I’m not just a procrastinator; I’m also a total klutz. Some years back,my coworkers actually gave me a t-shirt that said “I do all my own stunts” after I fell UP an escalator at a professional conference. Yup, and that’s me Sober…
That awkward moment when you try to do something dignified and fall over…
May the road rise up to meet you to lessen the blow from smacking your face on the way down.
I am why we can’t have nice things.
That dirty look you give the sidewalk when you turn around after tripping over it…
I’m the girl who will burst out laughing in dead silence at something that happened yesterday.
I don’t trip. I do random gravity checks.
The awkward moment when you pull the covers up and punch yourself in the face…
It takes skill to trip over flat surfaces.
I didn’t fall. The floor just needed a hug.
Don’t follow in my footsteps. I run into walls.
Lying on your back, texting, and dropping the phone on your face…
Today I will be classy and elegant. Or I will spill coffee on my shirt and trip over things.
Did I just fall? Nope, I attacked the floor backward with my awesome ninja skills.
If there were an award for falling up stairs, I’d probably trip over it!
I’m a terrible procrastinator, have been for as long as I can remember… I’m noticing that a number of these t-shirt ideas could double as “ADHD” slogans… And I suddenly wonder if that diagnosis has anything to do with my apparent inability sometimes to GET THINGS DONE!
I put the “Pro” in Procrastination.
If good things come to those who wait, isn’t Procrastination a virtue?
Never put off until tomorrow what you can do the day after.
So many deadlines, so little time! (Well actually there’s plenty of time. I just prefer to waste it doing random shit.)
Procrastination is the art of keeping up with yesterday.
Iron—ha ha ha
Due tomorrow? Do tomorrow.
I’m very busy doing things I don’t need to do in order to avoid doing anything I’m actually supposed to be doing.
From a procrastination standpoint, today is looking wildly successful.
I’m really swamped with things I shouldn’t be spending time on right now.
Tomorrow: a mystical land in which 99% of all human productivity is stored.
Nothing makes a person more productive than the last minute.
I’m the leader of the world’s largest nation. Procrasti-nation.
There are no limits to what you can accomplish when you’re supposed to be doing something else.
I’m not a procrastinator. I’m just extremely productive at unimportant things.
I’m a multi-tasking procrastinator. I can put off all kinds of things at once.
Procrastination is so often misspelled as P-E-R-F-E-C-T-I-O-N-I-S-M
I planned on procrastinating today, but I never got around to it.
If there were a pill to prevent procrastination, I’d take it tomorrow.
I wait till the last second to do my work because I will be older, and therefore wiser.
And finally, this gem (because what I do when I’m procrastinating is BLOG!)…
The work you do while you procrastinate is probably the work you should be doing for the rest of your life.
(Now I’d better get back to writing about how Trump’s presidency will affect America’s economy, which is what I’m SUPPOSED to be doing. Sigh.)
My husband has described his customer Vern as a guy who “can’t find anything good to say about life.” When Vern called Jon’s cell tonight (in the middle of our Date Night) pleading for help with his broken-down truck, I got to experience his outlook first-hand. Jon being Jon, we went to help—which meant giving Vern a lift home and promising to look at the truck in the morning, when it’s light and hopefully up to double-digit temperatures, and when Jon can be dressed to climb underneath.
I scooted to the middle of our truck-seat and Vern hoisted himself up into the passenger seat (the first time Jon picked me up for a date in this truck, I asked him to throw down a rope-ladder!) and we steered our way through the icy neighborhoods toward Vern’s house with his querulous running commentary.
“Lord love a duck, Jon, if it’s not one thing it’s a hundred and fifty. I don’t know what I’ll do. My property tax just went up, and with all these other bills I have… If it’s not one thing it’s a dozen. I don’t know why that truck won’t start, and you just did the new points too. But the city plowed us in with snowbanks and I can’t get my car out, so I’ve got to drive the truck. I tried to dig out the car and I just tore up my left arm. And my power bill just went up, I guess I’m just not fit to live. Lord love a duck, Jon, if it’s not one thing it’s twenty….”
Well, you get the gist. As we drove away after dropping him off, I found myself contemplating the idea that there can be a difference between a person’s circumstances and a person’s experience. And that difference might just be outlook. Which brings me to… Continue reading “Internal Geographies”→
Marital communication is one of those things that grows stronger with time and practice, and Jon & I have been at it for not quite a year… Still, one of our stranger strengths is evident at toothbrushing-time….
Our electric toothbrushes run for two timed minutes, during which time we can’t speak without spraying toothpaste-lather, but we manage not to stop talking anyway. With sort of hummed inflections and plenty of pantomime (one-handed, since we’re holding onto toothbrushes) we manage to carry out fairly complex non-verbal conversations about plans for the day ahead or events of the day just finished.
Last night Jon asked me (wordlessly) if I had printed out the lesson plans for this weekend’s Sunday school (not yet, but I’ll rev up the printer today). He told me my teddy bear will fight off the bad dreams so I won’t have a repeat of the previous evening’s nightmare… (I think this mode bodes well for when we dive together; regular dive buddies develop their own underwater sign language, and we’re well on our way with ours. Though our dive conversations will no doubt be very different in content from the toothbrush-talk…)
This morning PBS aired a documentary about a tribe in Oaxaca, Mexico with a language of whistles. They have a spoken language as well, but they can communicate across the village or between foggy fields with an entire vocabulary of whistling. We’ve got a few of those too—the other day when Jon walked into a place where I didn’t expect him, it was his distinctive whistle that whipped my head in his direction. I know what he’s saying when he whistles “I’m here!” “Ready to go?” “Can you give me a hand?” “You look cute”… At the family campout this summer, his brothers laughed when I came trotting to a whistle “like a puppy,” but I know it’s a call for me and I’m happy to answer.
I don’t think whistles or pantomimes are included among the official “5 Love Languages” (I’ll find out—we just added the book to our morning reading-rotation)… But for us, it’s in every whistle, and every grin when a toothbrushing charade becomes clear.
My mother isn’t one for writing-in-books, so I’m tickled that the book she just mailed me has a sentence underlined with a smiley-face.
“I believe in crazyass passion.”
That’s the line she highlighted in Rinker Buck’s Oregon Trail travelogue, and that says plenty about my mother!
She’s a world traveler, kayaker, fly-fisher, river rafter, scuba diver (Nitrox-certified for deep diving), and always game for a new adventure. She made a great deckhand on a sailing trip in Washington’s San Juan Islands ten years ago, she took my son on a week-long sea-kayaking trip in Mexico last year, she meets for mischief with girlfriends all over the world… and she always has her plane ticket already bought for the “next trip” somewhere. (I believe Panama and Poland are in the current queue…)
If I didn’t know her birth-year, I’d never guess she’s pushing 70, and I continue to wish I had half her energy. (I especially wish that on days when I’m trying to keep up with her at the mall!) I got my travel-bug from both parents, but I got my sense of adventure from her.
I got my bibliophilia from her too, though my penchant for marginalia is something I developed on my own.
Because I DO write in books, I’m accustomed to coming across my prior-self (in the form of penned commentaries) when I re-read my books. I’m not accustomed to coming across other people in my margins, though… So imagine my thrill of surprise today when I picked up my copy of Bill Bryson’s “Notes from a Small Island” and discovered an unexpected treasure of notes in both my mother’s hand AND my late father’s. (Pencilled, because apparently writing in a book in pen is a little TOO crazyass!) Continue reading ““Crazyass Passions” & Pencilled Notes”→