Rachael

This whole sleepy thing? It’s like an extreme sport, only you don’t get sweaty or sore or Gatorade. This morning while driving home, I was making an extremely difficult turn (other people know it as “left”—I know it as “concentrate very hard right now”) and I almost turned in front of a white VW because it was white. Really. Somehow, the car didn’t count because it was so pale. Not a real car. Okay to turn left in front of.

I exaggerate a little, and the steering wheel didn’t even turn (that much), but I had that stupid-decision-immediately-followed-by-shocked-realization moment, where you blink rapidly and mutter things like, “jeez, sorry dude, tired, stupid, orange marmalade, TURN SIGNAL, MORON” at yourself. Then you make the turn and you iMEEjatly forget what just happened and you think only about the fact that you’re in LOVE with the new CD in your stereo. I am one of the six best multi-taskers in the world, but not when I’m that dang exhausted. I can drive. Or I can listen to music. Doing both at that point is not intelligent. But, eh. I’m training for a marathon. Talk to me about intelligent after December 12th. (Mom, I don’t write things like this to freak you out, I swear I don’t. I’m fine. I slept well today.)

The CD: It followed me home, I swear it did. It was on my doorstep when I woke up, and it’s totally my new favorite CD (I know I had a new favorite last week, but I have no problem with musical infidelity). It’s The Knitters Poor Little Critter on the Road. It was hard to move that rock I’ve been living under ‘cause it was heavy as hell, but finding out that X did a y’alternative album with Dave Alvin kinda blew my mind. And come on. The name of the band? That’s the reason it ended up on my porch. That and I must have done something very right to have warranted such an amazing Wednesday gift.

Let’s talk for a minute about the person who gave it to me, shall we? Let me introduce you to her, formally. Knitblog world (and other esteemed guests), this is Lala. Yes, that’s her name. It doesn’t actually say Banjo Girl on her driver’s license, as surprising as that might be. I gave her the nickname in haste, but it has become clear that she is more than that. As Banjo-Guitar-Fiddle-Accordion-LapSteel-Mandolin-
Harmonica-and-Vocals Girl is a little unwieldy, as she herself points out, from here forward she will be called by her name. It’s a good one, too. It took me a while, honestly, to get used to saying Lala: I wanted to throw an R into it somewhere, or I got stuck and landed on just one La and then just felt awkward, holding an extra la in my hand, trying to stick it behind my back where no one would notice, but it rolls off my tongue now.

(I just had a random memory of a boy I used to know. He didn’t want me to know he was smoking one day when I saw him outside, so he put the cigarette behind his back.)

Enough for now. I promised myself some writing time, and then a run. And then perhaps coffee with said Lala before work, if I’m lucky. And tonight is my last night working for eighteen days! Yowza!

Man, am I tired. But for good reason: I went to bed about nine this morning, and then got up at 11:30 because the Whoreshoes were playing on KUSF and I wanted to boot up the computer and listen to the show in bed. Because I can. Because I have wireless. (I love that. Have I mentioned that?) I thought to my sleep-addled self that I could even listen to it in the backyard (if the backyard happened to be in my bedroom, that is, ‘cause I wasn’t moving). It was a good show. I’m glad I woke up.

And then I noticed my phone light was flashing—that signal that someone had left me a message while I was sleeping with the ringer off. It was my realtor. Number 111 liked my offer the best and were countering it for more money! Really, it’s a wonderful thing to hear, but it’s a hard thing to hear after two plus hours of sleep, because there’s that painful moment of realization: I’m going to really have to wake up now. I called her back, and we had to “crunch numbers” (I really hate that phrase), and according to my realtor, the amount they were asking will still be affordable on a month-to-month basis. Very important, that last.

So I had to get up, get dressed, brush my teeth and put on lipstick (because even in the Big One I’ll have to stop to put on lipstick), and drive up to Orinda to sign Very Important Things. Things so very important that the ridiculously high nature of the sums discussed made my brain sizzle and spark, causing small shorts. I think I owe a lot of money now? Huh-uh.

Then, of course, I came home and got back in bed with all intentions to sleep again, and with all knowledge that I was going to be very very very bad at doing so. I was. It felt like a meditation exercise where you attempt to gently clear your mind and the one thing you don’t want to think about keeps sneaking into your line of sight. I refuse to get (very) excited about this property. One: It might not appraise at the amount they want. Two: I might not get full financing. Those are very real blocks. I refuse to decorate in my mind, or plan packing and moving, or think about where the cat litter box would go. So I lay there, not thinking. And then poof! I’d think, I wonder where the desk would look best? And whammo! Wide awake again, saying to myself, No Thinking About It. It’s so very far from a done deal that it’s actually an undone deal. That’s nothing upon which to prop thoughts of where to store extra toilet paper.

So. Anyway. While I’m super excited this is where I am, I almost wish I had just woken up this morning, listened to some old-time music on the new-time radio, and gone back to sleep. I would be more rested. Lots to think about. Lots, lots, lots. Not thinking. Much.

