We all have defining moments in our lives that shape our futures. One of my most defining moments occurred three years ago today.
I was at my grandmother’s house with my large clan of aunts, uncles and cousins for a day-after-Thanksgiving celebration. Above the happily loud cacophony that is a Hayden family gathering the ringing of the telephone could barely be heard. We were zipping up coats and searching for lost mittens, all in a jumble by the front door, as we prepared to head out to an evening movie.
It was through this jumble my little sister waded. When I turned around and saw she was standing in front of me with the phone I was a bit surprised, wondering who would be calling me at my grandma’s house. Then she said the words I had been hoping I wouldn’t hear for quite some time:
“Crystal, it’s for you. It’s a boy!”
It was just like in a movie, where the ruckus had been reaching unchartable levels, then, upon the words “it’s a boy,” the noise immediately cut off. All eyes were on me and every face had a knowing smile on it.
I ran into the office, escaping the sly stares only to find on the other end of the phone a guy who was just as surprised as I was to be talking to me since he was only calling my grandmother’s to ask for my phone number. I heard him ask me if I was doing anything that night and this is where that defining moment stuff comes in.
I had returned home from serving an LDS mission only a matter of days earlier. Having never dated beforehand and being deathly afraid of dates in general, it was my goal to not talk to boys for at least six months. I would be able to accomplish this because I fully intended to hide in my mother’s basement for the duration. All these plans were dashed as I talked with this young man at that moment.
I had met him on my returning flight. He was coming home from his Army post in North Carolina and we had found ourselves on the same plane. Had it not been for a mutual friend sitting by me in the back of the plane I’m sure we never would have talked. Missionaries don’t generally interact with members of the opposite sex unless said interaction involves handing them a pamphlet about eternal life. We were introduced to each other and that was that. I thought.
As the day continued, fate took a hand in the form of my grandmother. This young man chatted with her as she was leaving the airport after my arrival and then ran into her again the next day. She told him he should stop by and visit her sometime. She was in the phonebook.
A few short days later he took courage in hand and called June to see if her granddaughter was available. “I don’t know, you’ll have to ask her,” was the reply and suddenly he was on the phone with me, stammering out an invitation for a date.
On my end, I had a dozen thoughts run through my mind in a split second. What was I doing talking to a boy? Hadn’t I only been home for five days? What would I do? What would I even say to him? I could just tell him I was busy, I mean, I was, wasn’t I? I was going to a movie. “Well, I’m going to a movie with my cousins,” I started. Yes, that’s it, just tell him you’re busy and then you won’t have to face your ultimate fear of going on a date.
“Do you want to come with us?”
I’m still not sure where those words came from. They were certainly words I, who had celebrated each time in my life I’d had the excuse that I was too busy to go out on a date, had never uttered.
I’ll be forever grateful I uttered them this time.
Scott came with us to the movies, where, for our first date, we had fourteen chaperones ranging in age from twenty-five to eight years old. We went out again the next night and the next, until, six weeks later, we were engaged.
At this Thanksgiving time, I’m always thankful to mark the day after as the day when I got a phone call at my grandma’s house from a boy. And that the boy turned out to be my husband.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Thankful
Scott~comforters~cereal~cloudy skies~sunshine~fast internet~slow Sunday mornings~humor~that annoying sound that reminds me I left my car lights on thus saving me from a dead battery~free mobile to mobile calling (a.k.a. ability to talk with my family as long as I want!)~pizza~intermittent windshield wipers~fuzzy carpet~music~pillows~beauty in all forms.
Friendship~The Comforter~rain~hot showers~hulu.com~reading~memories~dinner parties~traveling~U.S.A.~closet space~pretty baskets~other people's talents~optimism~laughter~Debussy~donut holes~lovely placemats~ring on my left hand~Real Simple magazine~learning~holidays.
Family~old houses~blogging~shoes~especially cute shoes~goodness in people~listening to a cello~democracy~volleyball~life lessons~old photographs~sight~work~open fields~daisies~oportunity.
life.
"Just to be alive is a grand thing." ~Agatha Christie
~Happy Thanksgiving~
Friendship~The Comforter~rain~hot showers~hulu.com~reading~memories~dinner parties~traveling~U.S.A.~closet space~pretty baskets~other people's talents~optimism~laughter~Debussy~donut holes~lovely placemats~ring on my left hand~Real Simple magazine~learning~holidays.
