And so, you know that working-from-home gig? Not so much. Now I’m just home.
I’ve been recharging by sniffing books and drinking Pumpkin Spice Lattes. Last weekend, I made Neil go out and get me one. This involved leaving our bed and then the entire house. I almost felt bad. Maybe.
I’ve wanted to write here, really I have. But I couldn’t get past:
While visiting Dad and Anne for Dad’s birthday, I spotted a basket of Polaroids, kind of electric in the corner. ‘Oooh, photos!’ I said.
Now. I have always known that nostalgia is an actual condition. I embrace it. I use the ache for old times to spur me on every day. My past helps me live in the present.
I’ve been feeling particularly nostalgic recently, more than the sparks that happen all the time, anyway.
Sitting there on Monday morning, I searched my 80s face, wondering if that kid knew she’d go from that brown Levittown living-room to an office/living-room/kitchen in Leith, with a bunch of stories in between.
This was the kid I found in a wicker basket:
Did she know that her heart would break and break and break and mend again? And again? Did she know that someday she’d be writing some words and listening to music while her bearded husband made dinner?
Maybe she did, but if you’d asked her back then she would have said, ‘He will not have a beard!’
The kid in that picture wanted to be a singer. Obviously. A singer with a clean-shaven husband.
After Thanksgiving, I waxed nostalgic about canned pumpkin. My friend who writes at Calypte’s Scanner Diary, told me where I might find some. And today, Sarge comes home from Christmas shopping with two cans of this lovely stuff:
I like how the light is shining on the can. As if it’s been sent by the Gods of Canned Pumpkin. Or my Nana.
A few weeks ago, Sarge came home from work and caught me doing something. Something I’ve wanted to keep secret. I couldn’t stop before he walked into the office. And he caught me. I was reading People.com.
I’ve said before that the only time I read gossip magazines is in various waiting rooms. I suppose that is a fib. But I’ve never really considered my website viewing actual reading. I don’t buy gossip magazines. Except maybe when I’m sick or other times I want to make myself feel better. Hey, I may not have a job, but at least I don’t have a bad tan job!
I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve come home with a gossip magazine magazine rolled up and hidden at the bottom of my shopping bag, underneath my semi-skimmed milk. But it has happened.
And while I’m on a roll, I like reality shows. I still think of them as social experiments, and I watch them for extra insight into how people tick.
I wanted to be on The Real World before it got too stupid and I got too old. At University I thought about sending in an audition tape. Like all deadlines back then, I enjoyed the sound it made as it whooshed past me. There is no evidence of this audition tape, you’ll be grateful to hear.
These days, I watch The X Factor while Sarge is at work. I watch this ‘singing competition’ for the little girl who used to belt out country songs in her grandparent’s kitchen. That little girl was me. She grew up and not-so secretly wants to be on The Amazing Race.
I watch soaps, too. Well, one. This is also for reasons of nostalgia. My most prized project when I was 10 was creating a General Hospital scrapbook. Don’t ask me why, or even where it is, because I don’t know. I still watch it, every few years, in my mother’s living room at 3 o’clock in the afternoon. Followed by Judge Judy, which I watch here is well. She reminds me of my Nana. Watching her yell at people makes me happy. Although it does eat into my writing time, but everything is research. And I can write about not writing.
(Inspired by yesterday’s Reverb10 prompt. I didn’t post it because I was distracted by brightly-coloured websites. Which I’m going to check again. And then I’ll switch off the computer and write today’s words.)