Some time in April, I signed up for “Mail Art,” an art swap organized by The Artclash Collective, which is based in Philadelphia. Participants receive four names with mailing addresses and you agree to send a piece of art (small, 2-D pieces that can easily fit into a standard envelope are the common choice, but there are no rules or restrictions) to each address that is paired with each Friday in May. You, in turn, get four pieces as well, but not from the people you’re assigned to. I chose to go the crochet route and got off the first two. And then this happened. So, the other two Mail Arts got put on the back burner, though believe you me I tried to get something off before schlepping it to the hospital. Naturally, in the hospital, even when there sure were more important things to be worrying about, I couldn’t stop fixating on the fact that I was a Mail Art flake. Sure it’s just mailing something to a complete stranger and I have a good “excuse”, but still, I said I’d do it and I didn’t and I hated this.

So I figured that along with whatever I managed to make and send once home and a little healthier, I would include something written on the hospital menus I was collecting. I hoarded every thing that was left in my room, “treasures” as I refer to anything I happen upon in life, in general. I contemplated making two collages for Mail Art, as I had found a bright red plastic tag on the floor that reads “Fire Door 20″ on it, a few tourniquets left on my bed, the IV kit wrappers, though some of these seem a bit morbid and scary for sending-art-to-a-stranger purposes. I decide to stick with crochet as the “art,” in particular these flat Safety Cone magnets, and the menu as the sorry-this-is-late note. On each menu are my name, room number and either the box for “full fluid” (juice, pudding, jello, broth) or “soft regular” (mashed potatoes, chicken, rice, fruit, pasta) checked. Those little checked-off boxes speak volumes, no? Like Hemingway’s six-word-story, his self-proclaimed best work. “Kachmar. Infil 506. Full Fluid.” I can’t remember exactly what I wrote on the menus, but just a short something that probably nonchalantly began, “So, I just spent 10 days in the hospital and that is why your Mail Art is late….”

Around the same time, still in the hospital, I make another decision, much more life-altering than the devising of a mailable art project, but also one of setting things in motion, of traveling. During a crying meltdown, I say something to the effect of, “I can’t do this anymore. I want to go home” to my dad. Not home in the sense of getting out of the hospital, that’s a given. Home, meaning Pittsburgh. Home, meaning a place where I will feel more supported, less alone as I endure the very-much-alone state of existence that is poor health, more watched over, less helpless when I get bills and blood lab results. Home.

On the tenth day, I get discharged, the same day I start “promoting” the UC Success essay contest, after a long night of typing, often with one or two undamaged fingers, as my right hand has gone from being painful to being numb back to being painful, the site of the IV bleeding and leaking. Maybe because I keep trying to crochet and hold a pen and write emails with it? Hmm. Am I willing to get the Tethered post written at the expense of another bad IV insertion? To have to listen to a nurse say, “This is going to hurt. Don’t look. God I hate to stick it to you.” I consider asking my dad to type as I dictate, thinking of course of my beloved blind writers, Borges and Milton. But no, I still have a finger or two and a mind and that’s all I need. I keep typing, re-reading the original essay and deciphering my hospital notebook scribbles. The irony of that first line of my essay, “How can they do this to my hands?” The irony…

A college friend of mine, Elena, who now lives in Korea and I haven’t seen in 2 years, comes to my room as I am zippering up bags, eating my last hospital dinner. “Oh God Elena, of course we meet like this, of course!” We only became friends during the last semester or so of school, having previously thought that the other was “normal” and therefore, not “worth” being friends with. When we realize that “normal” is not a word to describe either of us, we become friends and regret all those lost weeks we could have been such. But ever since, we have rarely done anything normal together. Adventures with Alicia, taking her to “Name Night” at a bar, on the ONE day she happened to be in town and it was HER name (drink for free), introducing her to the beautiful wonder that is Canstruction, the nights spent running around New York City till 4am that don’t feel real at the time. So this place of reconnecting felt…appropriate.

