Plotless on November 1st

Apparently one late afternoon, back in October, while sipping whiskey and pondering the futility of my rather depressing life, I decided it would be a swell idea to sign up for National Novel Writing Month.

I had to have been drinking or else one of my demon-spawn cats has learned how to use the laptop because frankly, what the hell was I thinking?  I mean it's ironic, to say the least, that someone who has several blogs lurking all over the Internet but who can't seem to write anything for them signs up to write a novel. IN. A. MONTH. But then again, I seem to have made it my life's mission to be the Queen of Irony (a.k.a The Spinster of Sarcasm and the Fool of Fuck-up's).

Now, November 1st has rolled along and all those feelings of panic, nauseousness and giddiness that I've been beating down like a hapless little slug have come crawling back in full force. Especially when...OK...I'll admit it...I don't have a plot. I was toying with the notion of basing the novel on my life (roughly) until I realized I don't have one lately. The highlights of my days consists of cleaning the litter pan, wondering what kind of shenanigans my neighbors will get up and trying to remain calm when dealing with my Mother.  And I really don't think I have the talent to write 50,000 words about "digging for treasure" in the sandbox and watching my neighbor shave his cat.

I'm suddenly realizing this whole experience has the stink of a graduate school paper deadline and therefore, I'm afraid I must treat it like such and apply my proven method of procrastination. That and praying to the gods to send me a Muse (preferably a male Muse in a Speedo because a toga is so passé).

For those that have signed up for NaNoWriMo as well - good luck and may your fingers fly across your keyboard everyday!

As for myself...*yawn* I think it's time for more coffee (Irish of course), crappy TV, pondering and....procrastination.

Small Town Karma

I live in a very small town, on a very quiet street peppered with elderly ladies and young families, on the second floor of a historical house...surrounded by a large fenced yard and an assortment of shrubberies. People usually mind their own business unless you actively engage them (I don’t – I treat them like rabid rhino’s) or have a long standing rapport.

My previous neighbor and I had a love/hate relationship. Basically, we both hated each other but her cat and I had a secret love affair, full of many sweet petting and tasty treats. The day she packed up the final load of crap into her glossy little car and pealed away was a day I celebrated with margaritas in the sunroom and a forlorn feeling when I realized I wouldn’t see Ms. D-the-cat again.

I gave my new (perhaps a month in) neighbors the benefit of the doubt, despite the fact that when they were moving in they continued sawing, hammering and grunting well past 9:00pm. But, you know, I’m not one to complain...too much. We haven’t said one word to each other and this has been pleasurable. However, the other day while I was calmly walking to my house, the woman chose to open her mouth and say to me, not hello or “my, it’s a lovely day” but instead, “I really don’t like the color of your flowers.” 

I stood with my keys in my hand and blinked at her. It was too early for me to have been drinking so I really couldn’t rely on myself to be calm and polite but I was, so...yay for me? I politely pointed out that I’m a renter like her and that my landlady takes care of the landscaping. I also stated that although yellow isn’t the most original color for mums I didn’t think they needed to be insulted. Again, yay me. 

Today, I noticed her landlord working on her yard; raking leaves, cutting bushes and low and behold...planting some gorgeous yellow mums. 

When I saw her come home I will not lie. I ran to take out my garbage and told her I really didn’t like the color of her flowers. I might have been smiling but she’s my enemy now.