Goldang it. I’ve been using something called Don’t Break the Chain. It’s just a blank calendar, and you click on a day to make it red. (You can put it on your iGoogle home page so you see it every time you’re online.) If you’re trying to do something (or not do something, I suppose), you get to make the day red when you succeed — the equivalent of putting a big ole X through the day with a marker.
I use it to track my writing days. In September, about half the days are red. In October, month of travel and extreme flu, only one day is red. Shameful. Every single day in November is red, and then I continued the trend until yesterday. For thirty-six days in a row, I wrote. I was following my Latin mantra, Nulla die sine linea, no day without a line. (No one really knows to whom to attribute the saying (perhaps Horace, Apelles or Pliny), but when I was a kid I read that George MacDonald went by it, so I took it then. Loved me some George MacDonald. I’d like a tattoo of it someday. The saying, not George.)
Yesterday I didn’t write. I remembered on my way home, and meant to, just so I could keep that string red, with no gaps, but I forgot. Now, on my little calendar it says, "You’ve been dropping the ball for one day straight," instead of "You’ve been getting things done for thirty-seven days straight."
So now I have to beat 36 days in a row. That’s going to be hard. Dang it.
I’m going to count this as today’s writing, though. I don’t always count blog-writing, and I didn’t count it at all in November, but sometimes a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, you know?
Also, this morning, at 4:15am, on my way to getting up for work, I smashed my pinky finger in the bedroom door. I have NO idea how I did that, pure talent, I suppose, because our door hardly shuts on a good day, but it hurt like a sumbitch. I slammed it right on the nail, and then stood at the foot of the bed, whimpering-crying until I woke Lala up. Because, really, all that wakes her up is whimpering. A brass band won’t wake her, but a dog whining will shoot her right out of bed. It’s really a miracle. Usually it’s Harriet, begging to go outside, but today it was me. It was nice to have her say "Poor baby."
I think that’s one of the best things about being with someone you love. Someone to say that. And she was still in bed, so there were no flying peas, another nice thing. Usually when I hit the deck, slipping on the tiled floor, or tripping over a cat, she rushes to the freezer to grab the peas. Lala has always kept peas in the freezer for bumps and bruises, but she hates them as a food item. She rushes up to me with the bag, holding it out, flinging it my direction in her haste to help, and is astonished when peas fly out in a green spray all around me. Nowhere in her imagination do people (like me) actually open the peas-bag to eat them. This has happened more than once in our house. I fall, bump myself, and then duck, dodging well-intentioned frozen flying peas. No, none of that this morning. Just me whinging, holding my throbbing finger, dreading the alarm clock, Lala mumbling nice things to me through a sleep-haze.
So no more writing. For today, anyway. For your viewing pleasure, I present the Kits. My brother- and sister-in-law are in Korea, so we are watching his Siamese kitten, Viking. When she came to our house, she was smaller than our kits, Willie and Waylon. I think we have been feeding her a bit too much.
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