Dad, Elena and I ride through my favorite Brooklyn neighborhoods back to Manhattan, windows opened on a sunny early evening, the mere ability to feel “weather” indescribable after ten days not being able to do so. The simple acts of putting on sunglasses and buckling a seatbelt, of looking at garbage cans overflowing and someone dropping their newspaper. And then the Brooklyn Bridge, that breathtaking mass of steel that never fails to tug on my heart every time I see it. Outside my apartment they are filming something, movie set apparatuses and artificial lights strewn about. I look at it all, not mad; on the contrary, happy that I am looking at it, at all. But I’m sure I look mad: sick, worn out, tired, bruised, bandaged, hospital bracelet on because I forgot to cut it off, spirit a little more defeated than before. A movie set guy says, “Welcome home. We’ll be outta here soon.” Thank you, and me too. And cut…

The stairs take too long to climb, the written-in-marker “breathe the air” on one of the wall landings again feeling like a cruel joke. Every time I can’t walk well, can’t breathe, can’t make it to the top without sitting down, those words, probably written by an artist when Tribeca was cheap and filled with artists. I can’t breathe the air. When no one is around in my apartment, I put my head down and cry at my desk. I cry in the shower. Because of everything. Because I am in my apartment, I am at my desk, I am in the shower. But with the hospital doctors’ words, if such and such happens, you have to come back, never far from my thoughts. I don’t want to go back there. I can’t go back there. It’s never over, I will never ever win. I try opening the window and I can’t, my arm muscles tearing because of disuse. I have to ask my dad to do it, so I can climb outside onto the fire escape and see how much my plants have grown. Marigolds, basil, morning glories, an amaryllis I thought was dead, but was only dormant and now stands 8 inches high. I nap a lot, waves of exhaustion hitting me with a force that no buck-up mentality can override. I’m not better. And I do not look it, nor do I feel it.

A couple days later, follow-up doctor’s appointment made and moving-to Pittsburgh plans set in motion, I take my first real walk in three weeks, outside. My mom has called me with the news that the first issue of a yarn magazine I’m in has hit the glossy racks. Crochet Today, July/August, Stitchy S’mores. She reads excerpts to me, like where editor Brett Bara writes that my designs might just be her “favorite amigurumi ever.” I can’t wait until my issue comes in the mail, so I set out to pick one up at my neighborhood Barnes and Noble. Slowly but surely, I get there. Talk about coming full circle (again!): I designed a frowning marshmallow on a stick and a frowning s’more way back in the beginning of my crochet days, when I was really sick, and sick of all the smiling plush I’d see on Etsy. And, of course, I wrote about these in the essay.

The following week, I’m sitting in the doctor office lobby for, what, the 30th time in 5 years? The memories. The number of things I have crocheted, knitted, read, written while sitting here, the mindless television in the background, the other people who are always older than me, the gurgling of the water cooler, the sound of my nurse’s voice and her repeated “You’re pale again” as she straps on the blood pressure cuff, the vials of blood and the bandaids that later hurt, the phlebotomist I only had one time, who said, “Your face says you’ve done this too many times,” my facial expression I imagine saying exactly that. “I have.” I feel it every time and yet, don’t feel it at all. The tempest in my mind/Doth from my senses take all feeling.

I sit down in his office with my parents and he says, “Do you know that you were on the threshold?” It should hit me like a ton of bricks, the slightly poetic way of phrasing it like that. I smile a little, which is sick in hindsight. He says, “Ah, smiling, right,” so I undo the smile, look down, and say, “I know.” We go over my options, mom taking notes, and I tell him my New York-exit plan, which is essentially me finally listening to him after all these years, prioritizing health. But let’s face it, now I don’t have a choice: I have an immune system that cannot properly fight off infections but that could and would destroy my body if left to its own devices, that cannot properly respond to the powerful corticosteroids that try to eradicate inflammation, these corticosteroids all the while further suppressing my immune system. You know, the one that cannot afford to be suppressed. He says, “We could almost label you as steroid-resistant” and I say, “Quite an accomplishment.” (Steroid-resistance is somewhat rare). And yet, he is confident that a simple change in lifestyle (read: decrease in stress and work blah blah blah) could do medical wonders for me. I’m skeptical.

