And Gutenberg Lived Here: So What’s So New About This New Year’s Thing?

So now that the politics thingy is finally so overdone

no one really seems to cares any more-

and,

like planning next year’s Mardi Gras-

which starts-

the moment this year’s Ash Wednesday done-

in a hotel in Majorca

with all the carnevalist “Captains” of the companies

on board

to execute manoeuver critique,

while partying hearty,

the new political candidates

(Hillary vs Ivanya?)

are meeting,

 

to discuss when they can start the new campaign for:

President/ senator/representative/ judge/ dog catcher/ fill in the blank.

I have a question:

This is the New Year, huh?

So what shall we do with it?

Yes, that is a real question.

THE real question,

if you ask me.

And one that I have been thinking about for quite a while now.

Like since about last Easter.

When I re-read a passage from one of my favorite books-

Lose Weight. Get Laid. Find God.

And discovered what I,

at my age-

(they have info for every year)

“absolutely have to do with the rest of my life”

or something like that.

And that I…

oops

didn’t.

Do it last year, I mean.

Oh dear, oh dear.

But that I did,

however,

experience a whole lot of wonderful beautiful fascinating things

and ideas

and people.

But somehow,

there’s still that little buzz in the back of the head,

probably sponsored by life coaches

and how to  pages,

and Swedish furniture houses,

that says

“Hey, Magivering is all good and well,

and seems to work for you-

nobody dead,

no money owed,

no one in jail…

but…”

To which I answer:

“Sorry guys:

Just:

Writing, music, people watching.”

See.

Life is good.

But now, it’s that famous time  of year.

The time when the gurus want you consider your life,

and feel sad

or upset,

or inadequate,

because you don’t spend enough time contemplating your navel or whatever.

Ie

Lose weight. Get laid. Find God

assumes you haven’t.

Or somehow,

you must be doing it wrong.

And so you think,

and ponder,

and make enough lists that trees are endangered,

and discover:

It’s about two minutes into the New Year,

relatively speaking,

and you have already broken all the rules you set down for yourself,

irritated the cat and dog,

and a few neighbors,

(singing finiculi finicula)

and have decided

if this is the new year,

maybe you’ll just stay in bed for a while.

Like until hubby,

who also shows no sign of

momentarily

reaching anything above a minus three on the Richter scale,

gets out there

and puts two tea bags,

no, make that three,

in a bizarre dancing giraffe tea-cup,

brings it to your bedside,

and…

that’s when it hits you:

I’m sick of cleaning, washing, driving people places-

Yada, yada, yada.

It’s not my goal in life to be a chauffeur for a neighbor’s sick goldfish,

paint the fence on both sides,

fill in for every musician in the world,

as a favor,

and have them still pocket the gig money.

I’m fed up.

And I won’t take it any more.

Wasn’t that in some film somewhere ?

Which means I probably owe copyright fees,

which means…

And why, while we’re on the subject,

won’t my otherwise fantastic husband

just accept that it is the natural-born role in life for men

to clean, wash, and drive people-

I mean, really…

Especially since

he is so darned good at finding parking spaces

As in:

Just get together  a group of a couple over the one drink limit men,

preferably from the Hunsrück mountains-

Hunsrücker spend so much time running up and down hills,

they are in great shape,

so there is no chance they will kill themselves with the booze.

Then you gather them together,

put them on the back seat of a car,

and

voila

they all suddenly know exactly where a parking spot is.

Especially if it is actually half filled by

a motor cycle,

with markings insinuating its driver is

very large,

very mean,

and has very mean friends,

who are members of a very large very mean motorcycle group.

Or, of course,

it is one of those spaces filled with garbage containers

or is the over wide entrance to a fire department,

the police station parking lot,

or

be still my heart,

the ministry of education,

where you actually can park,

since no one ever comes to work anyway,

since they are all “working at home”

Unless, of course,

one of them decides to come in one day-

like for  the minister’s birthday.

Which means you have a fifty-fifty chance-

ie:

either they see you,

and have you towed,

or they have been celebrating,

and don’t see you,

or do, but it doesn’t matter, since they are taking a cab.

Ah yes.

The parking  carousel.

Round and round we go.

It’s more than a bit like Russian Roulette, if you ask me.

