Sit. Desk. Write.
What began as a light-hearted post about my husband worrying I spend too much time on the computer has turned into something I’d rather not have examined. (After all, this from a man with three 24″ monitors; who is he to be slinging cyberspace arrows?)
If I’m honest in responding to him, he might have a point.
What’s that I said? My husband might have a point? Ugh.
Sit. Desk. Write.
This morning I either 1) acted spontaneously or 2) got distracted. I took a quiz.
According to the results, I’m a “pre-panster.” That’s a person who “sort of” flies by the seat of her pants. I wing it—kind of. A wimpy version of the go-for-the-gusto kind of gal I like to think I am:
“Pre-Pantser: You’d love to throw caution to the winds but often hold back from just diving right in…”
Picking A Good Apple
Tuesday mornings have become very important to me. I get to weigh in at the weekly Weight Watchers meeting at 9 a.m. and see how much weight I’ve lost in the past week.
I try to approach this test with optimism. I quit eating and drinking around 7:00 the night before and I do not eat or drink anything until my feet hit the official WW scale. Then, I enjoy the eighteen Kashi Cinnamon & Vanilla bites of cereal (one and a half points) I’ve brought with me. I wear the exact same ensemble I wore at my first weigh in and, sigh, I try to dry my hair because wet hair does weigh more, doesn’t it?
On some Tuesdays I’m also going to weigh in on another subject.
Sit. Desk. Write.
Let’s get right to the chase. I managed to sweat out exactly fifteen pages to cover Friday, Saturday and Sunday, but it was at the cost of not sleeping in on Sunday and not getting to choose between Hoarding: Buried Alive or Leverage on Sunday night TV. I also heard there was a new episode of My Boys…
Sit. Desk. Write.
When I got home last night after a ten-hour workday, all I wanted was a beer and something really good—Friday night good—to eat, but I only had eight WW points left (see original post), and the lite beer cost me two.
Okay, so it’s 6:30 Friday night; I’m having a beer, eating carrots, watching my husband eat homemade guacamole, and calculating what to do before reporting for work the next morning at 7:30.
Sit. Desk. Write.
We encourage wildlife to visit our backyard, but I do not invite birds, rabbits and squirrels into my home.
Last night I was up late in the spare bedroom writing, yes writing, when I heard scurrying overhead. You know, the scraggling, scraping sound of teeny clawed feet? My first heart-gagging thought was a bat because we’ve had occasional visitors over the last ten years, so I instinctively ducked down while scouring the ceiling for dark wings. But the sleeping cat on the bed paid no attention, so I was pretty sure nothing was flitting around. And my husband swore he’d blocked all the entry routes a bat could take. Continue reading
Sit. Desk. Write.
Some people wonder what I do all day. Including my husband, his parents, my family, the neighbors and many of my friends. I’m supposed to be writing, and sometimes I am, but more often than not, I’m led astray. As if I had no other choice.
Sit. Desk. Write. 