excuses, excuses

There was one time several years back when my summer fling of a boyfriend from 1995 showed up on my doorstep while I was in the midst of doing laundry.  As we'd broken up nearly a decade before and hadn't seen each other since,  this was a bit of a strange occurrence.

This isn't likely to shock anyone, but I tend to let my laundry pile up to the point where washing, drying and putting it all away is a chore that will take 2 days or more.  I let it go to the point where I have literally not a shred of clean clothing left in my apartment - that fits, anyway.  This is quite a feat, considering I am a hoarder and have T-shirts dating back at least as far as the early 90's in my dresser drawers.  On the elusive laundry days, I am usually found to be wearing something completely ridiculous. 

On this particular day, I was wearing an electric blue bikini circa reading week in Cuba 1998 as underwear, which was clearly visible from underneath the largely translucent and low cut nurse's outfit* that I was wearing on top.

The sudden appearance of the boyfriend 10 years past expiry date was awkward on its own.  My choice of attire did not help.

I always feel like I need to apologize and explain myself whenever there is a long gap between blog posts. 

Following yet another internet service disruption, I am starting to think that Bell Canada is plotting against me.  Perhaps as my come-uppance for a $50 phone bill from 1999 which I never paid.  Or perhaps the technicians are deliberately sabotaging me just so that they can keep coming back to my apartment to see what ridiculous thing I am wearing when they come by.

Not that anything I've been wearing has been really ridiculous, but context is everything.  When the first Bell guy came to set up my service, I was dressed for the gym in lycra capri leggings and a lycra tank top with supportive sports bra that squishes things in place so securely that I had cleavage practically up to my chin.  The next guy caught me in the middle of painting/renovating my bathroom, and found me wearing old jeans with plaster and paint splattered on, a tool belt, and a tank top that kept sliding down below nipple level.  I was wearing a bra, and I kept hoisting it up, but still.  Has it been my clothing or just that it's a repairman knocking at the door that has made me feel like I'm the unwitting and unlikely star of a cheap porn?  The most recent guy was probably a bit disappointed:  I was just home from work and clad in business attire.  I guess I may have been giving off an icy aura that said "I have to be a bitch to be taken seriously".

I can't really blame my most recent service disruption on the blog gap, however, since it only accounts for 4 of 15 days.  Nor can I blame the Easter holiday/my parents** and the 36 hours I spent visiting them.

I don't really have an excuse this time at all, except for this:  sometimes writing is hard***.  Keeping a blog, even one like mine, involves the same sort of time commitment as a part time job.  Which is sometimes problematic in light of the time commitment involved with my full time job.  Sometimes I just can't think of anything to say, and I don't want to squirt out boring crap for the sake of posting frequently.  Sometimes I have plenty to say, but my heart just isn't in it.  Even when I'm really motivated and have no shortage of subject matter, it isn't as easy as I hope it comes across.  I can spend hours putting together a few breezy and conversational paragraphs that are read through in under five minutes.  Also, like any other lifestyle choice (such as diet and exercise), it's hellish trying to get back into it once you've fallen out of the habit.    

My most recent internet service disruption and Easter with my parents were sufficient to get me out of the habit.  A general case of the blues has made matters worse.  Drinking wine and watching Netflix hasn't done anything to lift me out of this funk.  I even watched The Notebook last night, hoping that a few sentimental tears would be emotionally cleansing.  It wasn't.  But it's whet my appetite to watch more emotionally charged dramas - which will hopefully be a little less gay and predictable.  If anyone has any ideas, please let me know****.  

On a circumstantially related note, laundry day is again upon us.  I expect that tomorrow night I will be commando in a pair of zebra-striped fun fur pants that I bought in third year, and wearing the T-shirt that I was given at age 11 when I got braces, which features a hippo with braces riding a skateboard, and the caption "Braces Are Hip".


*I bought it at Value Village for $3 because it was kind of awesome and I figured I might be able to use it as a zombie-naughty-nurse Halloween costume at some point in future.  (Costume pending).

**Sadly, you can't blame your parents for everything.  Take note, Molly and Jack.

***If you don't believe me, I challenge you to try it.  I mean, I like writing, otherwise I wouldn't do it, but that doesn't mean it's effortless.

****On that thought, I cried my stupid face off when I read The Hunger Games in preparation for the movie.  This surprised several people.  I call it my stupid face because as I was reading, I was fully aware of every ploy that was used on to trigger that exact emotional response, but I was drawn into it anyway.  When I say "a little less gay", I mean "a little less obvious".