I once read a quote from a writer whose novel was just north of fine and whose advice to other writers was essentially: Extricate yourself from that daily commitment more often and write. Deal, I thought when I read it and then thought in double time when I cleared the calendar a week ago for a day of me, fingertips deep in this laptop and brain deep in my NaNoWriMo project, a novel that is shaping up to be both better and worse than I imagined it would be.
I busted out more than 6,000 words, though still did not catch up to where I needed to be. But I sat there, wrapped in a quilt, timing out hour-long writing sessions then breaking for 15 minutes to crack my knuckles and eat Lick Em Aid. (I also still don't have a plot or anything that links one chapter to the next or any of the other chapters. Pretty!) And then, feeling festive with all this word-count success, I crimped my hair and went into public to listen to a band of ladies who sounded like they would wear the GoGos upside down as accessories.
This was perfect timing, this need to GO OUT AND PAR-TAY and my friend Rad-Attack-Ack-Ack visiting. This is also how I found myself in the back of a cab when the sun came up. My jaw bones weak from the combination of a) having her pour flammable liquids down my throat in a really abusive way; b) uncontrollable yammering.
Oh holy hangover. It's been awhile, but I still recognize the sound of my own liver's death bleat. I slept until 4 p.m.-maybe 5 p.m., then I curled into the corner of the couch, wrapped myself in layers wearing layers of leisure-ware. I watched four movies. I took a cab downtown to get my car because I couldn't face the walk to the bus stop or parting with my pajama pants, though I'm not sure why I thought I had to dress up to ride the bus. I watched 5/7ths of "Downton Abbey" and ate 2/3rds of a pizza. Once again, I was still awake when the sun came up -- though this time I was working on couch sores, a British accent and a hair do that twists around my head in a way that really screams "M'Lady," instead of, say, seeing if Radzo could, or even would, wear me as a hat.
Oh holy hangover, Day 2. How bad is a 2-day hangover? Bad enough to a) see a commercial for Wendy's Spicy Chicken Sandwich and actually say, aloud, "Mm. That looks good"; b) get into the car and drive to Wendy's; c) decide this is not nearly enough of the bad bad window food and make a bonus stop at McDonald's for two apple pies; d) pass out into a pool of my own greasy drool for 3.5 hours and then wake in time for bed.
I found myself back into the world, back in public. Wearing shoes that clomp and walking down stairs. Clomp-clomp. Clomp-clomp. Then I took a digger, sliding down the steps, four quick clomps in succession as I windmill arm myself toward a railing, active game of Words with Friends in one hand. I spun a bit, then came to a stop. But it would be obvious to anyone in the room I just left -- and had to return to -- what had just happened. I put my hood up in shame.
Then I went to bed two hours early.
We start watching the second of the two-part documentary on PBS about Woody Allen, having missed the first, and I couldn't take my eyes off the screen, and when I do it is only to slide more and more of his films into our Netflix queue. I love Woody Allen. I'm fascinated by Woody Allen. And I can't figure out why it doesn't bother me that he hooked up for life with Mia Farrow's adopted daughter.
I met a woman who knew the first owners of our house. I learned that right now I'm sitting in what was once the dining room, but is now the living room, staring at what was once the kitchen, but is now the main level bathroom. And in a second, when I go make a pumpkin cheese cake, I'll be doing it in a room that once was called The Sun Room and had an organ in it.
When I asked her about the OG who lives next door, she called him "Crabby (OG)" which was surprising. The last thing I'd call The OG is "crabby." "Player" seems more apropos. The other night I saw through his window a woman dressed in a quilted robe standing on his landing. He's also added curtains in his dining room that shield me from watching him take lunch. The imagination runs wild, but nowhere near crabby.