Usually a day such as today would be a boon to my mood and outlook– not so today. Despite the fantastic glowing orange leaves, just a few, that remain on the huge tree in front of our house, I am still utterly uninspired. All I have in front of me is making dinner and doing even more laundry. I would write about making dinner, how it is going to be vegan lasagna, trying out my new idea of using beans instead of meat, but I don’t want to write about food on this blog because I have such a hard time writing about food on my actual food blog. Can’t waste a morsel.
It could be the recent lack of sunshine (not something I would typically mention as being a bad thing) that has thrown me into a funky funk. Maybe the shorter days have something to do with it. If I can get away this weekend to paint for a few hours that might jump-start my brain into doing something other than feeling like a big, rutted lump. I should just cut my losses, stop writing about my own pathetic misery and go wash the clothes piling up in the basement. My life isn’t so terrible, it is just predictable lately. Even with two toddlers, which is saying something. They aren’t completely predictable, it is my own mind that is predictable. And I can’t get away from it, ever. Too bad I have to stay a sober-ish, responsible parent, otherwise, I’d have the option of becoming a drunk or drug addict. Oh well.
I will post an image from 4Horseshoes Studio, and hope for the best.
20 Fingers, 20 Toes 
You know, 20-20, if I may call you that, I often share your moods, and I, too, wish that I could just get all perky and dance a little “here’s to hope and change and a gorgeous autumn and creating” jig and all that crap. But there is no getting away. I find myself incessantly fantasizing about a weekend away. Don’t care if I’m alone or not. Just care that the eyes at the back of my head get to close, that for one, blissful morning, the start of the day depends on me, for one, blissful night, that the whole world sleeps silently and peacefully without shooting me full of scream-induced adrenaline, and that for one, blissful day, I get to choose every single moment, without negotiating or being patient or even interacting. I just want some freaking difference to shake the monotony, but even having a different child every two minutes, as is the world of the toddler parent, does not count as new. I want something really new. Remember when your life was your own, and a new project or job or boss or lover or even a new freaking movie changed your outlook, your thoughts, your beliefs?
Yeah, none of that happens any more. And it feels like it never will. When do they go to college? Is that really when life will actually begin?
Show me a stimulated, eager, engaged, creative parent and I know they have regular childcare.
Vegan lasagne? Invite us over. I’d ask for the recipe, but I’m in a rut there, too, cooking the same few things the culinary tyrants agree upon over and over and over and over. I yearn to eat out, just to get something I like again.
I don’t want more cooking ideas. I want to cook for one. Clean up after one.
Guess I should have blogged this myself, but 1)you started it and 2)my four readers are tired of me saying that I’m bored with my life. So I’ll inflict my malaise on yours, hoping that, by contrast, you seem a put-together, wise, impressively adaptable, spirited, and creative genius.
For you are, of course….
Come sleep over at Mom and Dad’s so I can skip the allergies and hang out and help out.
I’ll give you massage and stay sober. I’ll buy you a bottle of delicious booze to drink so you can have a moment while I watch the bb’s. You can get tipsy and walk around their neighborhood, which I know is beautiful this time of year. Imagine crunching leaves underfoot, fresh still air to breath against your scotch-warmed lungs and quiet.
Bringing sunshine from California soon.
Love you.