Multi-Tasking Is Over-Rated

Such bull-crap

If you’ve noticed, I haven’t been posting much.  When I started out, I was posting once a day.  Now?  Twice a month if I’m lucky.  What gives?  I’ll tell you what gives.

I got a job.  It’s a little retail job.  A little freaking retail job.  Sometimes I put in 20 hours a week sometimes I put in 39.  Still, I can’t figure it all out.  Work and exercise have been put near the top of my priority list.  My house?  Holy Crudola.  Please don’t come here unannounced.  Because if you do, I’m not responsible for what you may contract.  Like Malaria.  Or something nasty along those lines.  I have dust so thick I could probably knit a blanket.  Christmas is 5 months away.  I’m taking orders now.

But I wasn’t talking about not cleaning my house.  I was talking about not writing.  My problem is…here goes:  I Cannot Multi-Task.  There I said it.  I cannot multi-task. Is there a support group for this problem?  “Multi-taskless Women?”  I know.  I’m putting our name to shame.  I think I used to be able to do it.  Maybe not.  Maybe I’ve pretended all these years.  Yes.  I think I’ve been living a lie.

So, at this late stage in the game, I’m trying to figure it out.  Cooking, shopping, cleaning, exercising, working, running around one child, one little child, writing, returning phone calls and projects that have been waiting to get done for months.  Some of them years.  I don’t know what’s wrong with me.  I’ve lost touch with reality.  I’ve come so far on so many levels, but can’t seem to fit in the time to write and clean.

What do I do?  Stay up until 1am to write.  So what if I can’t stand at work?  I don’t think they’ll notice.  And my house?  I may have some time in September.  All guests welcome then.  Oh, wait.  I think you should call first.  I’ll meet you in the yard.  Just bring a chair.

The Devil Mother

I love creepy, scary movies.  The scarier, the creepier, the better.  When I was 13, I begged my mom to let me to watch The Exorcist.  It was on HBO.  On a school night.  She was quite hesitant at first, but after much begging and prodding, I wore her down.  There was something in her voice that didn’t quite sound right.  I should have known.  I also should have just settled for an episode of  H.R. Pufnstuf and gotten my ass in bed.  But I didn’t.

My mom isn’t a conventional mother.  She is very loving and nurturing but just um, for lack of a better word….kooky.  For example: my childhood bedroom was always cold.  She had no problem telling me that was because someone died in there.  THAT is my mom.  She’s not trying to be mean.  She just always thought it was funny to torture her children.

I thought I was so cool.  I couldn’t wait to brag to my friends the next day.  Unfortunately, I barely made it half way through the movie.  I’m not sure if it was the head turning vomit throwing freak or the unmentionable things being done with a cross.  It was enough to send me to my room running and screaming for my life.  My mother’s reaction, of course, was “I told you so.”

After a few minutes, I got up the courage to leave the safety of my bedroom to go brush my teeth. All the while looking around me to make sure the devil wasn’t going to jump out from somewhere.  Little did I know, it wasn’t the devil I should have been afraid of.

Once I finished and returned to my bed — hiding under the covers because Satan cannot get you in there — my dear mother popped her loud, screaming self out of my closet.  Holy Crap!  I even think I may have pooped myself.  If I had some holy water on my bedside table, I would have thrown it in her face.  It took me a few seconds to realize it was her and not actually Linda Blair.

After I calmed down and closed my eyes, this is what I would see:


I was expecting the devil to make his appearance any minute.  I swear I felt my bed shake during the night.  The next day I couldn’t go to school.  Because I was totally possessed.

Believe it or not The Exorcist has turned out to be one of my favorite fright movies.  But for some reason, I cannot get the kid to watch it.  I promise not to jump out of your closet, honey.  Ok, well, I half promise.