Family~old houses~blogging~shoes~especially cute shoes~goodness in people~listening to a cello~democracy~volleyball~life lessons~old photographs~sight~work~open fields~daisies~oportunity.
life.
"Just to be alive is a grand thing." ~Agatha Christie
~Happy Thanksgiving~
Friday, November 20, 2009
Working Out
I used to belong to a gym. As a member, I had several reasons for going every day. I had a closet filled with pants that no longer fit me. There was air conditioning. HGTV could be found on any of the monitors above the treadmills. There was a hot tub. And, oh yeah, to be healthy.
During my time at the gym, I noticed that among the other cable-watching, I mean, health-conscious patrons there were several very specific types of exercisers. There was the big sweaty guy who had ripped the sleeves off his t-shirt and who lifted amounts of weight incomprehensible to man. Then, there was the grunting man who was not going to suffer in silence, but would make it known to all within earshot, through a series of varied huffs and heaves, that his was a grueling workout. Of course there was also that one guy whose purpose was not to see how many sets and reps he could get in, rather, to see how many sets of phone numbers he could acquire.
Next came the hard core, don’t-mess-with-me chick. She was typically a size two in black spandex and a tiny sports bra with a sweatband and bike gloves. This type worked right alongside the perfect beauty who had not a hair out of place as she completed her wind sprints, all while listening to Beyonce on her IPod.
Where did I fit in all of this? I fell under the just-rolled-out-of-bed-hide-in-the-women’s-workout-room-and-self-consciously-pull-at-my-clothing-while-dying-on-the-treadmill-and-watching-Trading-Spaces type.
My gym-going days were cut short when we moved to a place where Gold’s was no longer thirty seconds away, and thus, too inconvenient to continue a membership. I have carried on my fitness routine, though I do find it challenging now that I can no longer watch Gilmore Girls as I battle it out with the exercise machines.
Instead, I battle it out in other ways. This morning, for instance, I blasted the fat with Billy Blanks and his cardio crew. This is Tae Bo at its finest, power bands included. It’s fast and upbeat and Billy makes you contemplate not just how you’re going to blast the fat off your thighs, but things like the purpose of life, and more importantly, why Billy is wearing such tight spandex.
He accomplishes this through his many thought-provoking monologues which pepper his cardiovascular routine. Always looking deeply into the camera, he encourages me to change the way I think, to keep going, to finish that one more set (or seven more). This morning, I watched him recite what might as well have been Edward Everett’s oration at Gettysburg, all while his workout crew behind him were dropping like flies from exhaustion, each one trying to hang on until Billy gave the word. Then, and only then, was it time to put on the power bands.
The magic of working out from one’s own home is such that, while Billy gave his soliloquy from the television, I had time to grab a drink of water from the kitchen, re-tie my shoes, balance the checkbook, and make a casserole for tonight’s dinner before it was finally time for the next punch-kick-step combination. It was quite the productive workout.
Yes, I think I like this working out from home thing. Although I have to look at Tae Bo buffs shrink wrapped in purple spandex, I can avoid the sweating, grunting, flirting men of the gym, along with that girl with the ripped arms and the other one with the perfect hair. I can tug at my clothes from the comfort of my own home.
The only thing I miss is the HGTV.
During my time at the gym, I noticed that among the other cable-watching, I mean, health-conscious patrons there were several very specific types of exercisers. There was the big sweaty guy who had ripped the sleeves off his t-shirt and who lifted amounts of weight incomprehensible to man. Then, there was the grunting man who was not going to suffer in silence, but would make it known to all within earshot, through a series of varied huffs and heaves, that his was a grueling workout. Of course there was also that one guy whose purpose was not to see how many sets and reps he could get in, rather, to see how many sets of phone numbers he could acquire.
Next came the hard core, don’t-mess-with-me chick. She was typically a size two in black spandex and a tiny sports bra with a sweatband and bike gloves. This type worked right alongside the perfect beauty who had not a hair out of place as she completed her wind sprints, all while listening to Beyonce on her IPod.
Where did I fit in all of this? I fell under the just-rolled-out-of-bed-hide-in-the-women’s-workout-room-and-self-consciously-pull-at-my-clothing-while-dying-on-the-treadmill-and-watching-Trading-Spaces type.
My gym-going days were cut short when we moved to a place where Gold’s was no longer thirty seconds away, and thus, too inconvenient to continue a membership. I have carried on my fitness routine, though I do find it challenging now that I can no longer watch Gilmore Girls as I battle it out with the exercise machines.