I give him the magazine, I tell him about the contest. Looking at my parents, “She’s very talented.” Looking at me, “You’re gonna be famous. When are you going to make me something?” I promise a double-sided (happy/sad) crochet colon if I win the contest, and some kind of book dedication or speech if the occasion ever arises. “Call me, you can always call me. And you can send me things here.” He mentions an old patient who sends him postcards from far-off places and I hope I can be that kind of patient some day, the one who doesn’t make doctor appointments, who writes postcards from far-off places instead. Goodbyes for now, thank you’s for ever. Shivers as I walk past the ER, warmth as I think about going home.

I’ve been in Pittsburgh for just over ten days, days still dotted by naps and feeling crappy and pills, but making progress in the healing direction. When I’m not “busy” being sick and sleepy, I’m back to, well, trying to do everything. Pittsburgh is like a new frontier to explore and comfortably familiar at the same time. Cleaning out my room, tossing old childhood things, reading the journals I kept religiously from the time I was 6. Diving head first into the DIY/craft scene, gardening, cooking, berry-picking, crocheting, making lists, painting my nails with ease. Not covering up one eye.

Two days ago, via FedEx: “Your entry has been deemed a Grand Prize winner.” I win the contest, those three little paragraphs that attempted to sum up so much back and forth, the ups and downs, the sometimes traumatic and sometimes celebratory nature of these 5+ years, the roller coaster ride consisting of both excitement and terror that always ends in stillness and numbness. A frowning marshmallow, a safety cone, a silver-lined cloud. Simple constructions. Complex meanings, to me at least. The contest feels like the perfect culmination, it and the hospital prompting me to finally honestly write more about everything here, rather than in a journal, or worse, keeping the thoughts hostage in my head.

In addition to that glorious piece of mail, I received another forwarded from New York: a hand-written letter with splatters of art from one of my post-hospital Mail Art recipients. Some excerpts from his letter:

dear Alicia–your safety cone arrived safely (!) here in Philadelphia on Wednesday…your knitted art was a fun surprise…collage seems to be the most popular form of mail art and the other 2 pieces I got were cut/glued collections of paper. And don’t get me wrong, they were great but I never expected to get something made of a magnet and threads. The photo of the “congregation of cones” you included was very cute.The hospital menu reminded me of my own (5 day) stay in a hospital…I’m vegan and the food prep people would never seem to get the “no eggs, dairy, or meat” request right. The food cart worker was a little church lady with a hairnet. She’d hum loudly as she walked down the hall. I’d hear her loudening hum and would be gripped with fear wondering, “what food I can’t/won’t eat is about to arrive?” I hope the net result of your 10 day hospital stay was positive.

I am stunned and elated, the letter concluding with a penpal/artpal request and this amazing sentence: “I hope you have a good summer full of beautiful sight, sound, and creativity.”

That is exactly what I want.

A few days later when I was back at the doctor’s office for the millionth time, I was crocheting bones, which is…almost funny, as I had to ask about bone scans and what not after being sick and taking such destructive drugs for five years now, having to be worried about my bones literally crumbling. My doctor and nurse (a knitter) always go crazy over my crochet stuff, “Did you see what she’s making???,” my doctor yells down the hallway. They always like my work/life updates, even though the more frequent these are, obviously the more often I’m having to be there because I’m sick sick sick. As I was getting ready to leave, my doctor said to me, not in a judgmental way: “You look at the world too emotionally, it puts so much stress on you. You should try covering up one eye” and then he held up his hand to his eye as if to show me how to do it. I laughed and said, “But I’m a woman and a writer among other things–I can’t look at it any other way.” He smiled and said, “I know.”

No sooner was I contemplating the reasons for crocheting and writing than I smashed my right hand in a door and thought I’d have to give up both for a day or two. Luckily, a little ice goes a long way and hypothetical questions asking me to choose between a crochet hook and a pen are just that, hypothetical. Lately, I’ve been joining the two in a happy marriage known as craft writing for a blog called Meylah: I wrote an article on participating in craft-oriented contests and selling in retail/wholesale settings.

