Productivity, It Ain't.

So I ended my last post on a positive note - my solemn promise to, if I recall corectly, feed my family leftovers and fuck the laundry in exchange for actually being productive TODAY, Monday, the return to the Work Week.

Guess what?

Snow day!

hah-hah. Obviously the universe had other plans, probably spurred on by global climate change: Fuck Erica.

The kids were, of course, thrilled. The little one in particular starts out every snowy day by saying "Now I can use my butt-sled!" The butt sled - a present from Santa Claus who, in his apparent senility, forgot how rarely we have actual, sleddable snow.

Today, for instnace, is actually more of a "sleet-and-ice-day," rendering it completely unsuitable for butt-sledding.

But my kids, as they so typically do, also had other plans for me today: Mom! Mom! Stay in the office! We have a surprise fo ryou! I promise it's not bad!

For the past 46 minutes I have heard:

Huh! Where does mom keep the window cleaner? Hold the dustpan still! You can sweep the bathroom! Oh no, we broke it! Careful with those plants! Move them all over here onto this table so I can dust the window sill [My plants - my indoor garden - include numerous potted herbs and several towering amaryllis and the notion of my 4 and 6 YO's moving them puts my heart right into my throat] and SSSSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHH be QUIET or mom will KNOW what we're DOING! MOM! Don't come out! If you have to go to the bathroom just cover your eyes and don't peek!

And I am sequestered here in the computer room, unable to be productive because I am so utterly captivated and sniffly about the fact that my kids are spending their morning cleaning the house for me.

I love it when a plan comes together. Even if it's the universe's and not mine.

Is This Productivity?

Today, I did seven loads of laundry. Including the folding. I cleaned the kitchen one-and-a-half times. I made two meals, including bean soup from scratch and cornbread (also from scratch) with butter and honey. I did the dishes. I swept the floor and vacuumed the rug and cleaned out the pellet stove and watered my houseplants.

I bathed and otherwise parented two children, one of whom has the following personal credo: NO FAIR! and the other of whom said "My hair is the most beautifullest because it's blonde and dark hair isn't as beautiful." I, of course, am a brunette. A brunette dreading her daughter's adolescence if she's already this narcissistic at four.

I gave my husband almost all day to work in the garage. Almost guilt free. I am anticipating large amounts of ass-kissing.

I also wrote one article for a local paper and walked three miles carrying 3-lb. hand weights.

And I needed to make this list because of everything I did today, only the last two things were actually on My List, the "prioritized daily task list" which is, according to Franklin-Covey-theory, the culmination of my deepest values-missions-goals and the barometer of my overall sucess.

By which measure, of course, days like today suck.

But someone had to do the laundry.

And that same someone has to take some pride in doing the laundry, because although it may not be adequately reflected in my deepest values-missions-goals, it's a prioritized daily task. And somedays, that's the best you can do. And if I don't learn to take pride in accomplishing these dreary-but-necessary things, I'll wallow in a sense of utter failure and futility.

But tomorrow, we're eating leftovers. And fuck the laundry.

Little Luxuries

I sat, today, naked in my hot tub, reading a book. And ate a Godiva double-chocolate raspberry truffle. In silence. For nearly an hour.

If I ever needed evidence that I am blessed beyond my wildest earnings, today was it. And frankly, I did need some evidence, because yesterday sucked.

I fell when I was jogging. "Fell" is really an understatement.

I am bound and determined - along with about 95% of the American population during the month of January - to get back into shape. I miss shape. Shape was nice. I have a shape now, but it's rather disconcerting. So I walk. And, when I am sufficiently warmed up, jog.

I had finished 2 miles of a 3 miles loop. I had passed my husband on his return from the airport after a 3-day business trip to Florida, during which it was rainy and cold in Florida and unseasonably warm here (meaning 50 degrees in both places) and, in his absence, his portable garage had blown over in a windstorm and taken out his big blue baby of a car, the Subaru WRX STi.

Chris had taken my kids; the house was empty. I had sent my husband a seductive email, hoping to whet his appetite and distract him from the twisted metal and canvas in the back yard (those of you who know him will realize how completely stupid this plan was from the word go).

So I had one mile left, after which I would return home to find my husband suitably enticed by my email promises of a carnal frolic amidst newly-purchased attire from Fredericks of Hollywood.

And then I fell. I fell because some asshole had left a coil of wire on the side of the road and I hadn't seen it and I was coming downhill with an admirable head of steam when suddenly BAM! it clotheslined my ankles. My whole body smashed into the ground and I slid six feet before rolling (fortunately *away* from the road) to a halt clutching my wounded knee.

I live and jog in a small town. I am constantly being honked at by forces usually friendly but largely unseen behind the glare of windshields all along my route. I am occasionally honked and whistled and leered at by men who are overly friendly, and I am once in a rare while honked at by elderly and cautious drivers who find joggers of any sort reckless and distasteful.

No one stopped to help me.

I tried to stand. I crumpled back onto the ground. I eventually stood again, and limped around in circles, and cursed the loop of wire and marvelled at the length of sod I had torn up with my knees and prayed someone would offer me a ride home.

No one did.

But wait! I carry my cell phone! My husband was home! He would take pity upon me and come and get me and ferry me home in his pickup truck. (Those of you who know him will realize how completely stupid this plan was from the word go.)

My husband was home, alright, assessing the damage to his car and disassembling the garage and calling the insurance company and scheduling estimates and not answering the phone.

I limped home. I was furious. He was furious. Fredericks of Hollywood does not sell compression bandages.

The children are not sympathetic to the wounded knee. I have been up three nights in a row explaining the implausibility of various nightmares. My knee looks like a purple grapefruit, and my left hip throbs, but not in a Fredericks of Hollywod sort of way.

My whole body hurts.

I had to get up at 6:50 this morning to take the kids to swimming lessons. My husband would have, but he had a hot date with a tubing company and plans for a roll cage.

But right when I was drawing comparisons between myself and Job, there was the hot tub, magically making my body not ache anywhere. And the kids quietly watched TV and did not bicker. And I got to read a book. And eat a truffle. Which my husband had bought for me.