Instead, I battle it out in other ways. This morning, for instance, I blasted the fat with Billy Blanks and his cardio crew. This is Tae Bo at its finest, power bands included. It’s fast and upbeat and Billy makes you contemplate not just how you’re going to blast the fat off your thighs, but things like the purpose of life, and more importantly, why Billy is wearing such tight spandex.
He accomplishes this through his many thought-provoking monologues which pepper his cardiovascular routine. Always looking deeply into the camera, he encourages me to change the way I think, to keep going, to finish that one more set (or seven more). This morning, I watched him recite what might as well have been Edward Everett’s oration at Gettysburg, all while his workout crew behind him were dropping like flies from exhaustion, each one trying to hang on until Billy gave the word. Then, and only then, was it time to put on the power bands.
The magic of working out from one’s own home is such that, while Billy gave his soliloquy from the television, I had time to grab a drink of water from the kitchen, re-tie my shoes, balance the checkbook, and make a casserole for tonight’s dinner before it was finally time for the next punch-kick-step combination. It was quite the productive workout.
Yes, I think I like this working out from home thing. Although I have to look at Tae Bo buffs shrink wrapped in purple spandex, I can avoid the sweating, grunting, flirting men of the gym, along with that girl with the ripped arms and the other one with the perfect hair. I can tug at my clothes from the comfort of my own home.
The only thing I miss is the HGTV.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Apartment Living
I moved out of my parents’ house for the first time over five years ago. Since then, it has been nothing but apartments for me and in that time I have come to some conclusions about things which are unique to apartment living.
First of all, upon moving in you discover that odd stain in the carpet left from the tenant before you and a kitchen floor that never looks completely clean. The walls that surround you are someone else’s sense of aesthetic, usually functional meets bland, which you are not allowed to change with new paint. And speaking of those walls, you cannot put holes in them. And you don’t find out that the plastic adhesive hooks only hold up to a half a pound until after you have paintings and pictures clattering down around you. Then, woops, it was there on the package all along.
Next, the neighbors are closer than when you lived in your own house, in that you share walls. And sometimes those walls aren’t thick enough to block out the constant thud of the base from the tenant’s surround sound below you. Or the yelling from next door. Apparently little Johnny was not supposed to take one more of something or other.
And then there are the random personal items which find themselves located in places they would not otherwise be if you were not living in an apartment. Like bikes in the kitchen, for example. Or in the hallway. Or out on the balcony. I draw the line at the bedroom. One particular instance, when I asked my husband if there might possibly be any place else to stow his road bike, he looked at me as if I had suggested throwing his first born child out into the snow and locking the door. The bike stayed in the living room.
On the other side of the coin, for all the quirks and limitations, apartments do offer a certain something known only to apartment dwellers or those who have-dwelled. The benefits usually balance out what could otherwise be an inconvenient situation.
For instance, you usually don’t pay a separate water bill, so, even though it is probably coming out in your rent somewhere, you don’t feel bad for taking that extra long, hot shower. Along that same line, our current apartment includes cable and internet in the rent, which means again, no separate bill. (Although with no ESPN my husband has contemplated many a time adding an extra bill to the Dish Network people.)
There is also a wonderful sense of community that comes built into an apartment complex. It takes no time to run errands to neighbors across the quad or down the stairs. There’s usually a barbeque of some kind going on out front and all it takes to get an invitation is simply walking by. Whether people are moving in or out, carrying groceries up three flights of stairs, or on the way with you to the community laundro-mat, there is always someone around to make friends with and be friendshipped by.
Finally, apartment living is great for two people, such as my husband and I, who are infected with an insatiable wanderlust. Someday we dream of having a house where we’ll raise our family and where I can finally put to use all that HGTV has taught me over the years. For now though, when we want to pull up and go, we go. I’m going on my ninth apartment now in five years. I’ve lived in two bedroom walk-ups and walk downs from Missouri to Massachusetts, Idaho to Illinois, North Carolina and now Utah where we decided to get extravagant and upgrade to a three bedroom within the cinderblock walls of married student housing. Who knows where we’ll find ourselves after the next two years.
Maybe our next apartment will have a place for the bikes. Some place other than the kitchen.
First of all, upon moving in you discover that odd stain in the carpet left from the tenant before you and a kitchen floor that never looks completely clean. The walls that surround you are someone else’s sense of aesthetic, usually functional meets bland, which you are not allowed to change with new paint. And speaking of those walls, you cannot put holes in them. And you don’t find out that the plastic adhesive hooks only hold up to a half a pound until after you have paintings and pictures clattering down around you. Then, woops, it was there on the package all along.
