Category Archives: Diary

I so want to be done trying to do the right thing.  It’s too exhausting.

When we moved in here over five years ago, I did the right thing and bought those (at the time three bucks each ZOMG) swirly cfl lightbulbs.  I think one or two have burned out since then, including the one socket in The Keep where they burn out almost instantly. (Add that to my next Lowe’s splurge.  That’ll make the kitchen fixture, two closet lights, and The Keep.  The old man is gonna love me.)

Last night the hall light burned out, and it was a doozy, kind of like a forgotten scene from the Green Mile or something, except the bulb didn’t actually explode.  It’s death took a long time, though.  The light got brighter, then dimmer, then it flickered on and off, then it got really dim and hummed for a while, and then it finally popped and went out, leaving a stink of smoke that made Mr Moth say, “Bring me a fire extinguisher.”

Which I did, because putting out fires is something that, while not in his job description, he has been called upon to do repeatedly at his job.  In fact–well never mind.  That can and should be a post of its own.

Anyway, I brought the fire extinguisher, but by the time I got there the smell was gone. And, yadda yadda, I positioned myself where I could watch that fixture, you betcha, and I figured I wasn’t going to get any sleep, and actually planned to go outside and make sure there weren’t flames shooting through the roof or anything, when I remembered a long time ago when Zor was little, she was jumping on the bed–illegally, of course.  I was writing, and she sneaked off.  Then, predictably, a leap went wild and she came down on my little table, which smashed, along with the lamp thereupon, which shorted out, flipped a breaker, and plunged our apartment into darkness.

In the darkness, I smelled smoke.

I am one of those people who generally freaks out after the crisis, so I dropped my clipboard, which is how I wrote in those days, and charged, blind and barefoot over broken ceramic, to collect my shrieking child, and whisk her outside.

But then what?  Should I rouse all the neighbors and tell them to get out because the house might be on fire? Keeping in mind I didn’t even actually know what had happened yet, since I had been minding my story when CRASH, BLACKNESS, SHRIEKING, SMOKE happened, in that order.

So I stashed my toddler in her car seat and grabbed the flashlight out of the truck and went back in.  I was able to figure out what happened, establish that nothing was on fire, get the kid back in, and mop up the bloody footprints…  But the point of this sidebar is, the smoke was not coming from the broken lamp, but from the living room ceiling fixture, where all three bulbs had fried.  I really wanted that fixture replaced, but the landlord refused, and while there were never any problems afterwards, it was a long time before I slept easy again.

So last night I remembered all this, and decided to look and see if anyone else had reported bizarre cfl lighbulb deaths, and so using my trusty phone, I googled it and, yeah. Not only do they fizzle, but they stink, too.  In fact, they say it’s normal.

Buy cfl bulbs, they said.  It’ll be good for the planet, they said.

Well to hell with that.  No more of those suckers for me; my blood pressure can’t take it. Also they’re a huge pain in the butt to get rid of. Also, apparently they’re obsolete already.

So I’m going to get a few more incandescents to tide us over until the price on the NEXT BIG THING settles down a little. (Apparently LEDs. Or something.)

I haven’t posted here in quite a while, because, well, pressure.  WordPress is supposed to be my “professional” site, and suddenly I have some bizarre form of stage fright when I come here.  I realize stage fright is normal, but I don’t personally have it.  That’s because, in real life, once I’ve assessed whether a stranger poses a threat, I don’t care what he thinks of me.

I do occasionally suffer from some social anxiety regarding people whose opinions might matter impact me in a way that matters.  Job interviewers, for example, or family members with whom I’m only distantly acquainted.  People in the publishing industry.  I suppose I am still sorting by threat level.  If this person hates me, will he just not hire me?  Or will he ruin my chances of ever publishing a novel?  Or perhaps he will only destroy me emotionally but leave my writing intact?

Whenever I have to do something anxiety-producing, I like to swipe a pair of my husband’s socks and wear those– especially if the thing I have to do involves driving in treacherous weather or confrontation/negotiation of any kind, because those are kind of his super-powers.  But when, at school, we had to present our design ideas to the college marketing team, everybody was so nervous about it, I thought I should be nervous also.  Maybe I would not get nervous until the presentation actually began.  I was only nervous about nervousness I didn’t even feel!

One of Mr Moth’s super powers is not public speaking, and we were supposed to dress business-y, so tube socks were not acceptable anyway, but when I was poking through my jewelry box for something to put on, I found this guitar pick, which he got at a Kiss concert back in the day.  I thought, Gene Simmons doesn’t have any problem being in front of groups of strangers! and I tucked the pick in the breast pocket of my jacket.

The presentation went ok, and we all survived, but much later when I remembered the pick and went to take it out of the jacket and put it away, it wasn’t there.  It wasn’t in the jewelry box, either.  And by then I couldn’t remember if I had washed the jacket or not; I’d only worn it for a few hours, so hard to tell.  I checked the jewelry box probably a dozen times, if not more, and it wasn’t there.  Earlier this week I broke down and told Mr Moth it was gone, that I had lost it.  He was bummed.

Earlier, in between bouts of crushing fatigue, I started reorganizing the contents of my dresser and closet.  I moved some non-clothing items into the office.  This week I started reorganizing the office.  And inside the jewelry box, where it had always been kept, and where I had looked probably a dozen times, was the pick.  In plain sight.  Right next to the fake pearls I wore to get married and Mr Moth’s class ring and some other inexpensive but important keepsakes.

Woot!

Now I can hang onto it while I hit “post entry.”