the procrastinating girl

A Gray (Lady) Day

One of the monumental pleasures of my life is the Sunday New York Times.  Even after we canceled our daily subscription, thereby hypocritically contributing to the failure of the modern-day print industry (I read the Times every morning online), we kept our weekend delivery intact.  It's nothing less than ritual.  But today when I pulled down the blue plastic banana peel-esque covering, the first thing I noticed was a printed white piece of paper.  It appeared like the note Deep Throat would hide in Bob Woodward's Times when they were scheduling their clandestine meetings in a Virginia underground garage.  But this is my life.  Apparently, the Times production schedule is behind and I am still owed one section.  Which section?  It was checked off with a big black X.  My eyes quickly scanned the list.  Please let it be Automotive.  Please let it be Automotive.  The X landed on Arts & Leisure.  My favorite.  I am sympathetic about running behind, but The Times owes me huge.

Coming Clean

The other day I did something big.  HUGE.  I crossed something off my list that was so monumental, I couldn't bring myself to write about it on TPG as it languished in my to-do pile.  Now, I understand that undermines the very flavor of this, my little on-line shame-a-torium, but I knew that day would come.  The day when I would just be so appalled with myself that I would have to hide the truth.  Since that day has now passed, I stand before you in full disclosure.  Well, kinda.  I still won't share what the task is, uh, was, but I can now proudly report that it is a fait accompli.  So am I that much closer to being a completely changed woman?  Judge for yourself.  It's 5:24pm.   I haven't even started dinner.

Thanks

So, it being Sunday night at 8:28pm, you probably thought you were safe from a trite post about Thanksgiving and all the emotion it stirs.  In any normal universe you would be correct, but not in one where everything happens on a slightly delayed time frame.  You're just lucky you're reading this while it's still November (I still have about three hours to make that cut).  With the international stage in turmoil, I am glad to take a moment to reflect before getting swept up in the trivialities that come with the next slew of holidays.  I am not just thankful for American Girl's overnight FedEx service.  And while I have dear family, friends and readers here at TPG who I all want to thank right now, fortunately, I am not the editors at Time Magazine who must feign suspense over an obvious choice for their year-ending 'Person of the Year' issue.  I don't sell magazines (sidebar: do they?).  So it will come as no surprise to anyone who has come within three miles of my aura that this year I am thankful for Barack Obama.  Regardless of what he does or doesn't do (and, oh, he'll do it), just watching someone other than yet another white male being sworn into that office, should make us all, to plagiarize Gary David Goldberg of Family Ties fame, shappy.  It's a cross between shocked and happy.  I'm sure you won't see a trace of it on Barack's face, but you will on mine.

The Transition

So now that I've uncurled myself from the fetal position and come down from the out-of-body high of Tuesday night's election results, it's time to get back to normal.  Or whatever normal is now.  I feel like the aura of the planet has been instantly changed for the better.  In keeping with the new world order, I feel it is only necessary, only right, that I acknowledge the occasion with some kind of landmark change here at TPG.  I can't appoint my own Chief of Staff (although I'd appreciate the opportunity and can certainly establish the need).  And I can't start holding my own press conferences (although there's been no muzzling of my opinion as it is).  There's no way I'm getting a puppy.  So for now, my gesture will sound micro, but feel grand to me.  Today, I mailed in the $70 rebate certificate for my pink Blackberry Curve.  The piece of paper that has been sitting on my counter for a month and is due to expire in just a few days.  See, I'm getting the hang of it.  And so will our new man on the mountain.

Big Day

Well, I'm just glued.  To my seat.  To the tube.  And, simultaneously, I'm becoming unglued.  Watching the returns from election day roll in slowly, hour by hour, minute by minute, is some unique form of torture.  Add an extra layer of pain if you're watching Fox News.  But this is one waiting game that is out of my-slash-our hands.  And thankfully it will be over soon.  In fact, now that my candidate has just won Ohio... it looks like an official victory will be announced imminently.  I know this may be hard to tell from where you're sitting, but I'm about to go nuts.

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...