Ali challenged me to write one haiku a day for a week. Now, that’s just too much for me, especially since I’ve recently been hanging out with a well-known award-winning haiku writer. But I have one for today.

Cat pee on the floor,
Where are all the paper towels?
Shit, I must be out.

Lord have mercy. There are other, much better ways to start the day. This I know.

Today is the day the bid gets submitted to the owner of #111, the condo I really liked. I’m not scared this time, not even a little bit. I’m very, very curious and I’m excited to hear what’s decided. But this is, let me count, the fourth place I’ve bid on in the last three years (been in and out of the market twice before this time), and I think I’m getting used to it. Even if accepted, I know my credit score and savings are iffy enough that the loans might not go through, so I’m not going to marry a property in my mind until the key is in my hand. And then, get out of my way. It’ll be all about yellow and red paint. And pillows. And happy cat spots.

Until then, I’m happy to putter here in my beloved apartment. And because I finally got off my ass yesterday and did all my mountains of laundry, I have nothing I *have* to do today. Bills are paid. House is reasonably clean. I think I’ll work on the novel, maybe at a coffee shop, and then go for a (short) run. And then work tonight. It was supposed to be a 14 hour shift tonight, but it was shortened yesterday to 12, so I’m happy. 14 hours overnight on your first day back after the weekend is tough sometimes.

I just remembered something important! I believe I’m off for the next two weeks! I mean, it had popped through my mind a couple of times, but hadn’t really registered. (I don’t know how I forget these things—an ex-girlfriend used to think I did it to spite her.) I’ll work four nights this week, and then I’ll have the next seventeen days off. This time it’s real vacation, something I signed up for at the beginning of the year with the full intention of being somewhere fabulous, Venice, or Cuba, but finances being what they are, I thought I would defer the weeks for use next year. Who would want to waste Time Off not going anywhere?

Me, it turns out. I can’t wait. I have many, many places I don’t need to go.

It’s also just completely weird that my shin splints hurt less today than they did last week after a three mile run. I do not get it. But I’m not complaining.

Apparently what you do after running seventeen miles is rest, not go house-search, house-bid, work, and then on a date. This morning I had three cups of coffee followed by a two hour nap, just an hour after waking. I have now made it from the bed to the couch. Whoo hoo! Look at me go! I’m hoping to take a shower and go for a walk, because my muscles are screaming for me to move around and stretch them out, but I weigh approximately nine hundred and thirty-seven pounds today. It’s quite difficult to lug that around, if you were wondering. I had plans all day that were cancelled, thank god. I don’t think I will do anything that makes sense today, and being completely nonsensical, while fun for me, isn’t so fun for the people around me. I have plans for early evening but they’re fast and loose and I could easily end up watching the Amazing Race in real time. Oooh.

But if I don’t do laundry, I’m going to lose my mind. It’s in such a state that I considered going to the laundromat, just so’s I could get it all done in one two-hour stop, but if I do it at home I’ll be able to lie on the floor in between loads. It’s not like I even hurt that badly. Don’t get me wrong. I hurt. But it’s not the ginger-stepping, wanna-cry kind of pain that I had three weeks ago. These are just really sore muscles. But my strength has gone south, and I’m too tired to chase it. Maybe it’ll come back when it’s ridden some Ferris wheels and eaten enough cotton candy to make it happy. I’m too tired to entertain it myself today.

Until then, I think it’s a good bet I’ll be right here, on the couch, a cat on my stomach, the sliding door open to the gorgeous day outside, birds singing, traffic rushing, glad to be freaking Not Moving.

(And thanks for your congrats, darlings. They mean the world to me.)

Seventeen.
Miles.

I did it.

And honestly? Gazelleish. Most of it, that is. Miles 10-14 were pretty rough and rather painful. But when I hit fourteen (after not making fourteen 3 weeks ago) and knew I only had three left, I was good to go. Soooo happy.

After the run, four of us walked out into the ocean to chill our legs—miraculous, I tell you. We were flush with our success, as well, so we were four happy gals out there in the waves.

I canNOT believe I ran that far. Wacky, crazy stuff. Shit, this proves if I can run seventeen miles, anyone can. I don’t run. I don’t exercise. I’m a thirty-two year old ex-smoker with weak lungs (anyone remember me having pneumonia about six months ago?). You can do it. If you were out of your mind enough to want to, that is.

And after the beach, I went home, scraped the sand out from the blisters and from under my lifting toenails, took a good long shower, put clothes on, and went back out to meet Ghet, my realtor. We looked at four or five places, and wrote an offer on one. I’m zenning the house-search, by they way. What will be, will be. (The unit number of the one I wrote is 111, though. Hmmm.) I’m meant to be where I’m meant to be. That’s all I know. And I know if it’s less than seventeen miles away, I could run there. Well, tonight I couldn’t. Tonight I think I’m a wee bit too tired to do it again. Maybe tomorrow.

Recap: I ran for four hours and fifteen minutes. I made an offer on a condo. Now I’m off to work for a few hours. It’s been a really fucking busy day. I’m going to sleep GREAT tonight.