I feel stuck. Totally paralyzed. Depressed. I’m literally sitting on the "snack spot" in my kitchen, a careworn loveseat, unsure of what to do, where to go, what’s next. I don’t know where to start. It feels like there’s a metal pinball in my head, zipping around, knowing there’s so much to touch, so much to do, but with no clear path.
My father and Carol are visiting this week: I’m beyond excited, wanting to fill the house with clean linens, load up the guest room with fresh flowers, their favorite snacks, my father’s dark chocolate almond nuggets, hoping to dazzle them with my latest cocktail inventions. But what are they again, exactly? What was I planning to do with the St. Germain Elderflower spirit? I was planning on mixing it with Lillet Blanc, but what was the Sherry for? I could spend an entire day figuring it out. Except what kind of day is that? Now all I want to do is clean out the fridge, write down all its contents on a sheet of paper, so foods don’t go bad, and creations can come together.
Our home gym: I’ve been wanting, for a long time now, a wall-mounted magazine rack, and below it, a galvanized bin stocked with bottles of water. Anything I can do, really, to entice myself to actually use the elliptical machine, or the Cybex UBE (it’s like a bicycle for your lard arms), or the treadmill. The bitch of it is that I love using the elliptical once I’m actually on it. Getting there is the monkey.
I begin the day believing I can finally cross this shelf sucker off the to-do-get list. There’s even a nice one at Walmart. But what if I get there and they don’t have it? More wasted time. Call first, you say? Pahleeze. All you’ll hear is me, half the day, enunciating, REPRESENTATIVE. OPERATOR. FCUK OFF.
Phil’s Birthday: this paralyzes me, most. I am as indecisive as they come. And Sir Philip has never once liked a gift I’ve given to him. He always wants to return them (and does). A watch winding box, one year, went unopened, and then returned. Even though, just that week he had complained that he never remembered to wind his watch when he wasn’t wearing it (he has the type of watches that do not run on battery, but keep time when they’re in motion). He doesn’t want clothes. He’s already said it. And since he works from home, he has no use for a laptop bag, briefcase type thing, not for ties, cuff links, or any such thing. He loves the money clip he has, and wants nothing to do with a credit/business card holder, never mind a wallet–just forget it. He already has leather travel bags and cases, a nice watch, and is up on technology. He doesn’t want an iPad; made it perfectly clear when he forwarded me an email listing all the things WRONG with the iPad: no camera, no multitasking (you can’t have tweetdeck open while emailing, surfing, etc.). I mentioned a hammock to him a while back, and he just shrugged. Then said, "Eh." He’s not the gardening type (we both killed a basil plant). The one thing I thought he’d really like is POPBOX, a unit that allows you to stream everything on your home network to your television, enabling you to play movies, music, photos, all on your big screen TV. But the damn thing isn’t ready for shipping yet.
He already has the latest camera. I bought him a new lens recently, and the one time he signed up for a photography class, he decided not to go. So there’s that. I thought that would be the perfect gift, actually, because we can never learn too much. But I worry it’ll just be wasted, and he won’t go again.
Then I thought of a piece of art, perhaps something by Michael Gorban, a favorite artist of ours. But then, I start to think, what if he thinks I’m getting it for us, and not for him? I torture myself into a spin, where I simply want to throw my hands up. Then I begin to search for new artists and my day gets away from me, with nothing to show for any of it. And his birthday is this Thursday, the same day my father and Carol arrive. At least a lovely birthday dinner and special dessert await him (don’t get me started on even choosing a restaurant). I think for my birthday I’m going to ask for him to start a wishlist (I’ve asked before, but I can ask again). Everyone should have a universal online wishlist.
And then, on top of this is work, work I know I should be doing, work that’s waiting, work where I’m not sure where to start. I feel overwhelmed, and know it’s all by my own doing, things trumped up out of thin air to make it seem like there’s so much to do, but in reality there’s probably not enough to do.
And the truth of it all is this: I don’t want to be told what I can be doing. I want to be excited about what I’m doing, to have to be pulled away from it, not steered toward it. I don’t want to work on anything that doesn’t keep me out past dark, playing hide and seek, not realizing it’s even time for supper. Because that’s the only kind of joy I want to be chasing. Everything else is filler. Also, I need some kind of anti-depressant. I’m having a down, blah, I’ve got nothing to give, month, and that’s not me.