There's a war going on for your mind

When last we met I was referring to myself in the third person and worrying about unemployment benefits.  Family members were all up in each other's business as we got through Snowbound Day2 and the cats took to dark corners of closets for fear they may become stew.  Or casserole.  Who cares?

That's my prevailing attitude. Not only was Wednesday cancelled, but so were Thursday and Friday. A long weekend.  It's the winter break that never ends.

Does my voice sound strangled?  I feel strangled. I miss my alone time.  I've gotten some writing done, but it's been chaotic with kids darting in and out of the house bringing cold air and the metallic smell of snow with them.  I'd get started on a good writing jag and someone inevitably needed something.

I'm hungry. Have you seen my gloves? When do I get a turn on XBox? I left my phone charger at my friends, can I get a ride back over there? Can I mix this with this? Who took my last piece of gum?  The container of pudding in the fridge is mine, I may or may not have spat in it.  Who did that?  That's not one of mine.  Why do you have your purse, Mom? Are you going somewhere?

I'm not going anywhere.  I'm fleeing.

I did get the unemployment issue sorted on Wednesday afternoon.  A representative explained that my year was up and they had to see me in person to re-certify.  Nevermind that I was just there on December 28th.  So I'm back on the dole, sucking up the resources the rich so desperately need and clicking through the jobs websites and whimpering at the paucity of openings.

I looked for any excuse to nor sit down and focus on writing. I usually found one, too.

One afternoon, MathMan, sick of my whining about not having the peace and quiet to write, duct taped decorative pillows over my ears and motioned to me to sit down and start typing before he left the room, slamming the door behind him. That was some slam. I could hear it through the pillows.

Another morning, he watched me from the back door as I shoveled snow.  When I came to the door, he opened it and announced, It's nineteen degrees. When we move back north, I assume you won't complain about the cold. You just shoveled snow in your pajamas and slippers. No coat, no gloves, no boots, no hat.

I was wearing gloves.  I showed him my hands.  He made that face.  I bet his students are familiar with it.

I didn't feel like typing, but felt compelled to use my hands. To do things that required tools, that could be easily completed. That I could point to and say, "I did that and it is done and it is good."  Except for blog posts, I'm not getting that from writing at the moment so I sought substitutes.

"You know, I love Naked Lisa, but Naked Lisa with a screwdriver peaks my curiosity," I didn't realize he was paying attention. He'd been deep in the development of a Calculus Powerpoint.

"The drain is clogged. I thought I'd take care of it before I got dressed instead of getting my clothes wet."

"I'm coming in to see your plumber's crack."

I assume the Phillip's head will leave a star-shaped scar.

Reduced, it would appear we were either rocking each other's socks off or snarling and circling each other with our marital, I know your weak spots knives drawn.  But mostly we just shared the space of our bedroom which doubles as an office, he doing his mathy things and me getting into word mischief.  Him snoring softly to some video while I stayed up til the wee hours reading.

It wasn't all wasted time and minor stabbings.

I learned how hard it is to photograph birds close up.  I lured some to the deck with birdseed so I slunk down the steps into the daylight basement and dropped to the floor so I could crawl commando style across the floor.  I reached the door, raised the camera to the window and watched through the viewfinder as the finches took flight in every direction.

A cat sat on the window sill a few feet away looking at me like I was an idiot.  I mean, more so than usual.