Cold Feet

Okay so I need to write. But there are a dozen things buzzing through my mind right now. You might get what my long distance friends recognize as my typical email style, which, though I have lots to say, really comes across as saying virtually nothing. Or, this could turn out to be brilliant. You just never can tell.

I'm supposed to write about sparklers. By supposed to I only mean that I asked the guys at the party what I could blog about and Dave tossed out the word "sparklers," which made sense because that's what we were holding at the time. But, sparklers aren't really on my mind at the moment so I'm going to take a risk and go out on my own a bit. Light my own fire, so to speak.

It is entirely possible that I just attempted to slice cheese with a letter opener. I can't be sure, because this instrument was found in a silverware drawer. I thought, "oh, this will work great!" Only it didn't. And as I was sawing at the cheese (Vermont White Cheddar Extra Sharp), it hit me. "This kinda looks like a letter opener." And then I got embarrassed. What if they find out? (They, being the people I'm dogsitting for--the wine people, who surely know how to properly cut cheese.) Still I can't be sure it was a letter opener. I mean who keeps a letter opener in a silverware drawer? It had a fat wooden handle, like an ice pick, but the stainless steel blade was very letter-openeresque. And it didn't cut cheese too well.

So that was one thing on my mind. Only now I seem to have forgotten the dozen or so other things I was thinking. Let me take a few minutes back with my book to possibly jump start my creative brain. I'm reading this brilliant book called A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers. I couldn't figure it out at all at first. The back cover of the book gives absolutely no insight other than things like "Exhilarating!" "Funny!" "Profoundly Moving" Which all made me want to read it but gave me zero insight into what exactly I was getting myself into.

It's a memoir, but I didn't even know that until a handful of pages in. Still, I didn't know, a memoir about what? My next thought, 100 pages in was, "okay, so this guy can ramble incessantly and it's entertaining enough, but brilliant? Pulitzer brilliant?" (He was a Pulitzer Finalist.) But now, half way through, I get it. He's brilliant, or at least wildly clever. I can't figure out if he knew what he was doing (planning it all out, how he would convey the story), or if he's just one of those naturally creative people out of whom spills a mess that people deem brilliant only because they don't have the gift. I guess what I mean is, how hard did he try? (And more importantly, could I do it?)

My feet are cold.

This is relevant because no longer do I harbor illusions that I will resume with inspiration and spill out brilliantly random thoughts here today. And the reason those illusions have faded is simple. My feet are cold. Just as hunger trumps good conversation, so cold feet trump blogging.

What I mean is this. I must go warm my feet. It is far more important than anything else in my world at this very moment. And the liklihood that I will return to this cold room with the computer is unlikely. What is more likely is that I will go warm my feet with socks and a blanket on the sofa, settle in with my almost Pulitzer-winning memoir and a Coke Zero, and shortly thereafter close my eyes and dream the afternoon away.

And this may be irrelevant, but I feel the need to share what I've discovered in the last 20 minutes: lemonade and extra sharp white cheddar cheese is a terrible combination.