Mmm. Refreshing.

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I took a little bit of a mental health break yesterday. I got the must-dos done, and then just…well, not much of anything really. I think it did me good.

We have a tendency to go and go and go, sometimes without much thought to where it is we are actually going. I don’t know that I contemplated anything so deep, but for a day, I just was. I ate well, or at least, I ate healthy foods, I had a killer workout (you gotta love The Firm!) and so the day went. It was my day, I took it and used it — well, I used it gently, I can’t say I used it all up — and today my list is quaking in its boots.

Even better, I am feeling a surge of creativity, and this time, it’s writing creativity. I’ve had a long, long dry spell, my fellow readers and writers, a long one, one where my creative landscape turned into the kind of blowing sand only seen in the deserts of Hollywood backlots.

You may have noticed a bit of a return with the short story I posted last week. And what’s more, the writing felt good, it felt comfortable. So more to come?

And look at this! Another item off of my list. Blog post? Done.

“Me Inside Me,” A Writing 6 Revue, Fridays 7:30 pm Jan. 8-29 at Donny’s Skybox at Second City. Click for Tickets.

Check out  my full-length novels,  Her Cousin Much Removed,  The Great Paradox and the Innies and Outies of Time Management and Aunty Ida’s Full-Service Mental Institution (by Invitation Only), and the sequel, Aunty Ida’s Holey Amazing Sleeping Preparation (Not Doctor Recommended) which is now available!

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Sunday Was for the Birds

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The other day was gorgeous, and I went to the lakefront, where I sat and watched the boats and the birds. There was a bit of a breeze, and the temperature dipped when the huge, fluffy clouds covered the sun.

I got caught up in the seagulls as they flapped awkwardly, looking like gangly teenagers with too-long-limbs, then suddenly transforming into things of grace as they soared. But the best part was keeping an eye on a bird until it circled, then suddenly plunged toward the surface of the water.

Most of the time, they’d emerge, a flash of silver in their beaks until, in a second, it was gone.

Now and again, they’d pull up right before they hit the water, arcing back toward the sky or plopping down and bobbing with the waves. I couldn’t be sure they didn’t know I was watching, that they weren’t, perhaps, giving me a show as they got their dinner.

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Give it a Rest, R

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It might be a strange pick for a Monday, but I’m choosing “rest” for R. It’s something we neglect, it’s something we put off, and it’s something we all need to keep doing what we need to do.

Yesterday, I did nearly nothing. I didn’t really work on my novel. I didn’t blog. I watched the “Cloneversation,” the pre-season two “Orphan Black” special, followed by the stunning premiere, with the intention of getting on with it afterward.

Afterward never came.

I felt as though I was sitting on a sofa made of molasses, my hand powerless over the on/off button on the remote. I caught up on some shows sitting on my DVR. And then I started watching a marathon of “Lindsay.” You know, the “docu-series” about Lindsay Lohan. I was a slug and it felt…

Glorious.

I can’t say that today I’m perfectly energized, because some Monday mornings are just like that and I’ve stopped with the cheat-code of alertness, caffeine, but I do have more space in my brain today. My mind was moving boxes while I watched Lindsay sorting through hers. No really. I think half the series is her unpacking. Or packing. Whichever.

When it’s your own brain that stops you dead, it’s only polite to ask it why. It’s probably telling you, you need to rest.

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An Ode to Sweatpants

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Go on. Admit it. You love them too.

It’s that soft coziness as you slip them on, nothing creasing against your skin. The elastic’s lack of judgment, the ability to sit in any contorted position without your jeans demanding to know what you think you’re doing.

They whisper of slow times with their best friend, the couch, of Netflix show marathons, of time that is entirely your own. Time when no one is watching.

And then there is the fleece. Everything should be fleece-lined.

But like all good things, sweatpants have their place. That’s what makes them special.