Logo designed by Sarah Goldschadt

Lastly, after much digital correspondence, Kathleen B., a fellow crafty-head and I decided to import her friends’ Chicago Craft Social to New York. If you haven’t heard of it, it’s what it sounds like, a social crafty event, with 10-15 teacher-led craft/DIY projects over a couple of hours on a Friday night. Think: jar terrariums, crochet lessons (hi!), recycled juice carton wallet, jewelry-making, ipod-cozy sewing, freezer paper stenciling, pinhole camera-making, turning t-shirts into _______, etc. We’re aiming for a late April or early May inaugural Social, and are on the hunt for a venue that can accommodate upwards of 100-150 people. Interested in teaching? Attending? Venue-suggesting? Food/supply-donating? Join the New York Craft Social Facebook group, leave a comment here, or email me.

Drum Contest Update: Congrats to Alisa and Margaret for winning the prized goodies!

I received this email the other day from a guy at Oxford, in response to the hospital post and the pomegranate post, and as you will see, it was definitely an uplifting one:

Dear Alicia,

Thanks for the beautiful writing. Keep it up, and best wishes to both of you

Two years ago I was just starting to dabble in crafts that I had left behind in boxes, literally and figuratively, after moving to New York and becoming a harried teacher with no free time, writing lesson plans on the subway and taking naps with the kids I nannied if time allowed. Growing up in a crafty and from-scratch-baking household, it’s hard to believe that that first year in the East Village, I never once used the oven, but more surprising, that this didn’t bother me. It was only when I moved to Brooklyn, into an absurdly large two-floor apartment with a kitchen twice the size as the one in my Pittsburgh home that those domestic inclinations rose to the surface. The handmade ones would be slower to reappear.

In 2006 my mom bought me a How-To-Crochet book and with not a whole lot of responsibilities because of illness, I devoured it and began to crochet. And I haven’t stopped. I fiddled with yarn, making little things that frowned instead of smiled because I was so sad. Despite a beaten-down body and spirit, I kept creating, because it took my mind off of my reality–it was a distraction. I was steered in the direction of writing and creating, which I was ambivalent about because it wasn’t teaching; but at least it was something. I never could have imagined what all that fiddling and fumbling would lead me to, but I’m glad I kept at it. Over the past few months, it has really donned on me just how much has happened since those days when I didn’t know what “chain 2″ meant, or what WordPress was, let alone run a business via Etsy and hustling, how to bring ideas to full fruition and how to promote both the written word and the handmade good.

Last week, I wrote an article in conjunction with Brooklyn Based for Etsy and their Shop Local series, which highlights shops in your city, the people behind them and their wares of course! It was like coming full circle: to be asked to write, to write about craft, to write about the Etsy experience AND my beloved Brooklyn. I have to admit, I got a little teary compiling the Shop Local: Brooklyn article, just thinking about everything and how much I adore Etsy.

Also last week, over a Thanksgiving break that was anything but, I ran around and crocheted like crazy, making about 40 things (I think?) in a matter of days, feverishly writing until 3 in the morning and waking up early to do it all over again. Some of my items are now being carried in Artez’n, a store I frequent, as it lies between my post office and yarn shop, all on Atlantic Avenue. Additionally, a handmade/vintage shop in Williamsburg called Treehouse will be housing some of my crafty things as well. Yay!

Just today, I met a buyer in person, after I noticed her shipping address on the Transaction page. We live one block away from one another, so we did the hand-off in person, which I have actually done two other times, just because! She came by with her twins, we chatted a bit, and she asked me, “Do you mind this? Coming by like this? Because I have a friend who wants to drop $100 on your shop and I bet she’d love to come by and see everything.” I said, “No, I love it! I absolutely love it.” And you know I’m totally sincere about this. Also today, I finished a custom order for someone who wanted a camera cozy with an apple on it. He and I had gone back and forth about color, measurements and overall look, and one sentence in particular will forever be stamped into my mind: “People like you are why I love Etsy.”

