Procrastination

The sooner you get behind, the more time you will have to catch up. Words that I have lived by. Procrastinator should have been my middle name. My middle name is Lucille. I remember my cousins saying my name was Lucille Ball, because I was always bawling. I don't remember if I cried about that, but I may have.

I remember my dad saying that he wanted to name me after a country music singer named Lucille Star. Nobody that I asked had ever heard of her. I wondered if maybe I was wrong about that memory, and my dad died before I got around to asking him. I procrastinate. 

I did get around to googling the name, and found out that it was true. There really was a country singer named Lucille Starr, and apparently she lived in St. Boniface in the 60's. We lived in St. Boniface in the 60's. Coincidence? Maybe my parents went to a concert, or maybe they knew her. She could have been our neighbour. 

Technically, this blog was not finished on the third day of daily stream of consciousness blogs, because it's 1:05 am on Tuesday morning. I procrastinate. My time is up. 

Day 2 of daily blogs

It seems like only yesterday that I started back to daily blogging. That's a day longer than most things that I start. I really would love to be diligent and self disciplined, but I am not. I am a starter upper, not a finisher.

My first grade teacher saw this trait in me and commented on my report card that I was smart enough to do the work, but that I didn't hand in my school work at the end of class because I wanted it to be perfect. I remember grade 1 quite vividly: my desk neatly organized with all of my unfinished assignments nicely stacked in the corner. Pretty much still functioning the same way. I start a project, but get stalled by the second day because I want to do it perfectly, so I will leave it until that magical day when I have time to do it justice. Then I start a new project, and the cycle continues. I remember Derek coming home from work and I would have ten unfinished projects lying around the house. 

Twenty minutes went by so fast again. This daily blog thing might actually happen. It might nor actually say anything of value or interest to anyone, but it's finished.

My Latest Thinks

My friends have been asking what I've been doing during this time of self isolation. I would love to say that I have been writing my next novel. Nope. I have a draft, a really rough draft, of a bit of memoirs, that I started at least 10 years ago. Every time I  open the file, I delete a little bit more of the manuscript. I've also got another novel in my brain that just isn't writing itself down. 

Even my blogs have become just a place where abandoned and unpublished drafts go to die.  It's been about 3 years since I last wrote anything and posted it. 

So today, I set a timer for 20 minutes and then I will publish  whatever I've got on my Random Thinks blog. No more sitting in front of a blank screen for hours trying to squeeze words out of my brain and transfer them onto a suitable platform to share. Even if I end up with a couple hundred words before I decide what I am writing about. Like a stream of consciousness session. No pressure. 

Who am I kidding: the pressure is still on. Dang. I am thinking about what I can say about my life. 

And that's my time today. Wow, 20 minutes goes by fast. I will stick with my plan, though, and give you readers (if there is anyone actually reading this, a bit more content.

Light Bulb Moment

This morning I had the perfect example of a Light Bulb Moment. It started when I left the kitchen to get something from the linen closet.

Then I spent at least two minutes staring at the contents of my linen closet, trying to remember what it was that I was there to get.

That was when I had my Light Bulb Moment -- I was here to get a new light bulb for the kitchen.

Ask a Stupid Question . . .

Ask a Stupid Question . . . . 

They say there are no stupid questions. I don’t know who ‘they’ are, but I think they are wrong on this one. Here are a few that I have been asked. I am sure that I have asked lot of them myself, but l don’t remember, not that I would want to remember.

At coffee shops, my usual order is a large black coffee. The kid behind the counter will invariably ask:

               “Would you like cream with that?"

When my hubby asks me something,
     and I say, “I think thus and thus...” 
he will almost invariably ask, “Are you sure?”

 "No.  I am not sure!

 That would be why I started my answer with “I think.”

I was once asked,e “Are those your real eyes?”
Ummm. Yes?

 I think the question he meant to ask was, 
           "Are you wearing coloured contacts?"
    or: "Is that your real eye colour?" 

       or maybe it was just a really bad pick up line.

Anyway, I think those are stupid questions.

Eating Chicken on a Grave?

No, that's not morbid . . . it was a birthday party!

My husband and his sister had planned to get together 'one of these days', and you know how that goes. They got as far as deciding to go have a chicken dinner at Chicken Chef. But, life was always too busy.

   . . . and then he was gone.


My sister-in-law messaged me last week to tell me that Derek owed her a chicken dinner, and she was planning to collect on that promise , by getting take-out food from Chicken Chef on his birthday, and eating it at his graveside. Did we want to join her?


I thought the idea was a little morbid, but okay, I agreed to join her for a picnic in the cemetery -- I had wanted to go put some flowers on Derek's grave anyway. We invited my kids, and Derek's brother and his wife. We set up chairs around the grave, and ate chicken.

So we celebrated Derek's birthday at the site where his physical body was laid to rest almost three months ago. It was cold!


What kept this graveside picnic from getting morbid or creepy was that Derek isn't there anymore, just the body that contained his spirit for 58 years. We  know where he is, and that he must be looking down at us eating chicken on his grave on the coldest day of March.

Muddling through the Murky Middles

You know you are middle aged when . . .

     . . . you realize that you have not become your mother after all. Somehow, you skipped right into becoming your grandmother!

     . . . you and your friends have stopped one-upping each other's horror stories from labour pains and the delivery room, and have been  comparing notes on your collection of ailments and  syndromes.

         . . .  you still buy the sexy nightie, but now you wonder how it will look with your incontinence brief underneath.


        . . . . Your back and your knees plead with you to stay home, but your bank account says you have to go to work.  

Here's to all of us muddling  through the murky middles. Soon enough we will be joining the grey hair crowd, but for now, what happens at the hair salon is still magic.