the procrastinating girl

It Snowed Today

I really can't come up with a better title than that.  As you know, I strive to keep the content thematic here on TPG.  I guess Mother Nature clearly has no desire to make the cut.  She is obviously not a procrastinator.  Snow in October?  That's just absurd.  The line in the sand for what I would designate 'appallingly early' for the first sight of snow is any time around my birthday, November 18th.  Even then, I don't usually have the misfortune of welcoming in my own new year with a dusting of flakes.  One year, I can't recall which (the best I can say is that it was pre-children), my husband and I headed up to Vermont for the weekend.  I remember we were having dinner at a very cozy, fireplace-y kind of wood-paneled place when we looked out the window and saw a white layer coating the street.  But of course, that was Vermont.  We weren't sure it counted.  Today's snow was far more bizarre.  It's New York.  In the middle of a climate crisis.  Obviously.  Damn, it's cold.

Thin Ice

I've been missing here for awhile, as it's been quite a week.  I could write today about the string of crazy headaches that had me in bed for days.  Or the toxic carbon monoxide fumes that almost killed my family in our sleep a few nights ago.  But, you know, why be 'glass is half-empty'?  Instead, let me tell you about Sydney's first ice skating lesson.  We were already behind as the group had started the week prior.  Typical.  So I had six days to get Syd up to speed with the proper equipment and paperwork.  Pressure was on.  And, as I ran around town, I wondered if Syd would really ever set foot on the ice.  It was 50/50 at best.  On Friday, my trademark eleventh hour, I picked up sharpened size 13 skates and took Zoe, still in full ballet regalia, to the rink to drop off forms and payment.  On Saturday morning, Syd took to the ice, bundled from head to toe in snowpants, gloves and helmet.  She left our side willingly (a rarity) and clung to the railing of the rink.  When she took her first 'steps' on the ice, it was only a minute or two before she fell down hard and started to cry.  I looked away, biting my lip, trying to not meet her eye.  But she was brave.  She lasted about a half hour.  And was excited to go back, even though it now hurt to sit down.  This eleventh hour run-around was worth it.  I was so proud.

Blood Simple

If there's anything in life I put off whenever possible, it's going to the doctor.  Clearly, this isn't smart.  Nor is it high on anyone's list of preferred activities, but for me it ranks right under crashing the Palin family reunion.  I have a sordid history of passing out cold upon the threat of a medical procedure.  And needles?  Forget it.  Smelling salts.  The alternative was I had to have something sugary to bring me back to earth.  My Ob/Gyn in the city gave me juice boxes.  That worked well, although one time it was a Five Alive-y drink that contained banana (gross!), so while I was no longer catatonic, I was indeed nauseous.  I know, I am too much fun.  But things have improved with time.  I have learned the secrets of deep breathing and relaxation.  I can manage my anticipation anxiety.  I have given birth without incident.  Twice.  But this morning, for the first time in quite awhile, I had to have blood drawn.  And it had to be today, in time for an appointment tomorrow.  I was nervous, but I got it done.  And I didn't even need a lollipop.

Surprise, Surprise

Apparently my debt to society was a little higher than expected.  Rather than the 13 and change I was preparing to fork over, once my name was called up in the computer system, it showed that my grand total in fees was $29.81.  Considering the charge is like ten cents a day per book, it takes a whole lot of negligence to reach that sum.  The good news is my slate is now wiped clean and I can come and go as I please with a free conscience.  Of course, given my new self-imposed ban, I can't take out any new books until 2014.

Addendum

Apparently the $13.94 is a fine I must pay in person.  At the library.  The library where the director is an old neighbor and friend.  Where her daughters are my babysitters.  Where I've spent my time volunteering and countless hours working on my, yes, still-unfinished novel.  Where, although my name is not Norm, everybody knows it.  Damn.  Time to waste more gas and drive to that mystical village of Katonah.  I'll call myself 'Angelique.'

Death Notice

Things have sunk to a new low here at TPG.  Yesterday I received a piece of mail from the Westchester LIbrary System.  It's more of a computer print-out than a true letter.  And it bears this statement, "The following materials are long overdue and assumed to be lost.  Your account has been billed."  Underneath it lists the names of two children's books that are totally unrecognizable to me and shows that I owe $13.94 to be paid immediately.  I guess I can't handle the responsibility of the library.  Others can.  These are the same people who always use paper towels as paper towels, napkins as napkins and toilet paper as toilet paper.  Well, in my house, it's a paper product free-for-all.  And I suppose it's time to acknowledge my shortcomings in a more public way.  I am banning myself from checking out any books for the next few months.  I don't want to visit the unintentionally donated Oringel Wing of the Bedford Village Library.

