Find me…

on Substack for my most frequent rambling

on Instagram for intermittent photos of books, Max the cat, and my still adorable but not as amenable to photos teenagers

on Bluesky for whatever it is I’ll do there when I figure it out

However.

We hardly ever eat together during the school year, and during the summer it’s even worse. (I know the research on eating as a family, and I enjoy it so much when we do, but it’s not feasible daily with everyone’s different schedules.) Not only is dinner sometimes eaten four times, occasionally in several different locations, so is lunch. And breakfast is another scattered moment, since some of us don’t eat it, and we’re all waking up at different times.

I don’t mind that my kids make their own food at various times during the day, and Dylan still asks for lunch more than you might expect. I didn’t love the days when I tried to figure out nutritious combinations that everyone would eat.

However.

The kitchen is a disaster ten times a day. Some days, it’s only a disaster four times a day and some days it feels like I’ve wiped the counter twenty times. Mostly, they attempt to clean up after themselves, but a granite counter and warm wood cabinets mean things get missed. The pans and pots and glasses and crumbs and eggshells multiply amongst themselves.

I understand one day I will only have to clean up the messes I make, and people tell me I’ll miss it. It might be true, but right now, I’m not so sure about that.

You know what’s not helping? Reels. Tik Toks, depending on the day.

I know how algorithms work. I know the more I watch certain things, the more I’ll see related things. Yet the time I’m spending watching Reels created from snippets of Queen Charlotte aren’t really adding joy to my day. It’s not that I don’t think Queen Charlotte is worth watching; the opposite is closer to the truth. I want to watch it, “when I have time.” Yet, while I still haven’t found the time to sit down and watch an episode, I keep watching little bits and pieces. If you added all those bits and pieces, I know they more than make up the time needed to watch an episode.

The same goes for the rest of the time I waste clicking around on random things.

Now, I know recognizing issues is an important part of overcoming issues, but this one feels like it’s getting harder for me instead of easier. With all of the integration of platforms, I find myself falling into a rabbit hole of incomplete content, when I used to use social media for connection or (on rare occasions) inspiration.

I realize I can shift my algorithm by watching more content to related to the things I’m trying to focus on this summer. I’m not sure that’s the answer. I want to practice creating without the pressure of “should I make reels?” “this author’s reels make me want to read her books,” and that doesn’t even touch on the mammoth corner of the internet that is BookTok and Bookstagram.

I’m hopeful the more I try to fill my time with a variety of books, some of which can be read in snippets, unlike my beloved novels, the less I’ll find myself staring at a screen in the middle of the day, at least the screens containing things created by people other than myself.

I have screenshots of funny quotes or inspirational ones. I grab entire poems and mean to read them later, when I have more time to sit with the language. Some images are book recommendations, others are meant to be added to shopping lists or moisturizing routines or possibly lip gloss I plan to try when my four hundred lip glosses run dry.

Then there are the recipes. Some of them involve four photos, ingredients and then instructions that didn’t seem complicated until I hit the photo button for the fourth time. Dairy free or gluten free to try to alleviate stomach issues. Dips guaranteed to make stomach issues worse but parties more fun. Lots of cottage cheese concoctions to add protein. Desserts for the days when I want something sweet but forgot to buy chocolate or ate it all the last time I wanted something sweet.

The single thread tying them together is that they go to my photo roll and never see my grocery list, let alone my kitchen counter.

I want to be better about the screenshots. I want to declutter my brain and my life, not add to the random scattering of information that occupies my thoughts for moments before something new slides into that spot.

They’re a symptom of the scrolling I default to when I’m bored or stressed, the scrolling I’m trying to minimize, if not mostly eliminate. They’re all saved to be helpful in some way, whether it’s to make me laugh or provide extra energy or impart some sort of knowledge. However, when they all just sit in the photo app, they’re not doing any of those things.

I deleted some of them today, though probably not enough.

Maybe tomorrow I won’t add any more.

Depending on when I work out, I don’t always shower and get ready first thing in the morning during the summer months. (During the school year, I work out before the sun rises and get ready for the day before seeing most people.) There are days I sit around for hours in casual clothes or my workout gear, running errands or reading or running Dylan where he needs to be.

It seems silly on those days to take time for makeup, and I generally don’t. Lip gloss or lip balm? Always. I can’t live without it. My other must-have? Mascara.

While it’s always been a favorite makeup item, the older I get, the more I’m convinced I would put on at least one coat even if the house started to burn down, and I REALLY needed to leave. Age is changing the tone of my skin (less blush, more monochrome) and the length and lushness of my eyelashes. They’ve never been a prime feature, but now? They’re virtually invisible without mascara.

I wear it to go on walks with friends, drop Dylan off at tennis, and to pick up groceries. Does anyone care except me? I doubt it, though I must think it matters because it’s become a serious makeup crutch.

This isn’t one of those confessions that leads to, “I realized I’m caving to beauty standards and don’t care about that anymore.” It’s a confession to say, “If my eyelashes look a little sparse when you see me next, it’s because I only had time for a quick eyelash curl and one coat of mascara. Hopefully, the next time you see me, I’ll have had time for at least three coats.”

Apparently, age hasn’t done away with some level of vanity around here.

I made coffee and played my puzzle games (they help keep my brain strong, right?) and wasted a little time. During the school year, I would have used the time to work out or do something productive, but I basically languished on the couch like I was in a drawing room on a fainting couch, only I don’t have embroidery to accompany me.

