M.A.S.H. isn't on on Saturdays so we typically switch between Fixer Upper and the Three Stooges. She laughs at Curly, Moe, and Larry. She can't understand the plots but she understands the slaps, pokes, and punches. If my two brothers come to visit, we can all sit on the couch and marvel at the violence we kids grew up on. No wonder my older brother felt motivated to break my nose once in a while.
On the maternal parental unit front, Mom continues to deteriorate. It's a slow crumbling of mind and body. She's still talking, but not as well. She's still walking, but with more difficulty. She's not walking me to the back door anymore, but she's still walking herself to meals. Sometimes (they tell me), she has to interrupt her meal to hightail it back to her bathroom. Hightailing happens in slow motion, which means she often needs some clean-up assistance before she can come back to dinner. It's chronic and exhausting.Speaking of clean-up, I'm cleaning the Love Shack. This endeavor happens only once a year when I have visitors (my sister). Today, I vacuumed the two lime green shag rugs in my front room. That shag really stands up and salutes when I run the vacuum cleaner over it. My sneezing fit has subsided, thanks for asking. I moved the cat litter box and scrubbed the bathroom floor. Within minutes after cleaning the box, the cat went in. When he came out, there was once again litter all over the floor. I washed a load of towels and cotton scatter rugs, scrubbed part of the kitchen floor (the white squares), and hunted down tumbleweeds (cat hair, dust, and detritus that coalesce into floating allergy bombs). My sister arrives tomorrow. I'm not ready.
I could have started cleaning sooner. However, as you might remember, I've been doing my own personal NANOWRIMO. I gave myself a timeline of thirty days. My goal was to write a 50,000-word novel. When I committed to doing this insane task, I estimated I would have to write 2,000 words per day. Yesterday was the thirtieth day. Today, I laid down my pen, metaphorically speaking. I don't actually write with a pen anymore. I used to when I was a kid, or pencil, too. I didn't care, as long as I could write. Anyway, I digress.
I'm pleased to report the results of my personal month of self-inflicted torture. Counting the chapter headings, a short blurb, and the title, I just barely exceeded 80,000 words. I now have a first draft of my novel. I wrote an average of 2,760 words per day. During the thirty days, I cooked, ate, slept, did my grocery shopping, visited my mother daily, and attended my weekly meetings, and in between, I wrote. I did bathe a few times, too, in case you were wondering, and I'm sure I did some laundry, although I have no recollection. I immersed myself in a world of fictional characters who now seem more real to me than many people I meet in real life.
It was the best thirty days I can remember. Better than ice cream. Better than sunshine. The best.
I don't know where it goes from here, but if I die tomorrow, I will die satisfied.
