One of the worst things about the holidays is one’s perception and understanding of how the week is structured gets all messed up.
For example: today I am firmly convinced that it is Monday. I keep thinking that I have nothing scheduled for tonight. This misperception is further supported by the fact that a new gaming group gathered yesterday, and has chosen Sunday nights to meet. If we meet on Sundays, yesterday must have been Sunday, and today, perforce, must be Monday.
In fact, today is Friday, and I teach a class tonight.
The crazy thing is I thought that it was Monday last Tuesday as well. As Monday technically signals the beginning of my weekend, this suggests to me that I’ve been working too much. Freelance writers don’t get paid vacations, however. Nor do freelance teachers. And in the midst of rearranging and end-of-year cleaning I still have to fit in a final edit of three chapters given to me over a week ago by the publisher, a first edit of a new teaching workbook, and those three book reviews, all before Monday, as well as teaching four three-hour classes.
No rest for the weary. So naturally, I am work-avoiding by blogging and doing web work.
I moved a whack of books around last week, putting my music and art books up front in the bay window alcove (you know, where I actually play the cello) and bringing my Craft books into the office (you know, where I write/edit Craft-related stuff and have an altar). It makes a heck of a lot more sense. I also somehow ended up with an empty shelf and a half left over when all was said and done. I’m not questioning that particular miracle, because I might wake up and discover that it was all a dream. When HRH came home that day he looked at it and remarked that I’d better buy more more books to fill them, because they look awful. I have a wonderful husband. He may mock me, but he mocks me with words I can twist to my own ends.
Anywhats. Point is, I moved the books. I evidently still haven’t updated the shortcut in my mind, however, because when I need a Craft reference I’m still getting up from the computer and walking through the living room, all the way into the front alcove, only to stand and blink at the case of music texts. Then I kick myself and walk all the way back into the office. I moved things to make life easier and more efficient. So far, I’ve succeeded only in confusing myself and making myself feel stupid.
Things will improve.
I’m currently twisting my husband’s mind by playing the Matrix Revolutions score, Tori Amos’ Tales of a Librarian, Radio Sunnydale, the Metallica-playing cellos of Apocalyptica, and the Return of the King score on random. I can hear the radical shifting of gears his brain makes when the shuffle function engages. For some reason, though, the player is inordinately fond of RotK, which is partly disappointing, and partly amusing, because it really lulls HRH into a sense of complacency subsequently exploded by something antithetical.
Words that are still odd to hear from my husband:
“I finished my book and I want to read the next one. Can we go to the bookstore?”
I weep with joy. Bernard Cornwell, you and Sharpe are my new heroes.