Somewhere Down There - An Essay of Whine

I wish I had an answer to that, because I'm tired of answering that question.

Yogi Berra

Lately, I'm too tired to even remember the question. Having a bit of trouble zoning in on my tasks. I sit at work and try to recall what errands I need to run before I get home. Just as in the 200 or so essays I read a day, focus seems to be an issue. Grocery store, YMCA, garden center, post office, library, book store, grocery store, wine store, baseball game.... ah, what was I trying to put together? Oh, yes, that I need to do all those things after work and have no clue which to choose or their order. Often I choose one not on that list--melting into my chair at home.

I am a woman lost. Sometimes I just put the car on autopilot and am amazed where I turn up. I've even found myself in the YMCA parking lot, unaware that is where the road took me. Take that! I sneer to that naysayer--myself-- who never seems to arrive at that destination willingly.

Ramble, ramble. That's what lost minds do, I guess. Ramble. Lost in the fog. The more I find on my plate, the more I wander into the mists. I've redefined procrastination. Right now, I'm relaxed, whining to you while a slight breeze rustles all the new leaves on the crepe myrtle outside my bedroom. The slider is open to let in the spring air. Several snapdragons planted last fall are blooming in tall spires providing a backdrop in contrast to the greening lawn.

But surrounding that view, there are things growing on my toilets. I can leave my foot imprint in the dust on my foyer and dining room wood floors. I just wrote my name in the dust on my night stand. The dirty clothes are flowing out of the laundry room and into the hallway. The sink is filled with dirty dishes in hopes that someone will call the dishwasher repair man, and be here when he comes. The weeds in my garden are nearing a foot tall. The tomato plants I purchased two weeks ago still reside in their plastic containers on top of my picnic table. I'm sure I've changed the sheets on my bed in the past, hmmm, two weeks.

Actually, this is not what this post was to be about. My fingers have rambled on auto pilot themselves this morning. I miss writing more often on this blog and I miss staying in touch with all of those I follow. The blog world has come to fascinate me. Sometimes at day's end when I lend my weary eyes to a quick view of your sites, I see that I am several posts behind all you steady and productive writers of prose. I'm jealous.

I blame staring at a computer screen from 7:30am to 5 each day. Then trying to pick up the pieces and maintain a home life with my family while my brain is fried. Yet that is what each and every one of you do, too. And each and every woman/man out there, whether they work at home or work outside. You, and they, are obviously better at it than me.

Okay, enough lamenting for the day. It is the weekend after all and although I could have worked today and tomorrow, I declined. I will post this depressing muck and come back with a much happier rendition tomorrow. I have awards to distribute, a meme to answer. And about 500 ideas for other posts. Oh, my mom is coming from Green Bay this week for a long stay. I need to shovel out a room for her. Don't know where that middle boy will sleep when he arrives home from college in couple of weeks. But I think that oldest employed, new college graduate is moving to Dallas. Room Open.