Reflection

I think I'm a decent person at my core.  Better than some (if you consider the populations of the local prisons).  Nowhere near as good as others.  But I will smile at anyone I see.  Or say hello.  And then hold the door open.  If you don't think any of this is a big deal, you've clearly never been to my gym.   I also believe that people who are given much in this world have a responsibility to help those less fortunate.  And that every person, no matter who or what they are, deserves an equal chance to succeed.  But the list of what I don't do could fill scroll after scroll (can you tell it's Yom Kippur?).  I don't volunteer my time locally as often as I should.  I often don't look beyond my own little universe at the larger causes that really need all of our attention.  I definitely do not brake for animals.  Then just this morning, as I was getting dressed for temple, I noticed that I still have my cousin Laura's coat hanging in my closet, as it has been since last April.  Forget the world, I should probably start tackling the smaller issues first.  And before it gets really cold. 

A Fish Story

What do you get when you cross a procrastinator with a really expensive specialty food store?  No, this isn't the opening to some incredibly mediocre stand-up routine.  It was my life at about 11:45am.  I had just walked out of my doctor appointment and onto the streets of Manhattan's most insanely ritzy neighborhood.  Naturally, I wasn't looking for couture or original artwork.  I needed fish.  But this was Madison Avenue.  Fish will cost you.  Big.  And I didn't have the time to shop around.  Why?  Because this was my only window to buy all the food I needed to host our breaking of the fast at the end of Yom Kippur.  So I walked into E*A*T, arguably the most overpriced high-end food store anywhere, and ordered the most modest amount of whitefish I could without wasting counterperson's time.  But, apparently, they have a whitefish minimum.  As I was struggling with whether or not to green-light the purchase, a woman in Jackie O dark glasses, yes, worn indoors, and a dark navy suit ordered enough smoked salmon to feed our school district.  I finally nodded yes to the tiny plastic container of whitefish that cost the same as putting my family's butts in movie seats.  Plus popcorn.  And yes to the $20-plus chocolate babka.  And told myself, it's fine.  This is New York.  Nothing can compare to the food here.  Of course after fasting all day for Yom Kippur, cardboard would be delicious.  Sigh.

Book Fare

That was fast.  I got new tickets for temple first thing this morning.  You see, every now and then I feel like my experiment in this vast blogosphere is working.  And then, I am quickly jolted back to earth.  Today it took just sitting down at my desk, the surface of which hovers somewhere in between delightful disarray and 'bomb hit it' status.  Amid the irrelevant folders and papers and envelopes and forms sits a stack of books.  None are mine.  They have all been lent to me by friends who think I would enjoy their company.  What the lenders don't understand is that this act of kindness actually, for me, creates a stressful situation.  Not only am I reminded that reading is a pastime reserved for those not comatose by 7pm, but even worse, I have to return these books.  Granted, it's not the library, my ultimate nemesis, but I have to carefully monitor these prized possessions.  But, like most things in my house and life, the longer they stay within my orbit, the greater the chance that they will be sucked in to the black hole that is me.  So please, no more books.  But call anytime.  I'll be glad to see the movie.

Heavy Trash

So this week is a biggie for the Jews.  Last week we had Rosh Hashanah, and next Thursday we will mark Yom Kippur, our holiest day on the calendar.  For the few days in between, life is normal.  No funky dietary restrictions.  No unforeseen mandatory trips to synagogue.  When you do attend services on the holidays themselves, you have to show tickets.  Ours are especially thorough, listing the date, time and location for the duration of the 'High Holy Day period'.  It's like JazzFest.  And our tickets are necessary.  They are checked by board members before you and your potentially knife-wielding family are allowed to enter the sanctuary.  So my job post-Rosh and pre-Yom was to put these tickets, each bearing our individual names, in a safe place until the holidays had finished.  Yes, it's something a monkey could do.  Well, this monkey came home after Rosh Hashanah and threw them right into the garbage.  In my head, the holiday was over!  After Madonna exits the stage, you throw out the tickets, no?  So now I have until Wednesday night to make good with the temple office and somehow get my family back into our house of worship.  Or we are shut out from the Day of Atonement.  Or did I subconsciously want to be shut out in the first place?  That's a whole different story...