Next, the neighbors are closer than when you lived in your own house, in that you share walls. And sometimes those walls aren’t thick enough to block out the constant thud of the base from the tenant’s surround sound below you. Or the yelling from next door. Apparently little Johnny was not supposed to take one more of something or other.
And then there are the random personal items which find themselves located in places they would not otherwise be if you were not living in an apartment. Like bikes in the kitchen, for example. Or in the hallway. Or out on the balcony. I draw the line at the bedroom. One particular instance, when I asked my husband if there might possibly be any place else to stow his road bike, he looked at me as if I had suggested throwing his first born child out into the snow and locking the door. The bike stayed in the living room.
On the other side of the coin, for all the quirks and limitations, apartments do offer a certain something known only to apartment dwellers or those who have-dwelled. The benefits usually balance out what could otherwise be an inconvenient situation.
For instance, you usually don’t pay a separate water bill, so, even though it is probably coming out in your rent somewhere, you don’t feel bad for taking that extra long, hot shower. Along that same line, our current apartment includes cable and internet in the rent, which means again, no separate bill. (Although with no ESPN my husband has contemplated many a time adding an extra bill to the Dish Network people.)
There is also a wonderful sense of community that comes built into an apartment complex. It takes no time to run errands to neighbors across the quad or down the stairs. There’s usually a barbeque of some kind going on out front and all it takes to get an invitation is simply walking by. Whether people are moving in or out, carrying groceries up three flights of stairs, or on the way with you to the community laundro-mat, there is always someone around to make friends with and be friendshipped by.
Finally, apartment living is great for two people, such as my husband and I, who are infected with an insatiable wanderlust. Someday we dream of having a house where we’ll raise our family and where I can finally put to use all that HGTV has taught me over the years. For now though, when we want to pull up and go, we go. I’m going on my ninth apartment now in five years. I’ve lived in two bedroom walk-ups and walk downs from Missouri to Massachusetts, Idaho to Illinois, North Carolina and now Utah where we decided to get extravagant and upgrade to a three bedroom within the cinderblock walls of married student housing. Who knows where we’ll find ourselves after the next two years.
Maybe our next apartment will have a place for the bikes. Some place other than the kitchen.
Friday, November 13, 2009
The Most Wonderful Time of the Year
When I was younger my mother would always roll her eyes in chagrin when we would walk into the mall in November to find Christmas decorations plastered everywhere. It seemed that each year the decorations came out earlier and earlier until Santa Claus was trick-or-treating side by side with Batman and the Grim Reaper. I rolled my eyes right along with my mother, thinking in my little girl brain that I would never be involved in such a breach of seasonal etiquette.
Now, when Christmas paraphernalia begins appearing in stores starting the moment fall hits, I feel, not an eye-roll, but a tingle of excitement. When I see holiday lights and wreaths for sale in the weekly ads right underneath jack-o-lanterns and witch costumes, I cannot be more delighted. While it’s true that the marketing geniuses see this early adverting simply as a way to get the greater American population buying high-priced toys for our kids that much sooner, I see it as precious extra time to celebrate a holiday season that brings, not only joy to the world, but to me as well. Twenty-five days in December just isn’t enough. For one thing, there is far too much Christmas music to listen to in that short of a space of time.
I start listening to Christmas music the minute Halloween is over, much to the dismay of my husband. He is not a pre-December Christmas music listener. His holiday CDs stay tightly locked up until Thanksgiving is over and the first snow has fallen. I find this to be impossible, as much as I try. I am a closet Christmas music junkie. In fact, I have been known to pull out a holiday CD in July, if the feeling in the air is right. It’s never the hard core stuff, like the classics of Bing and Judy, but somehow a small part of me still feels like I have to be sneaky about this, as if I’m betraying some unspoken cosmic rule of Christmas.
I feel that way right now. As I write this, Vanessa Williams is singing to me about telling things on mountains. In fact, I’ve been listening to Christmas music all afternoon. I just can’t help myself. It’s a good thing my husband is in class.
Now, I know, I know. It's not even Thanksgiving yet, but, again, I can't help myself. It's really a showing of self-restraint that I didn't do this back in August. I love the holiday season and can feel it coming on starting in September with back-to-school goings on and then Halloween that slides right into Thanksgiving and then. . . CHRISTMAS!
