I'm so ready to experience the empty nest syndrome. Oh, yes. I am. I'll tell you why....

Cleaned the house the other day from top to bottom because mama-cita's coming for a visit next week. I mean, I CLEANED. Freakin' did baseboards, and ceilings, touch-up painted the molding on the staircase, bought french milled soap for the bathrooms, threw out the grungy water-logged soaps, got underneath the kitchen sink and threw out all those flower vases you get when someone sends you flowers. You know, the ones that are colored glass and so pretty with their little ribbons wrapped around them that you can't bear to part with them...but when you use them again, they break? Threw those out. Wiped the cabinets, mopped and polished the hard word floors, polished the baby grand, cleaned off my desk. Oy, my desk! Now I can't work. I have to work in a state of organized mayhem and now it's all nice and clean and crap.

Anyway, you get the idea. I CLEANED. Now, with six kids in the house, do you think it STAYED clean? No, mam. Nope. Nada. Nein. It did not. 

I wake up in the morning and it was like a blitzkrieg. For the love of peanut butter and jelly and all that is HOLY, how did the piano chair get in the kitchen? And why is the seat full of cereal? Why? How? What? Why are the french milled little soaps carved with smily faces? Who did it? CONFESS! And why is my phony fur coat hanging over bunny's condo?
   Answer: "We changed it into a cave. She likes caves, mom. Not condo's."
   Retort: "That's a three-story condo. Any bunny would be happy to have a condo like that. Only thing better would be an ocean view. Now take that thing off and HANG IT BACK UP!"

The orders start flying. "And who finger painted F.U. on the babies bedroom door? And the front room? There are three boxes of clothes spilling out of their little boxes in the front room. Why? Whhhhyyy?"

Explanations come forth. Oh, okay. My kid's friend brought over some used clothes. I pause my rantings. I get that. With all my kids, hand-me-downs are part of our way of life. And thrift stores. Looooove thrift stores. But not the big ones. The little ones. Those hole in the wall ones that have all kinds of interesting crap in them. Love them. Anyway, as I'm yelling at the kids to clean up the place, they decide that it's more important to fight over the clothes. And what are they fighting over? Grandpa's P.J.'s. Seriously?

But, wait.... I walk over to inspect. Ooooo, actually... I grab a pair. Couldn't help it. They were awesome. Baby blue with some kind of chinese design on them. Gorgeous. One of my kids tries to take them out of my hand. I clutch them to my chest. "Oh, no, sweet pea. Mine. You snooze, you lose."

So as the house starts to  s l o w l y  start to get back in order, I'm pretty happy with myself and figure it's time for my coffee.

I walk into the kitchen (now that the piano chair is back at the piano) and put on some water for my french press and hit the dishwasher button, too. Kill two birds with one.

Hmmmm. Maybe iced coffee would be better? It's Texas.

Just as I stick my glass under the ice-maker, the dishwasher starts bouncing out of its housing. It's making this crazy moaning sound. And it's going ten on the Richter scale. I run over----leaving my glass under the ice-maker----and try to turn the dishwasher off. It won't have it. it's possessed. Water is spewing out from all sides. Meanwhile, I hear clink, clink, clink, tink, tink, tink....there goes the ice. All over the bloody tile.

I can't yell fast enough. Bunny (duly frightened by all the ghostly wailing) starts to make a bee line from her "cave" and across the kitchen floor to get to her bunny box. But as she's hauling ass, she slips across the wet tile floor. And as I'm watching in horror (how the hell can this get any worse?), she starts spinning out, doing little circles on the water and ice.  Little pebbles of poop start flying from her rear end. Now there's poop, wet poop, a wet bunny, who has finally come to rest and, as I make for the glass before it falls, I slip...and now there's a wet me.

F my life. Time to call Husband.

Husband comes down stairs, looks at the mess and starts going 918 (code for crazy) on the situation. I, of course, get kicked out of my kitchen while Husband runs around shouting for this ratchet and that wrench, and so on. 

BUT I WANT COFFEE.

I also want out of these wet clothes. I also want out of this circus I call home. Hey, there's grandpa jammies and there's STARBUCKS. Ha ha!

I throw on my newsies, grab my new, gold metallic crocodile shopper...hey, don't judge. I was dressed pretty fancy the other day...and out the door I go. Who's gonna see me? I'm doing drive thru. Wait. Don't have any money. Run back in the house before the neighbors see me and get Husband to throw me a fiver.

So, whew! Out the door, in the car, and down the street. I'm humming the tune...I'm going to Starbucks, I'm going to Starbucks. Then, chug, chug, chug. and then pump pump pump on the gas pedal. then full stop. Oh, yes. I made it about six blocks down the street, and I run out of gas.

Wait, there's more! Don't forget, I'm dressed in grandpa's jammies. I've got a gold metallic handbag, AND I'm wearing my teenager's Nike slides. To make matters worse, I've got no make-up on, my hair is all bat shit crazy from the humidity, and I've got kiddie tattoos all over my left arm like I'm some kind of carnie freak. AND I FORGOT MY CELL. Yes, I'm thinking, I'm a Mac La More song. Ghetto all the way. In my head, I hear him sing, "Hey, it was .99 cents."

