Unorganised is not a user friendly word. I like to consider myself recklessly organised, because I can be organised, the reckless part comes from how I approach it.
Case in point. My day started with the sudden realisation that, even though every person who dreads the red wave, will have some sort of sanitary item in their house, I have not and it’s too late. I quickly throw my reusable pads in the wash, (does the amount of washing and heating I use to clean and dry them detract from their sustainability?) Probably not, but that’s what someone would tell me in a corner of a pub after over hearing a private conversation, Example. Sauvé, pompous stranger overhearing it:
“Actually I think your find that the amount of energy you use blah, blah, blah my opinion”
Me: I’m sorry do you have a vagina? No. Well… you’re not an expert on every subject: Tarquin/ Nick/ Josh/Boris / George/ you know the type.
So I thought I’d be organised and pre order a monthly supply of plastic free period products. They came a week early after I put the wrong dates in, but better to be prepared. I put them in a safe place. A very forgettable one. The hunt is on. I search with a hot water bottle strapped to me looking for the ‘self-claimed’ safe place. I’ve found the outside wrapper on the book shelf, the empty ripped box by the door, and the booklet on my desk but no contents… it’s a mystery. This is an example of my recklessly organised behaviour; the intention behind it was good, but the execution is all over the place. Not even Sherlock Holmes could solve it:
“It’s maddening. They’re either a genius or so chaotic I don’t ever wish to meet them.” That was Sherlock by the way.
The only things I do have is that box of tampons you keep at the back of the bathroom cupboard. (The supersized ones that were bought either in a panic on a night out at a tiny newsagent at 11.45pm or ones well-meaningly bought for you but without consideration of the velocity of your flow (it’s not a conversation you have often), no-one wants to admit that they may be that girl in Mean Girls. You know who I mean.
My days usually consist of a badly executed plan. Especially when I’m working from home. My pitfall is probably waking up late and not getting dressed until 2.30pm. (I’m actually dressed and it’s 2.14 pm so…it’s gonna be a good day). I’m writing/working but I’m also putting on a wash, making breakfast and doing a spot of DIY. All at once. So what happens is everything gets half done. The floor is covered in my latest DIY disaster as I decided late last night that I don’t like my wall paper so I ripped it off. A smell draws my attention as I realised that my breakfast I started making two hours ago is now a very hard-boiled egg with all the water boiled away, seconds from catching on fire. It does happen, leave it long enough trust me.
On my way to salvage what’s left of my breakfast, I find my coffee I made two hours ago, stone cold but still caffeinated, so I take the plunge. It’s hard for me to focus on a task unless I remove all temptation. I try to write for a solid forty minutes, no internet, no phone, no DIY and it usually works, but I find it hard to stop as I just want to finish my thought and another hour has gone.
I have very long thoughts.
My mum always said I was a long baby. Now I think I get it. I took my time. I’m so sorry Mum, no-one should faff about in your womb not even your impending daughter. Anyway… another hour sweeps by.
I have to be strict with myself otherwise I get sticky brain fingers. My teacher at university coined this phrase in response to my written work. I start talking about one thing, then another & another until I lose all sense of what I was actually talking about in the first place.
‘This play is about amazons, like that new walking dead episode where there is an all-women’s utopia, Charlotte Perkins, she was racist though, Lacanian Theory, what is real and what is imaginary, am I real? Oops lost track yes where was I? Umm… Milo Yiannopoulous and I’ve lost them I’ve strayed from the path…
Now in the ‘real world’ so called I give myself self-imposed deadlines. I have to get this done by this point otherwise… what? I won’t do it. I have to be strict with myself. I used to set myself homework when I was younger. I’d watch my older siblings leave theirs to the last minute and complain about it and I wanted to join in. I was too young but I mimicked them and panicked if I didn’t have enough time to finish it. Wow, talk about self-imposed! I don’t always stick to them. A timer is my friend. Ten minutes on this piece. Then go do something practical. Timer goes off but I haven’t finished my thought, an hour later and I haven’t eaten. I need the loo but I need to finish this thought and oh shit the toilet, the skirting boards need a clean, times gone. This is why it is so hard to keep concentrating whilst working at home. Luckily I just have me to look after and Boyf. Well, we take it in turns.
I’m very good at double booking myself. The day I have a deadline is also the day I’ve booked for someone to fix the oven. I get distracted by the gelatinous mould volcano living on the fridge that has been discovered. New task. I get blinkers. Time is not my friend plus a window of 10.30 am to 2.30pm is a big window to wait for someone just to have hot food again. I spend most of that time staring at the door like a dog half-way through doing tasks) Then I’m exhausted emotionally and every which way else.
I’m almost better when I’m working the day job, as I’m too exhausted to think about anything. Alas that was a small window into what a real life full time steady job was like; but it’s not desired. I got bored & tired didn’t have the thrill of not knowing when the next paid job would come or would I have to write/ create it. Plus I don’t want to wipe bums and listen to children read for a living, most excruciating thing in the world. I’m sure I was that child too and I don’t want to shame children who take a little longer to learn to read but it does take me back to a place I’d rather forget. I can read and write now if you were wondering, this isn’t written by some sort of bot. Never give up. N.e.v-er jife up.
‘Just a minute, I’m just doing something’. My mum was like this she was a chef for a time, so very useful for that profession. She was bit more reined in than me, I guess having children gives you the responsibility for others not just thinking about yourself.
I leave things to the last minute but not always on purpose. This piece has taken me months to finish. Today was the day to finish it. I spent most of the day crossly staring at my laptop. I did anything to avoid it, played ‘what meal can I make out of the food in my fridge before I absolutely have to go to the shop’ which consisted of mostly condiments; end of the bread: tuna mayo sandwiches, lots of black coffee, some sort of weird, rice, sweet potato, tinned tomato mess and a questionable yoghurt.
‘I really want to give it the finger. I don’t want to write that. It’s mocking me!’
I say this out loud. My boyf* comes in confused like he’s just walked in on an argument between me and an invisible person.
‘That’s it you’ve got me riled up now! And now I’m finishing my thought! Well done!
I shout sarcastically whilst typing.
‘I finished it.’ I shout to him. He waits a moment then replies ‘What?’ He’s on the loo.
Anger is a good thing. But I don’t have the perseverance to endure it. It scares me. I crave it too. Oh look a segue into another piece, Recklessly Angry, like I meant it all along. See I can be organised. I forgot to mention that my recklessness is a dyslexic and dyspraxic trait, but you got that didn’t you? I don’t have to spell everything out for you.
*Boyf – I’m trying to come up with a funny term for him, but I haven’t yet give me time