So I will be one of those listening to Christmas music long before it snows and who is just itching to pull out the tree. I'm not forgetting Thanksgiving. I'm very thankful for many things. Christmas just happens to be one of them.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Bring on the Cold!
I always long for the weather to turn cold for many reasons and this year is no different. The crispness in the air; the colorful, chunky sweaters; the fuzzy wool mittens; hot cocoa--all are things I look forward to with the winding down of summer. This year, however, I have a more specific reason that tops the list. This year, when winter comes, it will finally be too cold for the children to play outside which means the quad in front of my apartment building will be what I’ve longed for: quiet!
I don’t have anything against children. In fact, I love them and the happy sounds of their playing. There are few things more joyful than the laughter of a child. As I sit by the front window I enjoy hearing little shoes rustling through fallen leaves outside, the crunch of a big wheel on the concrete. These things don’t bother me in the slightest.
It’s just the screaming that I don’t understand. It really is remarkable, this need children have to scream entire conversations. They scream when they’re happy and when they’re upset. They scream when it’s time to go in; when a new friend comes to play; collectively and individually. Why do they do this? Are they just trying out their voices? Are they testing the limits of their parents? I’m not sure. All they seem to know is, they’re outside and outside is the screaming place. And it’s screaming the likes of which I’ve never heard and which can penetrate even the cinderblock walls of my apartment. Indeed, I am in awe of the ability and longevity of these children. I once sat through a good ten minutes of continuous screaming. I timed it. These kidlets would be great at a rock concert.
The ultimate manifestation of the ability children have to make noise came last week. The warmth (and rarity) of a seventy degree afternoon in November enticed enough children outside for a great deal of this happy noise I mentioned earlier. Sitting on my couch, I could hear the familiar sounds of small sneakers pounding the pavement and laughter in the stairwell. Then, a sound I was not familiar with as one coming from children met my ears. Howling. And barking. I was confused, thinking about the “no pets” policy I had read on our renter’s agreement so many months ago. Where did all these dogs come from? Next, I heard a little voice outside appointing someone as “dog catcher” and realized why these “dogs” had sounded more like spider monkeys than canines.
And so I and my audial health look forward to the coming months when the children will be barricaded indoors due to the cold. I will be sitting happy with my sweater on and hot chocolate in hand. And, should the poor, stir-crazy mothers, out of sheer desperation bundle up their children and toss them out of the house under pretense of building a snowman, at least the plummeting temperatures will warrant a pair of cute earmuffs. Thick ones.
I don’t have anything against children. In fact, I love them and the happy sounds of their playing. There are few things more joyful than the laughter of a child. As I sit by the front window I enjoy hearing little shoes rustling through fallen leaves outside, the crunch of a big wheel on the concrete. These things don’t bother me in the slightest.
It’s just the screaming that I don’t understand. It really is remarkable, this need children have to scream entire conversations. They scream when they’re happy and when they’re upset. They scream when it’s time to go in; when a new friend comes to play; collectively and individually. Why do they do this? Are they just trying out their voices? Are they testing the limits of their parents? I’m not sure. All they seem to know is, they’re outside and outside is the screaming place. And it’s screaming the likes of which I’ve never heard and which can penetrate even the cinderblock walls of my apartment. Indeed, I am in awe of the ability and longevity of these children. I once sat through a good ten minutes of continuous screaming. I timed it. These kidlets would be great at a rock concert.
The ultimate manifestation of the ability children have to make noise came last week. The warmth (and rarity) of a seventy degree afternoon in November enticed enough children outside for a great deal of this happy noise I mentioned earlier. Sitting on my couch, I could hear the familiar sounds of small sneakers pounding the pavement and laughter in the stairwell. Then, a sound I was not familiar with as one coming from children met my ears. Howling. And barking. I was confused, thinking about the “no pets” policy I had read on our renter’s agreement so many months ago. Where did all these dogs come from? Next, I heard a little voice outside appointing someone as “dog catcher” and realized why these “dogs” had sounded more like spider monkeys than canines.
And so I and my audial health look forward to the coming months when the children will be barricaded indoors due to the cold. I will be sitting happy with my sweater on and hot chocolate in hand. And, should the poor, stir-crazy mothers, out of sheer desperation bundle up their children and toss them out of the house under pretense of building a snowman, at least the plummeting temperatures will warrant a pair of cute earmuffs. Thick ones.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Working from Home
How do people do it? Work from home, I mean. I've forever admired those who can run successful businesses from their homes because it's always been somewhat of a mystery to me how they accomplish this. In an office setting you have your desk, you have your schedule, you have your deadlines. At home there are these things as well, but at the office, other than the water cooler and contraband Facebook time on your computer, there are few distractions. At home? Oh, where do I begin?