Time's Up

I'm sitting at the library feeling like a criminal.  I owe the equivalent of the GNP of a small European nation in late fees for books I still can't find.  But also, a bird just slammed into the window next to me.  He left a mark of feathers and whatnot, but did fly away unharmed.  Can I ignore it, or is this bad citizenry?  Selfishness reigns.  Back to me.  I did something uncharacteristic yesterday and glanced ahead in the week-by-week datebook that I keep near my phone.  I was alarmed.  No, there wasn't some hellacious family wedding on the horizon or, worse, three-year-old's gymnastictatious birthday extravaganza.  The datebook is up in just a couple of weeks.  Up.  Finished.  Kaput.  The road ends with September.  Now I have been thrown unexpectedly back into the day planner market.  I have experimented with several alternatives over the years, including a beautiful fancy one I bought on eBay.  None of them took.  Am I datebook Teflon?  The problem now is that if I don't choose something, anything, to replace my current solution soon, we're down to nothing.  And in case you can't guess, I don't do nothing well (that was three negatives for those keeping score at home).

Off-roading

So there are a few on-topic anecdotes I could share today.  I could talk about my Ferris Bueller's moment last week when I took my dad's hot German sportscar out for a spin to complete a bunch of must-do errands.  Of course, unlike Cameron, I had my dad's permission and, yes, I returned the car intact.  I could also tell how a friend yelled "Stop procrastinating!" after she found me, not on the treadmill, but in full conversation near the lockers at the gym.  As I had been by the hairdryers.  And the front desk.  I could always talk about the doorknobs.  But I have to dedicate this post to something unrelated.  Today I passed what had to be the ugliest car I've ever seen.  I found out it is Ford's new crossover wagon, the Flex.  Granted, I saw it in black, but this thing looked exactly like a hearse.  And it made me think of my brother (wait, I'll explain).  From a ridiculously early age, he had a thing about Ford Tauruses (Tauri?).  He hated them.  Actively.  At like, age nine.  To me, this was yet another piece of evidence that Ethan was not a conventional guy.  And guess what?  Twenty-five years later, he's not.  He lives in Ithaca, a decidedly unconventional town, and spends his time championing decidedly left-wing causes like sustainability and renewable energy.  His blog is called Green Brooklyn.  And when he drives, yeah, it's a Prius.  Duh.

The State of the Union

Happy Independence Day everyone!  Although a national holiday, I thought this would be a good day to take stock on a micro level at TPG.  Besides, I want to satisfy what I'm sure is your undying curiosity about the status of the tasks I've written about thus far.  As you know, I've taken this on in an attempt to change my behavior.  Has it been working?  Let's check out my success rate.

DONE:
- Ballet slipper: mended!
- Orange chairs: bought on sale!
- Mom's check: cashed!
- BDRY: booked for July 14th!

STILL ON THE LIST:
- Vignelli poster: in its dead-body-sized tube under my bed
- Bedside alarm clock:  reads 11:23
- iPhoto: no pix printed or archived; new ones uploaded
- Boxes in my room: dent made, still can't see floor
- Yoga lesson: what's her name again?
- Doorknobs: yeah, right

And one situation has worsened. 

Teeing Off

For the last couple of days, I have been glued to coverage about Tiger's win at the US Open.  It's not that I love watching golf.  I love watching him win.  I love the sheer catharsis of the fist pump, the caddy bear hug, the whole thing.  And I would love to have a job where it was socially acceptable to go bananas with emotion if the situation called for it.  Of course, my situation doesn't exactly have a sudden death 19th hole.  Today in the car on the way to camp, Zoe ate three string cheeses and learned all the words to I Kissed a Girl by Katy Perry.  Not exactly my Cuba Gooding Jr. moment.  But it's so in me.  Two nights ago, I was sitting on my couch eating Breyer's Cherry Vanilla completely undone by yet another rerun of Jennifer Hudson's show-stopping scene in the middle of Dreamgirls.  Never mind the first time around in the theater.  Hooting.  Hollering.  Yes, that's me down in front.  So, realistically, I am not winning an Oscar or lifting the Wimbledon trophy over my head, but maybe the same rules can apply to my little disorganized corner of the world.  This afternoon, I stood up to a pushy, bald salesman and got all my money back for a pair of overpriced tennis sneakers that I had to return by today or I would be stuck with store credit.  And it was raining.  Come on, where is the roar of the crowd??