Rattling Around

Charlotte is a sunshiney girl.

Man. I have been avoiding writing anything here because I'm still working on that whole fear of writing thing. I have a huge block, after failing to complete (1) my thesis and (2) my freelance course-writing gigs. It's kind of miraculous that I can even approach the computer. For a long while I couldn't even do that. Now I can at least google things, and read TWOP recaps. And cyber stalk people. But writing makes me vomitaceous.

Why do I cry every year at the end of the Scripps National Spelling Bee?

I'm like a total squealing Beatles fan for that thing. I don't know if it's all the beautiful Indian children, or thinking about how hard the kids have worked, or actually recognizing some of them from year to year, or remembering how promising I used to be, or the fact that I still do pretty well with the spelling of the words, and so I tear up at the faintest spark of a hope that I'm still smart.

It's ridiculous and weird. This year I watched it with Charlotte on my lap. Why a 2 1/2 year old was interested at all in the spelling bee is beyond me, but she was all apple-y scented and drying off from her bath, and shiny and golden and warm and snuggley. So of course I was even more lame and teary. When the stoic 13-year-old brace-face boy won instead of the impishly adorable and wiggly 11-year-old, and then cried on his father's shoulder, I was history. Done for. I hope he was crying out of joy, and not because this was the only time his father ever hugged him. You know, because he won. I worry. I make up tragic stories for people and then worry about them. Is this normal?

They asked for the correct definition of the word floccipaucinihilipilification on "Whad'Ya Know?" on NPR a couple of weeks ago, and I totally knew the answer. I was elated for about 4 days. So not normal. Why should my self esteem depend so much on my knowledge of arcane and practically useless words? And why am I listening to "Whad'Ya Know?" What am I, 57?

We close on our huge, brand new, beige-box-neighborhood house on the 30th, and the current state of our charming, tiny, one-bathroom, brick bungalow indicates that we are in some very serious denial. So that's worrying.

Why does no one in those neighborhoods plant any trees? I cannot do without trees and shade. Birds and squirrels. I have decided that I will instantly annoy everyone in my neighborhood by spearheading a campaign to get everyone to plant at least 2 trees in their back yard. I will start a newsletter and put it in their doors early in the morning. I will focus on how trees improve the beauty of the neighborhood, as well as property values. I will cite statistics and include graphics. I will contact Keep Indianapolis Beautiful, or some such group, and see if I can get them to donate trees. I will distribute brown paper bags filled with maple helicopters at Halloween. The local news media will get wind of me, when people start noticing that this one beige box neighborhood actually looks decent, what with the trees. I'll get involved at the national level. The Today Show will call, and before you know it... look for me on Oprah.

This is what I do in my head when I'm avoiding writing, and avoiding thinking about the shame that accompanies the not writing. I guess crying at spelling bees and crackpot scheming is better than constantly contemplating jerking the wheel in traffic, like I was for the previous 6 months. Right?