First of all, there is the issue of mustering up the self-control to follow the requisite self-imposed schedule. Then there are those dishes you didn't finish up last night. How is your creativity expected to flow if there are dishes in the sink? And while you're in the kitchen you might as well fix some chicken salad and whip up a creme brulee for lunch later, right? There's that phone call to Mom you needed to return and lying on the couch is next month's issue of Real Simple magazine that arrived five days into this month. That needs perusal. And speaking of mail, you'd better go check it. Of course, after you've gone outside to check the mail, you'd better get on your computer and check both your email addresses. Nine times. And what about the sock drawer? It needs organizing, not to mention the laundry in general. And what's this? A sale at Target? Sure, I'm there! I don't even have to clock out.
So you can see the dilemmas.
These dilemmas are now mine as I have become the newest member of the at-home workforce. After butting my head against the "seeking employment" wall for a few months, my husband and I decided this was the perfect opportunity for me to take the time I've found myself with and do what I've always wanted to do, which is write. And although I have been tortured by, I mean, faced with all the above mentioned distractions, it's not like I've accomplished nothing in my work-from-home experiment. In spite of distracting stories on the news (how did that TV get turned on anyway?) of mothers rescuing their children from the jaws of mountain lions, the files on my computer have been filling up. And in the process I have concluded that some of the distractions which threaten my output can actually feed it. For instance, I wrote this entire article in my head while taking a hot shower this morning. So, really, the fact that it was an extra long hot shower is canceled out by its resulting productivity. This is one distraction that I can now label instead: my planning station.
And then there is that siren call of the TV that when answered can become my nemesis. But, where else would I learn stories of wildcat-battling moms? And how else would I witness that clever way the Law and Order guys solve crime? (Does it amaze anyone else that Law and Order seems to be on all day? Not that I would know from experience, mind you. . .) What others may call a time waster is really a feeder of creativity. I'll call this one my research medium. In fact, I've been wanting to do an article on the complexities of extended family dynamics and obscure '80s references. And wouldn't you know it? Gilmore Girls is on.
Maybe this working from home thing isn't such a bad idea after all.
First of all, there is the issue of mustering up the self-control to follow the requisite self-imposed schedule. Then there are those dishes you didn't finish up last night. How is your creativity expected to flow if there are dishes in the sink? And while you're in the kitchen you might as well fix some chicken salad and whip up a creme brulee for lunch later, right? There's that phone call to Mom you needed to return and lying on the couch is next month's issue of Real Simple magazine that arrived five days into this month. That needs perusal. And speaking of mail, you'd better go check it. Of course, after you've gone outside to check the mail, you'd better get on your computer and check both your email addresses. Nine times. And what about the sock drawer? It needs organizing, not to mention the laundry in general. And what's this? A sale at Target? Sure, I'm there! I don't even have to clock out.
So you can see the dilemmas.
These dilemmas are now mine as I have become the newest member of the at-home workforce. After butting my head against the "seeking employment" wall for a few months, my husband and I decided this was the perfect opportunity for me to take the time I've found myself with and do what I've always wanted to do, which is write. And although I have been tortured by, I mean, faced with all the above mentioned distractions, it's not like I've accomplished nothing in my work-from-home experiment. In spite of distracting stories on the news (how did that TV get turned on anyway?) of mothers rescuing their children from the jaws of mountain lions, the files on my computer have been filling up. And in the process I have concluded that some of the distractions which threaten my output can actually feed it. For instance, I wrote this entire article in my head while taking a hot shower this morning. So, really, the fact that it was an extra long hot shower is canceled out by its resulting productivity. This is one distraction that I can now label instead: my planning station.
And then there is that siren call of the TV that when answered can become my nemesis. But, where else would I learn stories of wildcat-battling moms? And how else would I witness that clever way the Law and Order guys solve crime? (Does it amaze anyone else that Law and Order seems to be on all day? Not that I would know from experience, mind you. . .) What others may call a time waster is really a feeder of creativity. I'll call this one my research medium. In fact, I've been wanting to do an article on the complexities of extended family dynamics and obscure '80s references. And wouldn't you know it? Gilmore Girls is on.
Maybe this working from home thing isn't such a bad idea after all.
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