked into their lives, saw the same old May-December friendship-turned-uneasy-partnership, the tired I-started-with-amnesia-but-played-Watson-to-her-Holmes-while-she-saved-my-ass world that I'd once created. And, since it was still as dull as I remembered, I politely sent them back to their little brain-rooms to sulk and grouse - but not grow.

Or so I thought. About two weeks ago, my narrator character lifted her stubborn chin and told me she's won't play side kick to the older woman, and - by the way - she's not the Girl Scout I seemed to think she is but a girl with a past, an attitude, a brain, and - oh, yeah, one other thing ... well, she did what every author loves - she came to life. Even better, she sparked something in the other one, an attitude and a secretive side I didn't know she had. It was like going from black-and-white Kansas into Technicolor Oz, all in one day.

I was thrilled. And I started telling their story.

Yesterday, I found out a much-anticipated new TV show has a main character with a similar-but-different background and - what's worse - the same name. Now, I really love my girl's name. I really love her background. And I really love the thread by which she grows during the novels' run. So much so that I don't know if I can change them. Yes, the show's "high concept" is different from the one in my world, and the other characters and basic plotlines I read about are nowhere even close. But there's enough overlap that my stuff feels derivative instead of original, as if I'm copying the show (even though I'm not). And while it sometimes seems as if Hollywood has only one idea and one look that they continue to recycle for a season or even a decade - and they get away with it - books are different. Derivative is bad.
Am I upset? Yes, but not for the reasons you might think. See, I could have written the book, boring though it was, ten years ago. It would have sold despite its issues (trust me). I would have learned more as I continued. And by the third or fourth book, both my people and I would have grown enough that even if it never made any bestseller lists, even though the producer would never have read it, this new TV thing would be considered derivative of my stuff instead of the other way around.

It's all about opportunity. I'm trying to learn to grab it when it's offered - today I spent the morning groaning in pain as I cut back raspberry canes, simply because we finally have mild weather. Tomorrow I will finish all outdoorsy stuff while the temperatures hold, and by Wednesday (when the mercury will fall again) I'll be aching in both brain and body because of all the indoor stuff I'm going to finish. Thursday I will - I will - report that I have cleared my list of everything I am able to clear, that I've even begun a new list - and at the top is "begin a novel without thinking it to death."

With my current-but-seemingly-copied heroine? I don't know. Maybe I can change her name, up the ante somewhere, swap things around so the story no longer feels like it's not mine. But not right now. The key is to work on something, anything, and move forward ... to somewhere other than the stagnant place I have now. I've come so far with things like raspberries and curbside shopping, but this area still eludes me. Yet I know that if I can learn it here, then maybe - just maybe - it will translate everywhere. Finally. Because I honestly believe we don't fail the tests we're given in life, ever - we just take them over and over until we pass. Truth is, I'm really tired of taking this one. And somehow I suspect that someone's pretty tired of giving it, too.

Wouldn't you be?

Walking the Walk

I have only about an hour only to write today (to be posted at my usual time). I have lunch with a friend, one I swore I'd keep in touch with but haven't - until now - and I need to shower and hit the store before we meet. Then I have a tutorial in a rather remote location, and it will be more economical to stay west (where I'm having lunch) than it would be to come all the way home and then go all the way out there again. If I can, I'll go to a library to fidget with this post, but I can't count on it ... and, so, this is my life. Again.

In the nearly two weeks since the last round of classes ended (the SAT was 24 January) I have had exactly 4 hours of class time and 7 hours of tutorials (counting this afternoon's). 11 hours in two weeks. Drive time, yes, and admin stuff, but even that didn't total more than ... 6 hours, maybe. Not much, right? Got a lot done, yes? Uh ... not exactly.

On the day of the SATs I made myself a to-do list:

Take outdoor "before" pictures.
Take indoor "befores."
Transfer pictures from desktop to disk.
Screw down sliding drawer already in cabinet but not attached.
Get all sliding drawers installed.
Clean up under-oven stuff (move to new drawers).
Pull up one tile in the bathroom (see if it's subway or hexagonal beneath).
Design stand for sink in same bath.
Call at least two electricians to get bids for new panel.
Get cat's meds from vet.
Prune the raspberries (must be done in winter).
Vacuum.
Dust.
Pull up hall and master bedroom carpet.
Pull up existing stray staples (from last carpet pull up).
Renew roadside assistance.
Get oil changed.
Blood work and mammogram.
Revamp contest entry links.
Order spring bulbs.
Set up eBay site for selling.
Solder broken drawer pull on Federal chest.
Contact furniture rep first - chest in mag had those drawer pulls.
Reserve book at library.
Go through stack of magazines and pull pics.
Label tax files.
Contact historical society about 1933 class photo I found curbside.
Follow up with person they said to contact.
Price David Morgan whips (new adventure - no, not that kind!).
Clear all surfaces to experiment with negative space.
Find local Univ. with architecture students for free advice.
Change credit watch to different auto pay.
Find a new book project, then start it.

14 days. 336 hours. Even if I slept 8 hours a day out of that (which I didn't), that still leaves 224 hours to play with. Only 17 taken up with paying work - and probably 40 more for both my morning pages and these posts. Another (maybe) 28 for cooking, balancing checkbooks, all that household stuff. That still leaves 139 hours in which to clear my list. 139 hours to work on the house, to open new doors to adventure and income streams, even just to dream, for heaven's sake. Did I do it?

Of course not. I ate. I watched TV. Okay, I did about half those things (no new book any time soon), but mostly I fell into depression because this should be one of the busiest times of my year. But there was no busyness in my business, and that sent me into a tailspin.

I don't know why I was so surprised. Every year I approach at least one block of classes with fewer students than I should have. And every year something comes through when I stop worrying about it. I know this; I guess I thought I'd learned to trust it, but I didn't. I wish I could say the economy added that soupcon of understandable amnesia about outcome, added to the fear that kept me up most nights. I wish I could label it conscientiousness, or habit, or even insanity. Truth is, I do great when it's hard - I drive on (no sweat) during the hurricanes and road rashes that has been most of my life. But I suck at walking the walk when the road goes all ... silent. Wide open. Clear-path.

I'm learning, yes, and I'm better - just a year ago, I wouldn't have gotten a single to-do done - but I'm a two-steps-forward, one-step-back kind of gal, aren't I? Big strides in the finances, baby steps in the self-discipline and trust. I should make a sign and put it on my bathroom mirror: "Every black hole in a schedule is an opportunity to move forward elsewhere." Kind of Walt Disney, sort of dull, but very true. And if I can't - or won't - learn this one very simple thing, I might never get off this treadmill.

Ah well, my schedule ramps up again this weekend - not quite where it was last year, but crazy enough, and I always get more accomplished when I have more to push through. That means I will probably clear my to-do in a matter of days.

And next time things cool down on my calendar?

I'll keep on walking. Even an old Bunny can learn new tricks ... with the right carrot.