A couple of weeks ago, I made a commitment to start my day by writing something I’m not getting paid to write. I figure it’s the only way my book is ever going to happen. Plus, writing is good for my mental health.
And I could use more of that.
So far, my track record has been pretty miserable—but it’s better than it would’ve been had I not made that commitment. So I’m still counting it a win.
Now, here’s the bad news for the four of you who read my posts regularly: I’m having trouble coming up with any writing topics worth a damn, so that means—at least for a little while—you’ll be subjected to Kelley-focused drivel. I know. Wheeeee. If we’re lucky, it won’t take long for me to get opinionated and loud-mouthed again about stuff that actually matters.
For now, though, you get this: Some confessions.
Oh, but first I should tell you something tragic: I spent three hours on this post this morning (in and among work calls, emails, texts, and Slack messages), and I learned the hard, swear-word-inducing lesson that auto-save wasn’t. Saving, I mean.
I’m sure these confessions were much more interesting the first time around, but whatever. I promised myself I’d publish something today, so here I am.
- I haven’t cleaned my master bathroom in weeks. I mean, I’ve done the toilet a couple of times, and we use that spray stuff after every shower, but as far as a deep clean goes? Well, it hasn’t. When I came to that realization a couple of weeks ago, rather than cleaning, I decided to postpone cleaning until Monday, November 25. Why? Because I’m taking off that whole week, which means this week I’m too busy working to clean.
- I don’t wash my bed linens as often as I should. Listen, I don’t need your judgment, OK? I’m not a dirty person: I shower at least once a day, I brush my teeth at least twice a day, and I floss daily. I just don’t chore well, that’s all.
- I don’t understand the impeachment hearings. Like, at all. I listen to one “side,” and I’m all, “YEAH! That’s RIGHT!” and then I listen to the other “side,” and I think the same damn thing. Honestly, it’s like those folks are more interested in discrediting each other than they are in the actual truth. And every time I get in the car, I swear the exact same questions are being asked. I finally changed the channel to Christmas music this evening, and I never, ever listen to Christmas music before Thanksgiving. Is there a scheduled end to this, or it is an indefinite process? Asking for a friend.
- Sometimes, I buy bags of candy and then this happens: I eat too much in one sitting, and then I pour the contents of the bag into the trash can so I’m not tempted to dig the bag back out. This may or may not have happened with a jumbo bag of Red Vines. Today.
- I own no fewer than 50 books I’ve not yet read. And there’s no question I’ll soon buy more. Maybe tomorrow.
- I refuse to put air in my own car tires. I have an irrational fear of over-inflating one and having it explode in my face. I also refuse to use a car wash that requires me to line up my tire on a track. Yes, even if there’s a mirror. And yes, even if there’s a (desperately bored) teenager there to direct me. I cannot.
- I’m relatively undomesticated. Given my first two confessions, I doubt this comes as a surprise. I hate cooking. Jack does most of our laundry. I keep our home tidy, but not clean. (Now, when I do clean, I go deep. This will happen on Monday.)
- When I travel, I don’t just make a packing list. I make a spreadsheet of exactly what I’m wearing each day—including specific undergarments.
- If you call me, I probably won’t pick up the phone. It’s not because I don’t like you; it’s because I don’t like talking on the phone. Oddly, I’m happy to use Marco Polo.
- I didn’t mean to keep my hair short this long. For my new friends: I shaved it when my dad had his stem cell transplant. I’ve tried to grow it back, but I don’t have the patience. After about five weeks, it turns into this puffy pre-mullet, and I just can’t. Because long hair seems to be associated with youth seems to be associated with beauty, it’s a bit of a bummer. But, to quote my dad, “It is what it is.” (I know people loathe that phrase, but it was my dad’s mantra for the last few weeks of his life, and so it’s precious to me.)
- At about 7:45 pm, I start thinking about going to bed. I used to stay up until 2 am on the regular, but no more. I love bedtime. Like, love bedtime.
Speaking of which, it’s 9:04 pm. Soooooo…