So, here I am, sweating bullets. My visual of the situation going full force into a scene that is likely to play out before I bake to death in the hot car. Goes like this:

I see myself walking the six blocks home, ghetto style and proud of it. Got my head held high and my shoulders back, and I'm whistlin' a new tune. F my life...f my life... 
   Past the Walgreens.
   Past the Medical Center... "Hey, Tina! Your backswing is rockin' today.  What? Oh, yeah. Going for a little walk.
   Past ALL the kids in the neighborhood out playing in the nice, hot sun. Cuz when you have as many kids as I do and they all have bikes, you know every kid in a three-mile radius. "Hey, Mrs. W. What are you doing in pajamas?
   "I like walking in pajamas. Geez, what's your problem? Don't you have anything better to do than pick on some's style. Go play, you little snot wad."

Then when my brain is totally fried, reflecting these circumstances, here comes my kid and his friend (grandpa's grandkid) riding down the street on their bikes. Goes like this:
   "Hey, mom. What are you doing?"
   "What does it look like? I ran out of gas."
   "Oh, dude. That sucks!" Ha ha ha. Laugh laugh laugh.
   "Yeah, well, what really sucks is you're going back home for the gas can. Here, put your fishing poles in the back. You can ride faster."

After busting their guts seeing I was in grandpa's P.J.'s they finally settled down and went to save the day.

And after I started the car, I sang a different tune. Went like this... "I'm wearing grandpa's clothes, I look incredible. I've got five dollars in my pocket. I..I'm a goin.  Goin' to Starbucks. Got two fishing poles, in my back seat." Yeah, who's laughing now, suckers?!

My life is a circus dream on codeine. I can't wait for the empty nest. Can't wait to write in peace. Can't wait to have a clean house that stays clean. Sorry kids, you gotta go. Nah! I'm just joking. What would I do without them? Life would be soooo boring.

Can any of you relate to having one of these crazy days? Do you flirt with the idea of having an empty nest?






 
 
I don't know, but I seem to be the procrastination queen. ESPECIALLY when it comes down to the wire on a scene or chapter. Ooooooo...then I really dig in my heels and come up with all kinds of ways to remove myself from slamming at the keys. But, seriously, I'm wondering if procrastination is just another form of the process.


                                                                                   All part of the process.


All that mush collecting in our brains has got to be sorted out and filed away somehow. MAYBE, just maybe, procrastination is just a random sort of filing system. Like throwing the just laundered socks into a big pile on the couch, and then grabbing a handful of them (same color, of course--I'm not that cruel) and putting them in each kids' pile whether they belong to that kid, or not. Here ya go, kids. Come and get 'em. All clean. they don't know, right?

I mean, maybe, after I write about 2,000 words I deserve a break. It could be that my little pea brain is telling me to take a break so it can sort socks----all the different socks, aka....words/structure/plot...for me, unawares. Could be.

                                                                               Bunny needs a bath.


Although it could also be that my cupboards really do need to be emptied and cleaned from stem to stern...I mean, it's only been a month since I last had a go of it. Or bunny needs another bath? Oh, yummy bunny.  And there's the kids art wall that needs a wee feng shui. The keyboard cap tool is such a blast to use. All those little keys getting a good cleansing. Yes, the QUEEN.


                                                                               Slackers!


SO WHAT if it's taken me six years to finish....(ooops , six chapters left to finish) my book? Hey, it took J.R.R. Tolkien twelve years to finish LORD OF THE RINGS and Frank Herbert seven to finish DUNE. Slackers. Or, maybe they were procrastinators like me? Hmmmmm. I bet you they procrastinated, too. I can see it. 

                                                                              Visualize.


I can so visualize one of them spending the whole night experimenting on making the purrrfect pina colada. Or labeling their index cards with glow markers. Well, maybe not. I don't think they had those back then. But I bet you they took a walk to the park. Or stopped in a pub for a pint or two to get out of the rain. Or smoked a pipe whilst reclining back in their favorite armchair. Or just threw paper darts at the cat. We all have to "chill out" somehow.

Upon further introspection I realized I do certain things for certain reasons. For instance, if I'm stuck on a scene, I run. If I just wrote a thousand brilliant words, my fingers start to sweat, so I clean. if I don't think my plot is going to work out like I thought it was going to, I design. If I'm at a place where I'm getting confused, I listen to my daughter compose--there's something about the math in music that makes me go ah, ha!


                                                                          "Chilling out" = procrastination?


Typically, I've been called a procrastinator by non-writing buddies. I just don't think they get it. I really do think taking time out has a lot more to do with reorganizing, restructuring, allowing the muse to slap its silly head and say, "well, why didn't I think of that?" So, yeah. Call me the QUEEN of procrastination if you must, but don't expect me to turn around...I'm sorting out socks.

Do you procrastinate? If so, do you think it's just your process?











 
 
Unbelievable. Had to change my first name back to my real first name, just had to. I know there is a Cynthia Wright out there that is already a widely read published author. Oh, well, sorry, Miss. Cindy. Had to do it. 

Had to change my writer's site, too. Now the real rub would be if I had to change it again for a publisher...already published romance author vs. me, sci-fi author. I would really flip my lid. Can't anything be simple? Ha! I should know the answer to that. 

Anyone with similar name issues?
 

    Cynthia Wright

    An apocalyptic sci-fi writer who drinks waaaay to much coffee and has waaaay too many kids to be called sane.  

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