Well, people like him are why I love Etsy, why I love creating with my mind, heart and hands, why I would always choose taking the extra time to meet a customer and why I love writing stories everything aforementioned, even when a night’s sleep is truncated, my novel sits on the night stand untouched or social plans must be cancelled. Just as I always say, albeit typically referring to crazy adventures, “I would do anything for a story.”

Well, as one of Guidespot’s special chosen ones to help get these off the ground, I will explain it to you! Basically, community guides are collaborative guides; normally, I, Alicia, would write a guide all by myself (cue Destiny’s Child’s “Independent Women”) and that’s that. The community could comment, of course, but the guide is my own. Community guides are about sharing the love that we’ll build together! (FYI, my ears sort of perk up at the very mention of the word “community”). I started one on Football in New York, so I wrote a little blurb, you add an image, I find a video, you share a link, and so on. There are some great ones already on Internet memes, cutest Flickr animals, celebrity sightings near the DNC, and –insert your community guide idea here–. Get it? We’re all guide co-creators.

After writing my Domestic Goddess guide, I got to thinking about other women I admire, am intrigued by, or let’s face it, because I am a working gal, would make for good guide-writing material. (Boys, I’ll get to you, okay? Come on, I went to Smith! ) Thus far, I’ve come up with Holly Golightly! (Breakfast at Tiffany’s, anyone?) And proceeded to write a guide to New York with Holly Golightly in mind. I’m quite proud of those two in particular, even though they center on women who have two very different ideas of adventure. As you may recall, the one time Holly cooks in the movie–chicken with saffron rice–she totally messes it up. (!!!) Come to think of it though, Nigella would have probably laughed that off the way Holly did. No matter! Life is funny, shake it off, on to the next thing. I hope to embody the qualities of both, the one “real” and the other fictional.

But, enough about the ladies and me! Please do visit Guidespot: check us out, comment, write a guide, explore. It’s more fun when you come and play with us in the dark depths of the internet.

2sc in each around. (10)

2sc, sc around. (15)

sc around. (15)

dec 3 times evenly. (12)

dec 4 times evenly. (8)

sc 2, dec until 4-5 st left. Finish off, leaving a 6-inch tail.

For the stem: using an f hook and brown yarn,  ch 3 and sc across. (2) Finish off.

For the leaf: using an f hook and green yarn, ch 4 and sc across, then sc into free loops and sl to first. Finish off leaving a few inches for sewing.

Assembling: Embroider a face with two black beads and embroidery thread for the mouth (optional). Stuff apple and with apple green yarn tail, weave through the bottom of the apple back through the top twice, to gather the apple (it will get schmushed) and snip and tuck. Tie together the small ends/tails of the leaf and stem. With the leaf yarn tail, sew through the back of the stem to the back of the leaf so that they stay together and don’t flop. Sew to the top of the apple with a few stitches. 

Yesterday, I finally finished my Pac-man iPod cozy design! I have made quite a few cozies that I sell on Etsy, mostly crocheted but a few knitted. A week or two ago, I decided to try my hand at designing the yellow pac-man motif, since I knew how to make circles from various other crochet items. It isn’t as simple, obviously, as drawing a circle and cutting out a wedge, so it took me 4-5 tries to get it right. I used the same iPod cozy pattern, which I designed as well and usually utilize, and added some beads for the dots that Pac-man eats. I listed him on Etsy yesterday and he sold today! I have already relisted him, so you can purchase here.

A close-up of the little guy:

I can’t remember when or where I first played the (Ms.) Pac-man game, but I do remember getting excited when stumbling upon it at a highway rest stop/travel plaza, at the mall, and now in New York, in a bar every once and a while. At JFK airport, there is a food court in one of the terminals that has 3 or 4 Pac-man arcade games! An airplane delay was never so enjoyable.

