Center of the universe

How am I doing on that "don't always talk about myself" thing? Well, sometimes I stuff a sock in my mouth, and sometimes an anecdote about myself just needs to be told, so my poor clerk gets interrupted and I tell her about how a school bus cut me off one morning, a fascinating and pointless story she patiently listens to. OK, not such a high score that day. Other days I do better and listen patiently without interjecting something that happened to me, or what I think about it, or how it all relates to me. If I do feel compelled to say something, I say "Of course, it's all about me," at least acknowledging that I'm an ass. I sat through endless discussion of paint choices for each room of the Holts' house without saying a single thing about what I thought of the colors (you would really paint so many rooms different shades of yellow?) or what I chose for my house (no, I don't thing gray is too cold, and I painted two rooms gray and think they still look good after 15 years). Man was I proud when I took that sock out of my mouth. And my blood pressure was no different at the end of the discussion. See? It's possible to be normal and let other people be the center of attention. Difficult, but possible. I've decided that this, you lucky people, is where I can be the center of attention all the time. Isn't that what a blog is all about?

I spent Sunday cleaning (I even dusted, and when I told Ken this he said "You did like hell"), alternating between cleaning and sitting to watch TV for a spell. Not a bad way to spend a day off. I didn't have to go to Sunday dinner, got a break from that because Ken's son Karl (as Ken always refers to him, as if he doesn't have a son Bill who spends one day a week with him and calls twice every single week without fail and balances his checkbook and goes through his mail to tell him the credit card offers are junk and can be thrown out and no, he didn't really win a million dollars) was visiting (for less than 24 hours) from Penn. Anyway, I got a break from Sunday's command performance, and didn't know what to watch on TV at noon, or what to do from 12-3 but had a great time. Got the house looking not too bad except of course for the back room which looks like a storage facility. I should charge myself $100 a month to rent it. Plan A is to move the stuff upstairs to what is now my giant closet/would be a basement if I had one, and used to be the master bedroom. I'm on a roll about it and have a light bulb moment every now & then when I realize I can put stuff there. Of course I forget that I put things there and search for days when I forget that's where I put something. Soon it will be so full I won't ever be able to find anything and I'll have to spend a week organizing the room & throwing things out. I'm not very good at having a house, when it comes right down to it. I was much better when I lived in a smaller space in Rhode Island.

The book group came and we had a great time. Only Mary Lou and I had read the book but we had a nice discussion about it. It was Peace like a river by Leif something-Scandinavian. An interesting novel, sort of strange, set in 1960 though time seemed irrelevant. Next up is an Ann Tyler book, Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant, which we haven't read, one of her older ones that slipped past me. The only copy we have here at CEF is a large print copy, so I'll read it as if someone is shouting at me in my head.

Ah yes, my head. I'm having some problems in my head. Am I better? Yes, I suppose, but I get up each morning with a song in my head and it doesn't go away until I get to work and put my earphones on to replace it. I obsessed about some petty things at Christmas, but have let up on some things at home lately. So yes, I'm doing better but no, I'm not at peace. Have an appointment with psychiatrist tomorrow.

My storm door has finally been installed. A stroke of genius was that. No more prevailing winds in my living room. What a difference it makes! It's incredible, however, what a difference changing your front door routine makes, especially when you have dogs. I can no longer see them sitting outside waiting to come in because the window on the storm door doesn't go down that far. I don't want them to bash against it so I'm training them to sit before I open it to let them out. Tess already knows this but Chances is old and wants me to believe the adage about teaching her new tricks. I can't leave the door ajar when I'm bringing in wood so that I can just kick it when my arms are full of heavy firewood--I have to have a free hand to use the latch. I think life is amazing when such small changes have such a big effect on us.

And now I'll see how big the effect of a 1956 edition of The mayor of Castorbridge at the Tupper Lake library really is.