I don’t expect either of the boys to wake up early today, since they were both up late. It’s possible that by the time either of them ventures down here, I will be ready for a nap, which seems silly. Summer months, when you work at a school, feel dreamlike some days. I guess this is one of those days.

I have a checklist to check, and I’ll do that eventually, but for now I’m relishing the overcast morning, the warm coffee, the soft, lyrics-free, playlist providing background for my still-tired brain. I wonder, for longer than I expected, why that tiredness doesn’t translate to sleep. Generally, I wouldn’t consider myself any sort of insomniac at all. I don’t always need a ton of sleep, but I generally see that as a choice, as I still need to set alarms in the morning.

If I do nap, I need to do it early enough that it doesn’t shift my sleep cycle too badly, because I’ve worked hard to move to an earlier-than-normal bedtime, at least for me. Now I’m rambling, which isn’t a surprise, because (like I mentioned), my brain still feels tired.

Tomorrow, I hope I can piece together a more thorough night of rest. I know from experience that this early of an involuntary wakeup will lead to extra hunger and possibly anxiety and all of the things I’m working to alleviate in my life. For now, I will drink my coffee and talk myself into a workout. Soon.

Too much red wine hurts my head in the morning. (The measuring stick for too much is getting shorter and shorter as I get older, but I haven’t learned that all the way, either.)

Cheese hurts my stomach and so does corn, but I keep eating one of them because it’s my favorite food group. Why don’t I shift my thinking away from that mindset? If I tell myself it’s an allergy and not an intolerance, will I be kinder to my future self instead of indulging my present self? I haven’t managed to find that kindness yet.

A certain pizza place is a major favorite of the boys, and each time I eat it, I feel my digestive system screaming in protest. (It’s not just the cheese, but the cheese doesn’t help, obviously.) Each time I say I won’t eat it again, but I get hungry and have a slice or two and regret it close to immediately.

Staying up late doesn’t bother me the day after my long night, but it absolutely does the day after that.

I could unthread more of these from the tapestry of things I know but ignore for unknown reasons, but the point of this line of thinking wasn’t to eke out confession after confession but to look at why I don’t allow myself to learn these lessons enough to feel better — in my body, in my digestion, in my brain.

I mean it when I say I’m not sure why certain things just won’t stick. I’m not sure if it’s laziness or stubbornness or a delusion that maybe this time things won’t go the same way they did the countless times before. (Surprise. We ate pizza tonight. We’re all tired after spending the holiday away from home, and I didn’t feel like cooking. I ordered from the offending pizza place because it’s Ryan’s favorite, and shockingly, my stomach is already protesting. My stomach does not care that ordering pizza made my life a little easier.)

Maybe writing these things out, seeing them in black and white, will help me make better decisions the next time I’m poised to make a bad one. I haven’t learned these lessons yet, but I hope one day I might.

I’m not giving up, of course, because giving up on life is ridiculous when you’re not even fifty. I just sometimes wish I had a crystal ball to show me some options, like a Choose Your Own Adventure book, the kind I used to read with my fingers firmly trapped between pages when I wasn’t exactly sure which adventure seemed like the right one. At this point in my life, the choices seem smaller, but bigger, all at the same time. I want so badly for the puzzle pieces to make sense, not just for my own life but for the lives of our kids, even though their lives are filled with their own potential adventures, not mine.

This in-between-ness isn’t for the faint of heart, which my friends with older teens already told me. But my in-between-ness is weighing on my heart right now, too. I want to write, but I’m scared to write, not because of the writing but of what comes after the writing. The promoting and wondering and wishing I would have made different choices along this twisty way of mine.

July hasn’t been a tidal wave, but I’m still going to do my best to ride it out to a better place than it began.

I’m working to change things. Butt in the seat more frequently and shoes on my feet to make sure I’m moving my body, not just for the physical results but also to quiet my thoughts. Part of my problem, I know, sits in the space between lofty, book-writing goals and mundane, fix-up-this-house goals, because for some reason I am terrible at working on both the practical and the ideal at the same time. If I could balance the two a bit better, I would get more done, but I am tiptoeing toward fifty and don’t seem to be any better at it than when I was leaving unfinished “novels” next to my typewriter in my childhood bedroom.

I’m rambling, which is my prerogative here, in this corner of the internet I’m not sure anyone other than me (and a few bots) even knows exists anymore. It’s something, though, to be sitting and rambling instead of letting the words fester in my head until I can’t untangle them any longer.

Maybe, in the second half of the year, I can untangle the undergrowth.

Maybe, in the second half of the year, my writing will be able to breathe again.

Today, however, I’m wearing jeans and a sweater. J Crew Factory describes it as a beach sweater, which basically means it’s not warm enough to wear during the winter, and it’s a little too loosely woven to wear without some sort of camisole, but it’s still a sweater. Yesterday, I was not wearing anywhere close to this many clothes, and I don’t mean that in a euphemistic way.

I’m still struggling to find my footing this summer. I have so much free time, and I’m not using it correctly. I realize there’s no correct or incorrect way to use time when you’re on a summer break from work, but believe me when I say I’m not using my time correctly. My short story isn’t finished, and my running endurance isn’t improving, and I haven’t done any home improvements.

I’ve done laundry and cooked dinner and those kind of basic domestic tasks; I’m not feeling depressed or incapable of forward motion. I just need a little more motivation and maybe a little direction.

Jeans aren’t helping.