In addition to making a one-of-a-kind Pac-man iPod cozy, I also have a one-of-a-kind Pac-man story. Once upon a time in college, I was watching MTV and a show came on about video game enthusiasts. Next thing I know, I’m learning about Billy Mitchell, a pac-man world champion and champion of other video games. Interestingly, he is from Holyoke, MA, which is very close to where I was in college at the time, but his town of residence at that time was Hollywood, FL. Coincidentally, I had just planned a road trip for my friends and me to Fort Lauderdale, where my aunt resides. A quick mapquest search showed that Hollywood was a mere town away. Fate? Definitely.

Mitchell not only sports a mullet and an American flag tie, but owns his family’s restaurant called Rickey’s and created his own brand of hot sauce. For me, it doesn’t get much better than that! Except visiting said restaurant, that is. A lunch or dinner there would be a must. We found the place with my printed directions, and immediately noticed a window-less restaurant standing before us. Only the best bars and restaurants opt for windowless venues, right? I was very nervous because I knew there was a good chance he would actually be at the restaurant, since the MTV show said that he managed the place and frequently checked on patrons. And he was! I contemplated asking for an autograph, or at least striking up a conversation. Before I did that, something went horribly wrong though.

I had ordered a burger, though my memory is fuzzy from the trauma that soon follows. Ever shake a glass ketchup bottle when the cap is not properly on? Don’t. It’s a disaster you don’t want to experience! Unfortunately, I did. Ketchup went EVERYWHERE, hitting my friends, and the people in the booth in front of ours. I didn’t have the guts to let them know. I got the worst of it, with a good bit of ketchup in my hair and all over my WHITE shirt. I laughed before I knew I was a human french fry doused in it, then ran to the bathroom, trying to cover it up (right!). I washed my hair in the sink as best I could, but since it wasn’t a single-occupancy bathroom, I couldn’t take my shirt off and wash it. Being a white shirt, this wouldn’t have made things much better anyway. And being Florida, I did not have a jacket. I spot-washed as best I could, turned it inside-out and backwards, and went back to our booth. Feeling a bit embarrassed (yeah, you think?!?), I decided to skip playing the Ms. Pac-man game there, and definitely decided to skip talking to Billy. That ends my pseudo-encounter with a Ms. Pac-man World Champion.

Perhaps unfortunately, my on and off vegetarianism has nothing to do with loving animals so much that I can’t eat them. It started over two years ago when my good friend and roommate received street literature (I think) about vegetarians living longer. Together, we became vegetarians, but not of the healthy variety; I started eating grilled cheese and egg sandwiches much more often, and if asparagus happened to be on sale, then asparagus dipped in mayo it was. My “vegetarianism” lasted for many many months, then I got a chronic disease, and months later was on my way to a coffin in the ground because of complications and severe anemia. Even though the anemia wasn’t related to lack of meat, I decided the whole I’m-going-to-live-longer thing probably would not happen anyways. But, having an already-thin vegetarian live-in boyfriend (Ian) launched a whole new approach to vegetarianism. I became a gourmet vegetarian cook in no time, and the only time I cook meat at home is for parties, and even then, the majority of dishes are vegetarian, and many are vegan. Thus, I am usually a vegetarian, unless meat is on a restaurant menu. I’m in love with shrimp rings+cocktail sauce and can’t resist pulled pork. I used to eat chicken-on-a-stick before my last experience, which was raw-chicken-on-a-stick.

Vegetarian or not, I am in no way an animal person. An animal (a goat or sheep) at the petting zoo stole my Ernie doll one time and I freaked out. I had to babysit/housesit/petsit one time for 3 dogs, 2 cats, and 6 puppies that conveniently birthed themselves when I was being interviewed for this week-long job. “Do you like animals?” my philosophy professor said. With my fib gear on, I smiled and said, “I love animals!” That is not just a lie, it is a LIE. By the end of that week, I had stopped walking and feeding the dogs and I didn’t care. Call me cruel, but those pups were too needy for me. My petsitting days had begun and ended in a flash.