Or maybe musical chairs

Footnote:

hey guys in the traffic and city planning office:

so when are you going to do something like they do in other countries with great success:

namely  uneven and even license plates-

one day odd,

next day even.

Odd or even, not both.

Or maybe a lottery-

five bucks a ticket-

the prize is a parking spot for a year.

So anyway,

meanwhile back at the ranch-

or actually here in Gutenberg Land,

on “throw new years resolutions out the window” day-

for which:

here is an absolutely genial idea-

I promise-

Since this wash, cook, clean, brush your teeth  trivial bit

has been going on since Akk and Ooga the cave people

had to wash the dino blood off the wall,

and find a way to park their leased bronto SUV,

and a new recipe for baked bean and dino  pot-

Yes, I know dinos and cave men don’t co-exist-

the dinos died out, because all the cave people were Methodists,

and Baptists,

and the dinos were put in the Wednesday night potluck beans..

Didn’t you all learn anything at school?

And then, of course, the eggs were gathered,

to decorate for Easter,

in the Mary and Martha circle,

and suddenly…

dinographically speaking….

So anyway,

this has been-

since the days of Akk and Oog,

and always will be,

the,

uhm,

I almost wrote living,

but it’s actually more like-

the necessary existence stuff you have to do,

to have the time for the

and this, to me, is the crux of the matter-

the reason we waste our time in watching boxing, the Indy 500, and politics-

good stuff-

like a  murder mystery I started,

about music,

while in the throes of singing on the holidays-

anything looks better, even struggling with a plot,

when you are fighting a chest cold,

allergy to some allergy food that was hidden in your supposedly allergy free,

And voila,

with the aid of …

that line in Bach Weihnachts Oratorium you have to practice another two hundred times

till you finally can manage it

without breathing in the middle,

becomes,

with the aid of a gardner,

who isn’t really a gardner,

some fancy bits swiped from a potted panto and an inspector calls,

a sudden mental picture of writing while lying in a hammock,

on a south seas island,

your sexy husband holding the keyboard-

while gently fanning you with a palm frond,

and pouring you ice tea

and feeding you teeny tiny intricately shaped cookies,

with silver pearls as deco

baked that morning,

just for you,

as he

wait…

wasn’t that too many hands

Sorry.

Ever since  a girlfriend gave me a very badly written bodice-ripper to read-

and said-

here

you absolutely have to read this-

(it turned out to be soft-core porn)

but at least the man was intelligent…

Sorry,

but if the lady,

instead of fainting at the sight of a man without a shirt

Suddenly became a business woman,

in a black stiff formal business suit,

writing a plot line,

and then picking up her husband,

and flying off to finish a book,

while he is at a conference,

on a desert isle,

by the name of….

Detroit…?????

And if somehow,

you find you have gotten the Bach Oratorium  line long enough,

gotten makeup on,

and heels,

and the long black formal fish and soup-

Actually, I wore black A-line,

with mutton sleeves,

so I looked like one of those weird christmas angels-

which is probably why Steven Moffat wrote a Dr Who series

about the weeping victorian angels.

Truthfully, I met him once at a writers’ convention

in London

at a section on Sherlock

and whether doctor Watson was a woman,

(and I taught him all he knows- don’t you wish)

So back to reality:

In the last couple of days,

Harold and I have found some neat cheap places to travel to,

and a way to finance it-

tbree great projects for me, and more for my math honey,

involving conferences-

too bad mathematicians always look for places where they can ernestly talk about math,

unlike doctors,

who are known occasionally to attend a few quick lectures

and then it’s  off to the beach in Hawaii,

(actually Cancun I did my research)

instead of an intercity hotel in downtown Detroit.

Not griping- I can always find time to read,

an empty conference room to sing,

and time for tv directed Pilatus for the physically challenged.

(and unattended donuts, unfortunately)

Which is why I usually stick to exploring-

I actually love exploring.

I try to find a different place to write each day,

a place with quiet,

and green,

and air,

and atmosphere-

who are we kidding here-

just make that a cheap coffee shop,

where I can spend my planning stages.

Later I tend to stay home,

and usually find I have made eight separate cups of tea and forgotten to drink them

when I find I am in the throws of …

What was that topic again?

Oh yes—

New Years Resolutions.

Hope yours are doing well.

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