The other night I had a dream that I was driving with my boyfriend in hometown Pittsburgh, and we had bought a hermit crab. The dream was much more complex but it boiled down to a central question in my mind: do I put the hermit crab in water with fish or in a water-less tank? In the dream, I never asked anyone, but couldn’t stop milling over this question. A hermit crab is one of the next sea creatures I want to crochet. I have a bunch for sale on Etsy. Interestingly, I just sold a set of 3 to a friend, Amit, which I personally delivered to him at the Idolator party last night. Ian’s friend, Taylor of Podbop bought three in advance. Oyster, Lobster, and Octopus were a bit overwhelmed, but flattered at the same time. This will be my third set now sold, but it never gets easier bidding farewell to my soft ocean friends.

One of my latest writing endeavors is to write (then submit) a Modern Love essay to the New York Times. It’s pretty lofty, but I have a lot of faith in my story’s content and I want to write it regardless of publication possibilities. One of my difficulties with writing, is that though I have always written, I have rarely written for a specific purpose. I’ve never pitched an article or shaped a story according to guidelines. I’m starting to, and I’m not sure I like it. In addtion to the Modern Love story, I am begrudgingly working on a hospital story of mine that I was hoping to submit for a deadline of March 1 to a publication. I had thought that writing it in a Compositions notebook would inspire me more; it’s not just a notebook, it’s a Compositions notebook. I am composing something wonderful and unique, and yet, it sits on the floor most of the time.

So, no matter how many times people tell me how great of a writer I am, that I should write a novel, that my words make them laugh and cry, most of the time, I’d rather be cooking 7 dishes for a party, crocheting flowers, watching the sunlight come through the blinds and make diagonal lines everywhere, or playing with children. Then again, Agatha Christie said, “The best time for planning a book is while you’re doing the dishes.” I’m usually too concerned and excited by arranging the dishes in the rack in such a way that nothing will fall and everything will dry efficiently.

My boyfriend sent me this link about putting off writing, from someone’s blog: How to Complete a Writing Assignment

I wrote three funny ones of my own about a month ago, and will list one here
1)

7:00 a.m. Get up to pee, so severe pee urgency doesn’t wake me an hour later

8:00 a.m. Continue to peacefully sleep and NOT write

9:00 a.m. Put the coffee on

9:05 a.m. Begin drinking coffee

9:15 a.m. Wake up

9:20 a.m. Notice all the unfinished stories and novels on desktop; proceed to check email, read Gawker, and sign online

10:00 a.m. Check email 14 more times, just in case I was paypaled $1000 for *thinking* about writing a story

10:15 a.m. Open up a word document, stare at blank white page, promptly close it. No, I will not be saving the changes.

11:00 Read the paper instead, including all advertisements. For inspiration, right?

12:00 Lunch time, or breakfast. Whatever, time to watch TV!

1:00 Can’t possibly write without taking a shower first, i.e., take a shower

1:20 Whoever said cold showers wake you up clearly is not a procrastinating writer. Nap time!

3:30 Now I’m rested enough to start writing. But with only one more hour of daylight, I should squeeze in a bike ride first.

5:00 I really want to finish that “How to buy a kitchen table in New York City” story. Oh shit, what’s for dinner?!? F*ck, time to go to Key Food.

5:30 Read cookbooks and food magazines; cook a gourmet meal. Writers need sustenance!

6:30 Boyfriend comes home; eat gourmet meal with him while watching an assortment of gossip and celebrity shows. Again, more inspiration.

7:30 Contemplate writing a humorous You Know You Live in New York When story, then realize that finishing that sentence with “you have a large stack of unpaid bills” is not funny at all.

7:32 Contemplate various means to paying bills

7:34 Come up with solution: write a story, novel, anything that will be published and paid for! I have to do the dishes first though.

7:35 Do the dishes; should probably wash the stove too.

8:00 Time to hunker down and write? But that would be ignoring my live-in boyfriend. Time to hunker down with boyfriend.

9:00 Say “I should really write” a few times. Take a bubble bath instead.

9:30 Talk about many writing ideas with boyfriend; continue to hunker down with boyfriend.

10:00 Write the word “write” on to-do list for tomorrow, for the 4695748th time; Call it a night.